“After we kissed earlier, we got into an argument, and he told me his side of what happened with Britney that Christmas.”
“And?”
“I’m angry, confused and don’t know what to believe.” I hear her shaky breath through the phone. “I can’t talk about it yet. It’s too diabolical. But I needed to hear your voice.”
“Well, we’re batting a thousand tonight. You kissed your ex again, and I almost rode mine like a mechanical bull in a hot tub.” I can hear her trying not to laugh through her tears. “At least we kept our clothes on.”
I squeeze my thighs together, hating how my body still hums with want.
“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Her voice cracks. “Why do we let them get under our skin when we know better?”
“Because we’re haunted by hope more than heartbreak.”
Enrick says he was scared. Said he lashed out because of what his brother went through. Maybe that’s bullshit. Maybe it’s the truth. Maybe it’s both.
How do I know which?
And does it matter if the damage is already done?
“Let’s blame it on the time of year.” She yawns. “We’ve been brainwashed to believe Christmas fixes everything.”
“We should try to sleep. Got to face tomorrow eventually.”
“Dream of better Christmas mornings,” she tells me. “Or, better yet, don’t dream at all.”
“Love you, girl.”
“Love you more.”
After we hang up, I swing my legs out of bed. The hardwood is cold against my bare feet. I pad to the window, pulling back the curtain to watch snow fall in the security lights.
I press my palm against the window; the glass is ice-cold. Then, on impulse, I turn and press my other palm against the shared wall between our rooms. The paint is smooth and cool under my fingertips. I close my eyes, ridiculous as it is, wondering if he’s doing the same thing on his side.
Pulling my hand back, I climb into bed, reaching for my phone one more time before forcing myself to put it on the nightstand, screen down.
I must have finally drifted off around three, because when small hands shake my shoulder, weak winter sunlight filters through the curtain.
“Mommy! Mommy, wake up! It’s Christmas Eve!”
I crack one eye open to find Bella’s face inches from mine, her breath sweet with whatever sugary cereal she ate for breakfast. My phone reads 8:17 AM. Four hours of sleep. Not enough to deal with five-year-old energy.
“Mommy needs an extra hour of sleep, B.”
“It’s morning time! Daddy promised to build a snowman with me, and I want you to help!” She bounces on the bed, making my head throb.
“I’m sure Daddy can handle the snowman—”
“No! I need both of you. The snowman needs a mommy and a daddy to help make him.” Her logic is flawless in a way only a five-year-old can manage. “Please, Mommy? Please, please, please?”
Those big brown eyes should be illegal. She weaponizes cuteness like her father weaponizes charm, and I’m defenseless against both of them.
“Fine,” I groan, sitting up.
An hour later, I’m bundled in borrowed snow gear—Gina’s jacket is a little tight across the chest—watching Bella direct snowman construction like a tiny tyrant in a pink puffer coat.
The snow has finally stopped, leaving everything blanketed in white. According to the weather app I checked while brushing my teeth, the roads are supposed to clear by evening. I could leave in the morning.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel something closer to panic.
