When we’re done, I grab the gift from tonight’s Advent calendar. It’s not just one book.
No. Festive-as-Fuck Daddy doesn’t skimp.
I swung by the bookstore earlier too and picked up more books. Extra books. So many books. All the kids’ books. Including a new one about a griffin who defends a library, and it sounds perfect and perfectly distracting.
In fact, after Mia opens it, I say, “Why don’t I read it to you?”
“Really? I would love that,” she says, and yup.
I’m brilliant. All this maximum Christmas has kept her from asking again about Isla, inquiring what she’s up to, wondering if she’s coming over. The more I go full tilt, the less she’ll notice Isla is out of the picture.
We curl up by the fireplace, but the memories of last night flash by.
That won’t do.
But then again, I’m done retreating. I’m not gonna go hide. I’m gonna face shit head-on.
So I sit here, and I read. And I read. And I read.
Until Mia falls asleep with her head on my shoulder.
There. No questions asked, and everything is fine. Everything is just fine.
I tell myself that as I brush her hair back, kiss her forehead, and carry her to bed. Even though when I tuck herin, even with the wreaths and the nutcrackers and the damn griffin book, I’m still unhappy.
I wake to a message from Jason.
Jason: It’s not over till it’s over.
I squint at the text. Is that a threat? Does he know what happened with Isla yesterday? I sit bolt upright in bed, when another message lands.
Jason: Just remember—don’t use hockey tape to wrap them.
Oh, shit.
The competition. It’s not over yet. The final one is today. And the community center will be packed with the whole town that thinks we’re together. Which makes it the last place I want to be.
I’ll need to see Isla and be merry for the team and the town and the contest.
Which I now officially hate again.
I pull the pillow over my head. So much for ultimate Christmas. I’m the grinch again.
I should be, I don’t know, creative. Mia’s here cheering me on, after all. But beyond using old newspapers—I didn’t even know newspapers were still around—for this DIY wrapping competition hosted in the community center, I’ve got nothing.
Fortunately, Oliver is creative. “I brought all these old art journals,” he says, enthused as he shows us a treasure trove. “They have gorgeous pictures of paintings from over the years. Here’s a Renoir, a Monet, a Toulouse-Lautrec too. But I’m not just about dead white men. I’ve got a Frida Kahlo and a Berthe Morisot,” he adds sheepishly, “Aurora loves them. But don’t worry—I didn’t tell her what I had up my sleeve.”
“Good,” I grunt.
And shit, I sound like Noah Lennox, the grumpy cowboy vet. I feel that way now. And really, what do I have to say to this creative, charming, friendly Brit who’s lucky enough to have the woman he wants?
I stay silent. Then I watch my team work. And I try not to stare at Isla as she coaches Aurora and Eloise on making the best DIY Christmas wrapping fromBon Appétitmagazines.
I fail.
I stare.
And I wonder.
