“You can set that down and go,” I say, closing the door against the storm. “I appreciate the thought,but I’m not good company.”
“So I gathered.” She unbuttons her coat but keeps it on, like she’s ready to stay or leave. She sets the plate on the coffee table, then looks around at my sparse living room—the half-empty bottle, the lone Christmas card from Dave and his wife on the mantel.
Annoyance flares inside me. “What part of ‘go’ wasn’t clear?”
“The part where I leave you alone to drink yourself into oblivion.” She folds her arms. “What’s going on, Jake?”
“None of your business.” I drop into my chair. “Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole, but I want to be alone.”
“I’m sure you do.” She doesn’t move. “But sometimes what we prefer isn’t what we need.”
“And you know what I need?” I laugh, a bitter rasp. “We’ve had three actual conversations in four years. You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Don’t forget the one dance.” Her voice softens. “Look, I know you’re hurting. I know what it’s like to pretend you’re fine at Christmas when you’re falling apart inside.”
Her words hit me like a punch. I take another slug of whiskey. “Did Declan put you up to this? He seemed very curious about me at the Rusty Nail.”
“No one ‘put me up’ to anything.” Frustrationflashes in her eyes. “I came because I wanted to. No one should be alone on Christmas unless they choose it.”
“Well, I choose it.” I gesture at the door with my glass. “So, tell the MacGallan family council you did your good deed for the day.”
Her jaw tightens. “You know what? You’re right. This was a mistake.” She reaches for her gloves. “I thought maybe you were different from what you seemed. But clearly, I was wrong.”
She turns for the door, and something in me panics—wants to call her back, to apologize. But grief and whiskey have silenced me.
At the threshold, she pauses, hand on the knob. “Five years ago, this New Year’s Eve, right?”
The question strikes me like a bucket of ice water. “What?”
“Your wife and daughter.” She still doesn’t look at me. “Declan didn’t tell me. I looked it up after he said you might need a friend tonight. December 31st, five years ago. Black ice on Route 9.”
The room tilts again. My chest tightens. “Get out,” I say just above a whisper.
Now she turns, compassion shining in her eyes. “Jake—”
“GET OUT!” I’m on my feet, rage and grief boiling over. “You had no right. NO RIGHT to pry into my life, my loss. It’s nobody’s business!”
She doesn’t flinch. She meets my gaze and nods once. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She opens the door, and a blast of cold air rushes in. “The food will keep. Merry Christmas, Jake.”
Then she’s gone. The door closes with a soft click that feels final.
I stand in the middle of the room, breathing hard, hands clenched. Through the window, I watch her trudge back to her SUV, head bent against the snow. She doesn’t look back as she drives away, taillights vanishing into the white.
Only when she’s out of sight do I realize I’m shaking—with rage, with grief, with the awful truth that I’ve just driven away the only person who might care to understand the ghosts I carry.
The plate of food sits on the coffee table, steam still rising through the foil. I can almost taste the turkey and spices, so different from the frozen pizza I planned to microwave.
“Fuck,” I whisper, sinking back into my chair. I stare at my glass, fingers brushing the amber liquid before I set it down untouched.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, covering tracks, burying secrets. Inside, I sit alone with my regrets, wondering if I just slammed the door on my last chance at something I didn’t even know I wanted until it walked out of my life.
Chapter 1
Ella Shaw
Idon’t want to be here. But it’s New Year’s Eve, and the last night that most of my family will be here in Pinecrest before heading back home to Toronto.
We step inside the Rusty Nail, and the noise slithers up the back of my neck before I even cross the threshold. The music is too loud for conversation, and bodies are pressed together in a humid, swirling mass of plaid, perfume, and sweat. Every wall has garland with battered tinsel and hand-painted banners counting down the minutes to midnight; even the moose head above the liquor shelves sports a sparkly party hat. I keep my arm looped tight through my sister Kat’s and let the crowd jostle us down a corridor of elbows and crushed beer cans toward the long, sticky bar.
