I head downstairs to find the house operating at peak holiday cheer. Brassy Christmas music floats through the house, and the twinkle lights draped over every available surface—windows, banisters, mantles—cast a pearly white glow. The ornaments on the tree in the living room gleam in the low light, and whatever’s been happening in the kitchen all afternoon makes my mouth water.
“There he is! Mr. Allen Wrench!”
A masculine cheer greets Clint’s shouted greeting from the den, but that’s likely less from the joke and more from the glasses of spiked eggnog they’re all holding.
I swing by the bar cart to pour one, then join them.
“I’m what you need when Phillips doesn’t get the job done.” I lift my glass in a toast that draws more guffaws from Darby’s dad and brother-in-law, Aaron. Sebastian just glares at me, which is also how he spent most of our afternoon together. At least avoiding direct conversation with him turned out to be pretty easy; the toys we assembled were Ikea-swinging-door-level-complicated, so the afternoon was mostly spent swearing at the shitty instructions. I briefly considered screwing up some of the assembly, but I didn’t have the heart to Bad Gabe-up any Christmas gifts for children.
In truth, I don’t really have the heart to be Bad Gabe anymore at all, not with the way my feelings have evolved for Darby. My stomach sours at the idea of doing more to make her family loathe me.
Maybe I’ll just keep my mouth shut tonight. Better to be uncharacteristically quiet than adding to my list of terrible things I’ve said in this house. So I silently sip my nog until Margaret summons us to the dining room, where the table is covered in greenery, lit candles, and dishes printed with damn Christmas wreaths.
“Wow.” Then all other thoughts flee my head when my eyes travel across the white tablecloth to where Darby’s standing behind a chair in a red dress. “Wow.”
I move directly to her side, everything else forgotten.
“Wow,” I say again, although this time I whisper it in her ear. The dress is tight and ruffled and shows off her neck and shoulders. “Nobody should look this hot on Christmas. It’s not polite to Baby Jesus.”
“Back atcha.” She’s laughing and blushing at the same time as she runs a hand down my tie. “Mary’s supposed to be avirgin.”
Sebastian makes a gagging noise as he sits down across from us, which wipes away Darby’s smile, and we knock off the biblical flirting to take our seats. Time for me to keep my head down and make it through dinner however I can.
But now that I can see something other than Darby’s beautiful face, I’m boggled by the amount of food on the table. “Wow.” It seems to be the only word I’m using tonight.
Turkey, roast beef, and ham. Cranberries, both canned and whole. Two different dinner rolls and at least three kinds of potatoes. Salad and stuffed mushrooms and a Jell-O mold and carrots swimming in butter and green bean casserole and some kind of corn pudding. It’s the most Midwestern holiday table I’ve ever seen.
Aaron notices my greedy stare and laughs. “I couldn’t believe the spread during my first Christmas dinner either.”
“I think that’s why he married me,” Celeste says.
“It’s one of the reasons, yes.” Aaron gives his wife a kiss, and that’s the last adult conversation they’re likely to have if their four hungry, squirming children have anything to say about it. I did my best to wear them out today by running them up and down a hill, but Christmas seems to have given them endlessly rechargeable batteries.
At the head of the table, Clint taps a fork against his wineglass to get everyone’s attention.
“A toast,” he says, “to the best part of the year: having our family here with us for Christmas.”
Margaret dabs at her eyes as her gaze sweeps down the table. Her smile even includes me, and I feel it again, that bloom of warmth in my chest. I can identify it now, after spending time with this family. It’s happiness. It’s acceptance and welcome and a feeling of home.
No family’s perfect, and I see the flaws in this one. But I’m so damn grateful to be at the table with them tonight. Unable to help myself, I slip my fingers through Darby’s and squeeze, holding my breath until finally,finally, she squeezes back.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Darby
Christmas Eve dinner at my parents’ is my favorite meal of the year, but I haven’t managed more than a few mouthfuls tonight.
It’s Gabe’s fault. Well, Gabe and that slim-cut dress shirt he’s wearing.
“You okay?” he murmurs as he passes me the Rhodes rolls.
He hasn’t said much since dinner started, and when his fingers brush mine, I almost drop the basket. “Yes,” I whisper back.
But actually no. I should’ve stayed and talked things through with him. In my defense, he practically barricaded himself in the bathroom to get away from me and my wandering eyes. He was probably scared I’d try to maul him, which was too embarrassing to contemplate. So I changed as quickly as possible and fled.
I’m regretting it now though; I don’t want Bad Gabe to come out tonight. Or ever again, honestly. It’s just made everything messy. My family seems more confused about him than anything else, and my poor heart can’t take much more of his conspiratorial smiles and his sweetness in private, especially with Celeste’s words from this morning ringing in my head:Good for you for scratching an itch.
I have no idea what we’re doing anymore, but I want to savor the rest of the time we do have, whatever it is. So I take a bite of cranberry salad, hoping for a peaceful dinner, when my sister commands my attention.
