The room goes so quiet that I’m convinced we could hear an icicle forming on the eaves outside.
“Oh,” Mom says.
My brothers break into laughter. Jen and Stacy don’t.
The kids carry on as if nothing is happening.
But Dad says, “I thought I heard you say you’re married.”
I slide my arm over Bree’s shoulders. She doesn’t shift away.
“We are,” I say.
This might very well be the first time my family has been silent in Turley history.
Then Mom claps her hands together in her typical can-do fashion and says, “Well, that’s exciting.”
“And we’re sorry that we didn’t?—”
Dad eyes me sharply. “You know what it would’ve meant to your mother to?—”
“It’s complicated.”
My brothers’ eyebrows simultaneously shoot up as if ready to use whatever I say as ammunition against me later.
Bree starts, “It all happened very quickly. We just couldn’t help ourselves, but my mother is insisting we have a big ‘ole reception and we figured we’d wait until after the holidays.”
Picking up where she left off, I add, “We were going to tell you on Christmas.”
“Where’s the ring?” Graham asks.
Bree bites her lip and rubs her finger.
“Working on it,” I say.
Violet, my niece, hops on the arm of the couch so she’s at eye level with Bree and says, “When I get married, my husband is going to get a princess. I’ll have a big dress and my hair willbe glamor-puss. You would make a very pretty princess.” In her scratchy, little kid voice, she goes on to describe her grand plans, bursting the bubble of shock as we all listen intently and laugh.
I glimpse something like longing in Bree’s eyes. Does the woman who writes romance but doesn’t believe in it secretly want a fancy happily ever after?
After spendingthe afternoon at the Christmas Market and eating our weight in giant salted pretzels with a variety of dips, buying more ornaments for my tree—Mom has amore is moreapproach to life—and playing an extremely competitive game of Swoop, we order takeout and head back to my place.
Seated at the head of the table, Dad says, “We didn’t expect you to accommodate all of us, so we got tickets for tomorrow’s game. We’ll all go cheer on your team, even if you’re not playing.”
I force a smile, but it cracks. “Great.”
Bree places her hand over mine. “Fletch’s been working hard to get back on the ice.”
“Do you have an ETA?” Dad asks.
“Still uncertain.” The words taste bitter.
The conversation shifts to future plans. Christmas traditions, New Year’s parties, and spring break possibilities. Mom insists we come to their lake house in July. “All the kids love it. And maybe by then, you two will have a little one on the way.”
How we went from a tenuous marriage announcement to full acceptance, I don’t understand, but it’s Christmas, a season of grace and forgiveness. Plus, in this family, if you pause too long to think, you’ll be left behind as they move on to the next thing.
But at the discussion of future plans, Bree withdraws slightly, her smile turns wooden and becomes fixed. No one else seems to notice, but I see it—the way she folds into herself and how her eyes dart to the door like she’s planning an escape route.
“Hey, could you help me with dessert?” I ask her, standing up.
