I can tell she's not sleeping either. Her breathing is too careful, too controlled. She's pretending, and I'm pretending we're bothpretending, and this is the most elaborate dance of avoidance I've ever participated in.
And I've been avoiding things for five years.
I give up around 2 AM. Carefully, quietly, I slide out of bed and move to the window. Outside, the courtyard is completely transformed: everything blanketed in white, the fountain frozen mid-cascade, the fairy lights reflected in the snow. It's beautiful in a way I haven't let myself notice in a long time.
Lena, my late wife, loved the first snow of the season. She'd drag me outside, make me catch snowflakes on my tongue like we were kids. I thought it was ridiculous. Now I'd give anything to be that ridiculous with her again.
"Can't sleep either?"
I turn to find Claire sitting up in bed, her hair a mess from the pillow, eyes soft in the dim light.
"Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I've been awake." She slides out of bed and joins me at the window, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill from the glass. She's barefoot, her pajama pants hanging low on her hips, and I force myself to look at the snow instead of her.
We stand in silence for a moment. Somewhere in the hotel, I can hear "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" playing, muffled through walls and floors. The sad version, not the cheerful one.
"You really love Christmas," I say finally.
"I do." Her voice is quiet. "My dad used to go all out when I was little. We'd spend the whole day after Thanksgiving decorating—he'd put lights on everything, even the mailbox. Mom would bake cookies, and we'd watch all the old movies. Rudolph, Frosty, A Christmas Story on repeat."
"Sounds nice."
"It was." She's quiet for a moment. "He died when I was twelve. Heart attack, completely out of nowhere. After that, Christmas was just... different. Mom tried, but her heart wasn't in it. Now she mostly just uses the holidays as an excuse to point out everything I'm doing wrong with my life."
"I'm sorry. About your father."
She shrugs, but I can see the pain underneath. "It was a long time ago. What about you? You said you don't hate Christmas, but you were going to spend it alone in Aspen."
I should deflect. Keep the walls up. But it's 2 AM and we're standing in a dark room watching snow fall, and somehow that makes it easier.
"I used to love it," I admit. "My wife—Lena—she was obsessed. Decorating started the day after Thanksgiving. She'd drag me to every holiday market in the city, every tree lighting ceremony. Our house looked like something out of a catalog."
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was." The words still feel strange. Even after five years, talking about her in past tense feels wrong. "She had ovarian cancer. Stage four by the time they found it. She fought for eighteen months, but—" I stop, jaw tight. I’d never mentioned Lena around her.
Claire's hand finds my arm, gentle. "I'm so sorry, Garth."
Garth. She called me Garth. Not Mr. Rhodes.
"After she died, I threw myself into work. Built the company bigger, made more money, stayed busy. Christmas became just another day to get through. Easier than facing all the memories."
"That's heartbreaking," Claire says softly. "She wouldn't want that for you."
"No. She wouldn't." I glance at her. "She'd probably tell me I'm an idiot for working on Christmas Eve. For making you work on Christmas Eve."
Claire laughs quietly. "She sounds smart."
We fall into silence again, but it's different now. Easier. The music has changed to "I'll Be Home for Christmas," and I find myself actually listening to the lyrics for the first time in years.
I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams...
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Sure."
"Earlier, you said your mother wants you to be happy. But it sounds like she makes you miserable. Why do you keep trying to please her?"
