The honesty of it somehow hurt worse than anger would have. At least anger was familiar. This—whatever this was—felt too much like grief. Like mourning something that was already dead but kept trying to claw its way back to life.
“We’ll figure out how to split time with the girls when they get here.” I finally turned around, needing the conversation to movetoward logistics, something safe and manageable. “They mentioned some elaborate schedule. Christmas Eve dinner with me, Christmas morning with you, but Christmas dinner with me, I think. I’d have to go back and look at the text again to be sure.”
“Surprised there’s not a color-coded spreadsheet.” He chuckled before adding, “Bet you anything, Addie’s the mastermind behind this.”
“Oh, it’s definitely Addison,” I agreed. “Sky’s the hopeless romantic. Addie’s the planner.”
For a moment, we almost smiled at each other. Almost connected over our daughters’ night-and-day personalities.
Teddy shrugged on his kutte and boots before moving toward the window, studying the storm that had graduated from sleet to something meaner. “This is worse than they predicted.”
“It’ll pass.” I didn’t know if I meant the storm or the unbearable tension between us.
“Maybe.” He turned from the window, and his expression made my stomach drop. “But if it doesn’t—if it keeps up—there ain’t gonna be a morning flight.”
The possibility of getting snowed in alone on Christmas made my skin crawl. Not just without the girls, but truly alone, with nothing but a rental cabin and whatever ghosts had stowed away in my suitcases. The kind of alone that echoed in your chest and made you do desperate things like drink the contents of the wine cabinet and booty call your ex-husband just to remember what it felt like to be touched.
“They’ll make it,” I said, more to myself than him. “They have to.”
“When’s the last time you spent Christmas alone?”
Never. The answer came immediately. There’d always been someone—my parents, then Teddy, then our kids. Even that first horrible Christmas after Levi, we’d all been together in our misery, stumbling through traditions that felt like swallowing glass.
“I’ll be fine,” I lied.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Sure you will.”
I walked him to the door, careful to keep some distance between us. Outside, ice coated every surface, turning tree branches into crystal sculptures that would have been gorgeous if they weren’tso dangerous. The porch light caught the falling sleet, like static on an old TV.
“Drive careful,” I said, because someone had to say something to end this nightmare of an evening.
“Always do.” He lingered, neither in nor out, letting cold air flood the entrance. “Kelsey...”
“What?”
He shifted his weight, jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite spit out. Then, finally, “You look good. Really good.”
The compliment hit me sideways, unexpected and unwanted. The corner of his mouth tipped up in that barely-there smile I’d fallen in love with as a teen.
“Guess all that money I had to pay you in the settlement went to good use,” he added.
The warmth that had started to bloom in my chest withered and died. Of course. Of fucking course he couldn’t just leave it at something nice. Had to twist the knife, remind me that our divorce had cost him—as if I hadn’t paid in ways money couldn’t measure.
“Goodnight,” I gritted out as I reached for the door.
His hand caught the frame, stopping me. “That came out wrong.”
“Bullshit. It came out exactly how you meant it.”
“Kels—”
I slammed the door in his face. Not my finest moment, but better than the alternative, which was doing something monumentally stupid like crying or admitting that everything I’d changed about myself had been an attempt to become someone who didn’t miss him.
I leaned against the door, forehead pressed to the wood, listening to his footsteps on the porch. Waiting for the sound of his truck starting. It took longer than it should have, and I wondered if he was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at the cabin like I was staring at the door. Two idiots separated by walls we’d built ourselves.
The engine finally turned over, the familiar rumble of his ancient Bronco that had survived longer than our marriage. I stayed pressed against the door until the sound faded, until I was sure he was gone, until the burning in my eyes faded and my legs started to ache from standing still.
The cabin immediately felt larger without him in it. Emptier. Like his presence had briefly filled all the hollow spaces before leaving them to echo.
