Three Days Until Christmas
teddy
The wind howled asit tore through the surrounding pines, stripping the warmth from my face even through a fleece gaiter and a beanie tugged damn near over my eyes. Shoveling feet of new snow from the cabin’s drive while more drifted down from the sky should have felt futile.
But freezing my ass off was a hell of a lot easier than talking.
The steel shovel bit into the icy drift with a sound like splitting bone. I found a rhythm. Heave, twist, throw, repeat. Every scoop was another round of the same fight, different winter.
My gloves—the heavy-duty ones I kept on my snowmobile—might as well have been made of mesh. They were soaking wet at the seams, each shift of my fingers sending cold needles into my palms.
It didn’t help that the wind seemed to be coming from all directions. Half the time, the powder I tossed just blew straight back in my face. I kept at it because the alternative was to go inside and endure more of Kelsey’s silent treatment. Which was why I’d found any and every excuse to be outside since yesterday’s… whatever the fuck it was.
Maybe the only thing more predictable than Kelsey Riggs was my own ability to screw everything up by opening my mouth.
Every time I get close to you, I remember what it felt like to lose everything.
Christ. Of all the ways I could have explained it, I’d chosen the worst possible combination of words. How had I fucked it up so badly? Might as well have told her she was a walking graveyard, that looking at her was like staring at Levi’s headstone.
The look on her face—that quick flash of hurt before the walls slammed back into place, before she wrapped herself in the brittle armor she’d perfected in our last months together.
I’d watched it happen in real-time. The straightening of her spine, the careful neutrality that settled over her features, the way she’d stepped back and crossed her arms like she needed a physical barrier between us. Classic Kelsey.
In the window, I could just make out the outline of her head, a silhouette against the hazy afternoon light. I pictured her in the kitchen, jaw clenched, taking solace in control—maybe organizing the pantry, maybe scrubbing the stove even though it was already clean. That was what she did—fixed things. Tried to put the world back together with her bare hands.
I wasn’t any better. I fixed stuff, too—engines, fences, even people, when they’d let me. But this wasn’t a problem I could solve with a socket wrench. This was a wound that festered no matter how much whiskey I dumped on it.
I drove the shovel deeper, grunting with the effort. The driveway didn’t need clearing—we weren’t going anywhere until the plows came through. But I needed to move, needed to do something with the rage building in my chest. Not at her. Never at her. At myself for being such a goddamn idiot.
Another shovelful. Another. My breath came out in harsh clouds, immediately whipped away by the wind. Sweat froze at my temples, pulling at the skin with every movement.
My back ached, a steady throb radiating up my spine from laying my bike down back when I was young and stupid enough to think I was invincible. Good. Physical pain I could handle.
The cold, on the other hand, had moved past uncomfortable into that dangerous numbness where you stopped feeling anything at all.
Kind of like our marriage at the end. We’d both gone numb, unaware that we were bleeding out.
The memory of finding her in that crashed SUV hit me again—blood on her face, lips blue from cold, that horrible moment when I thought she was gone. My hands tightened on the shovel handle until the wood groaned in protest.
That was what I’d been trying to say. Getting close to her made me remember how it felt to almost lose her yesterday. Reminded me that I couldn’t survive it happening.
Not wouldn’t—couldn’t. There was a difference.
But explaining feelings had never been my strong suit. Give me a transmission to rebuild or a custom bike, something I could fix with my hands, and I was golden. Ask me to explain the mess inside my head? Might as well hand me a scalpel and tell me to perform brain surgery.
The driveway was mostly clear, or as clear as it was going to get with snow still falling.
I finished another run, shoveling a path toward the road until my lower back was screaming and my bad shoulder locked up, refusing to lift the shovel one more damn time.
Back inside, the heat hit me like a wall, burning my frozen skin. I stomped the snow off my boots, hung my soaked jacket on the hook, and breathed in the familiar scent of her cooking.
The kitchen had been transformed into the set of one of those British cooking shows she used to love to watch. Three casserole dishes sat cooling on dishtowels. Nearby, another two waited on the stovetop for their turn in the oven. A pot of what smelled like my favorite beef stew bubbled away on the stove, mixing with the yeasty scent of bread dough. Sure enough, I spotted it rising in a covered bowl near the oven.
There was a time when the sight would have made me smile—coming home to the chaos, Kelsey in full general mode, barking at the kids to set the table or load the dishwasher. Now it was just her, alone,powering through. Like she could cook her way out of feeling anything.
Yesterday, she’d disappeared into one of the spare bedrooms for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, only coming out to grab a glass of water before fleeing again. But it was clear that she was back in Perfect Kelsey mode now.
When the world got too messy, when emotions got too complicated, she’d retreat into domestic goddess territory. Control what you can control. Feed everyone until they’re too full to ask the hard questions.
