At twenty-two, I had been a whirlwind of youthful recklessness, fueled by the excuse of wine and the thrill of the unknown.
Eli came nine months later, his features a perfect mirror of mine.
His paternity is still a shadow I refuse to chase.
To uncover it would mean confessing any form of the truth to my father and unraveling every lie I built just to cover it up.
Finding out his best friends, men he’s known for decades and brothers in all but blood, crossing that line with his daughter?
It would be unthinkable.
So I’ve guarded the truth and built our world brick by festive brick to keep us both safe.
Especially after a later attempt at dating turned into a disaster and an ex who won’t leave me alone.
The morning unfolds without drama.
A young couple is our first customers for the day, coming in from the cold to browse for a tree topper, their hands intertwined as they debate between a crystal snowflake and a gilded angel.
Next, Mrs. Ellis, Eli’s school librarian, selects a set of peppermint candies and a small wreath for her desk and reminisces about last year’s holiday party as I pack everything up for her.
I wrap each purchase with tissue paper and twine, adding a sprig of holly as my signature flourish, and smile with a wave after the transaction’s complete.
As noon approaches, the foot traffic outside slows when the snowfall starts to pick up, blurring the world beyond the windows.
I sip my second coffee, now laced with a hint of cinnamon, as I walk around and rearrange the front figurine displays.
The vintage radio at the register hums soft carols, Bing Crosby’s velvet tones weaving through the air. “I’ll be Home for Christmas.”
I hum along absently, my mind drifting to Dad when I spot a set of little elf figurines knocked off most likely from Eli playing with them.
Dad’s fiftieth birthday is in just under a week and I still have no clue what to get him.
Since Eli’s birth, all Dad’s wanted has been a full day spent ice fishing with his grandson and a pie after dinner.
But this year I want to do something different, something to show him how much I appreciate him and how much he means to me and Eli.
But what?
I can’t think of a single thing to do in this sleepy town that we haven’t already done years past.
A subtle prickle runs down my spine, intuition honed by years of single motherhood, suddenly flaring to life.
Eli’s engrossed in his game over by the back counter, stacking his race cars into a precarious tower that sways with each new addition.
Frowning, I turn back toward the front of the shop right as the bell chimes.
I’m hoping it’s a local braving the weather for last-minute gifts to step through the entrance instead of my ex, but the figure in the doorway nearly makes me drop my coffee.
My feet grow rooted to the spot I’m standing in.
Grant.
A monolith against the storm, his broad shoulders are dusted with snow, his dark wool coat unbuttoned to reveal a charcoal sweater that clings to his solid frame.
Time has carved deeper lines into his rugged features, silver threading through his hair at his temples, but those piercing dark blue eyes haven’t changed.
Grant is stoicism incarnate, gruff and guarded, a man who speaks in clipped sentences and lets actions fill the silences.
