Later that night, after helping Gramps salt the driveway and bringing all the firewood inside before the impending storm, I find myself in bed, wrestling myself to sleep again. All the unknown noises of a creaky old cabin on the side of a hill in the middle of the woods create a pulse-quickening orchestra that’s going to take a million years to get used to.
I know Hector’s not asleep either, since his snoring hasn’t added an instrument yet.
Suddenly, he whispers into the darkness. Just like last night. Just as slight. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” I groan back. “Can’t sleep when you’re snoring. Can’t sleep when you’re not either, apparently.” It’s frustrating, my anxiety keeping me up like this, but I sink further into the blankets, letting my heavy head roll to the side. It doesn’t feel so stuffed. Now that I shared a little piece of the island ordeal with Hector, there’s significantly less pressure up there.
“I don’t need to sleep on it,” he says faintly. “I’m in.”
I don’t react at first. For a hazy half second, I convince myself I dreamed it. Maybe I reconfigured the sounds of the windy snowstorm outside into a pleasant gravelly baritone, but then—
“Did you hear me? I’m serious. I’m in.”
I suppress a squeal. A literalsqueal.Never before in my life have I had to dryly swallow an ecstatic sound. It’s unnerving—the fact that I could be excited over planning a gala for tragic townies, especially one for Christmas, a holiday I’ve considered cursed since I was thirteen. But I am. There’s no denying it because it means I’m one step closer to getting what I want.
Bring out the mistletoe because I’m ready to kiss this town goodbye.
Chapter 10
We’re snowed in.
When I get out of bed the next morning and walk to the back door, the fuzzy light bounces inside off a shifted landscape. There’s at least a foot of snow blocking the exit, covering the patio, draped over the trees. The blanket of white sparkles. There’s still a flurry coming down, light but steady.
The scene is nothing like snow over New York City, turning sludgy and gray the moment it hits the pavement. This is pristine. Calming in a way I couldn’t have expected.
Upstairs, Grandma, Gramps, and Hector are taking a snow day too. All are wearing chunky sweatshirts and enjoying bowls of oatmeal at the kitchen table. Grandma reads the newspaper, while Gramps grades papers. Hector’s nose is nestled inA Christmas Carol.
“Good morning, bedhead,” Grandma says. No sudden urge to slick down my flyaways comes over me. While grabbing a mug from the cupboard, I relish the fact that I don’t need to look my absolute best while I’m out here. Away from the bright lights of the city and even brighter lights of camera flashes, I can simply exist. I can breathe. It might be nice.
“The roads are completely iced over. We’re all going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours at least,” Gramps says.
I did saymight.
“Let’s enjoy the peace of our first full snowfall together before we have to shovel ourselves out.”
Shovel? I thought I met my quota ofchoresfor the week when I lugged that salt bag up and down the front walk yesterday. My back is already killing me from that lumpy mattress and all the hiking into town.
I scoop some oatmeal into a bowl and sprinkle assorted nuts and seeds over the top, while I consider how to play this conversation. With Hector’s approval, it’s time to advance my pawn in the gotta-get-home game. My sudden about-face around the gala might sound suspicious to Grandma and Gramps. I need to be delicate about how I bring it up.
“Hector and I are going to plan your gala,” I blurt out sans a dash of delicacy. My mouth moves faster than my mind sometimes.
All three heads at the table snap in my direction, thanks to the verbal avalanche I unleashed. Hector furrows his brow at me beneath his disheveled hair. I expect Grandma to shriek with happiness, but her expression is sheathed in founded skepticism.
She sets the newspaper down with little grace. “You know we won’t pay you, right?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re aware it’s for local businesses, not some flashy charity like celebrity pet adoption or coral reefs or whatever it is your mother is always posting about?”
“Naturally.”
“And you can’t just give up on it if the going gets hard, tiring, time-consuming, or it’s not what you expect?”
I drop my spoon like I’ve been wounded. That one got me.
“Dear, be serious. I’m not trying to be a nag. I’m only saying you have a habit of…well…” There she goes again, looking around as if the right word is written on a cue card somewhere off-screen.
Gramps grabs the conversational baton. “Quitting in the middle of things.”
