For always, p.18
For Always, page 18
Fallon looked him over. “Well, I guess if anyone can afford to lose an eyebrow, it’s you.” She pointed at his dyed brows.
He smiled and kissed her quickly. “True.”
“Hey,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him to her. “Come to The Barn tonight. Let’s go together.”
A statement. I wondered what that meant.
The Barn was a dancehall near the highway toward Gosford, a town smaller than Windmere. The town hosted a Christmas Eve dance every year, decorating the hall with garland and lights. Vendors lined the edges of the floor, and a live band played Christmas music until the last person stopped dancing. Usually, it was Sandy Talbot and her husband, Mark. Despite now being in their seventies, they’d been reigning champs for nearly two decades.
I used to dance on my mom’s feet when I was little, when she’d take a break from her stand against the wall—the third spot to the left of the exit—until I got old enough to learn to dance for real.
The Daltons always attended before midnight mass.
Beau smiled at Fallon, tugging at her beanie. “Let’s do it.”
She bopped his nose, kissing his cheek before heading toward the parking lot.
“Bring hot pickles!”
Beau and I looked at one another.
“What the fuck?”
Twenty-two
Kate
The slap of my mom’s hand stole me from my daydream as I stood at the counter, gripping a bag of frosting that dribbled onto the cake in front of me.
“You’re supposed to make tall swirls, Kate. Not clumps of...” She eyed my work disapprovingly. “Frosting turds.”
I blinked, taking in the mess. The cake did look rather disgusting.
“Sorry,” I murmured, trying to use my fingers to shape what were supposed to be green pine trees along the edges of the cake. “Just distracted.”
My mom glanced at me, wiping her hands on her apron and checking the timer on the oven. “I noticed. Want to talk about it?”
I sighed. “No.”
She gestured to my clothes. “Is it related to the turtleneck you stole from my closet?”
“What?” I said, my voice at least two octaves higher than polite. “I like turtlenecks. It’s red. It’s festive.”
My mom clucked her tongue. “Nobody likes turtlenecks. They exist to either hide something or as a joke. No in-between.” She rested her hands on the counter, pretending to examine a recipe next to her. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a boy, would it?”
I laughed. “A boy? Please.”
A man, I mentally corrected.
“Hm.” She shrugged, her eyes still on the recipe. “Well, if it did have to do with a boy, perhaps a boy we know well, I hope you know you could talk to me about it. If it were feeling... distracting.”
Keeping my dating life private proved easy when separated from my family by thousands of miles. It only came up when necessary. Relevant.
So never.
My parents met a few boyfriends over the years, but when things inevitably fell flat, I had Taylor or my friends to speak with. Occasionally Beau. Despite his torment, he was easy to talk to. He could tease like a motherfucker, but when it mattered? He hunkered down and helped.
I said nothing for a while, refocusing on frosting the cake for my mom’s approval. She worked hard all day to get Christmas Eve dinner ready. I spent the day helping, knowing that Beau and Jason would sled like children, and my dad lived on the couch watching whatever sports game played. Something with a ball, I guessed.
“Was there anything about Dad that felt different when you started dating?” I asked, attempting to keep my voice casual. “How did you know he was the right one for you?”
My mom gave a little squeal of delight as she spun to look at me. I wasn’t sure if it was a triumph with my need to talk or revelry for memories of my dad. “I hated your father,” she said, absolutely beaming.
“What? Mom!”
My parents met in a less-than-traditional fashion. He’d grown up in Windmere, born and raised, but my mom was from Gosford. She was twenty when she met him, heading home from visiting friends in Spokane, when her little Honda broke down about twenty miles from Windmere.
It was summer, the mountain towns were busy with tourists, and she couldn’t get a tow truck. My dad found her on the side of the road, and lucky her, he was a mechanic.
Pretty sweet, right?
He helped her get the car to his shop, and she happily accepted a ride from him, even though she spent my entire childhood warning me from getting into a stranger’s car.
Though I guess my dad wasn’t a complete stranger. Seventeen years older than my mom, he was her father’s friend.
“Oh yeah, your father was incorrigible,” she said. “Blustering, ingratiating, cocky.” She sighed with affection. “I wanted him, and he wouldn’t look at me. I was twenty, and he was one of Grandpa’s friends.” She waved her hand. “All that to say, it wasn’t exactly easy.”
I set down the piping bag, wiping my hands on a towel.
“I knew you guys had an unconventional start, but I hadn’t realized you didn’t like Dad from the get-go.”
She puffed her cheeks and laughed. “Oh, I liked him. I just didn’t like him. You know?”
Jesus. Yes.
“Maybe.”
She gave a knowing smile as she went to pull the turkey from the oven. The kitchen smelled heavenly, and my stomach rumbled all day with the prep. I could hardly wait to eat. Beau was predictably late. My mom told him to be back by now.
Of course, he might have been busy hiding Jason’s body in a snow drift if Jason was correct that Beau was aware of our... whatever this was. Not because Jason was sleeping with me specifically, but because Beau was a big baby who hated being left out of secrets. An even bigger whiner when things didn’t go as expected.
And I guarantee Beau hadn’t expected Jason to put the moves on me—which had happened. This was all Jason’s fault.
I would have been perfectly fine spending this trip catching up on work, stuffing myself with food, and hanging with a few friends from town. I did not need to have my hands gripping muscled thighs or my fingers fanning through soft hair or my mouth on—
“It wasn’t easy,” my mom interrupted.
I blinked once. Twice. Three times. I wiped my mouth with my palm. “Hm? What wasn’t?”
“It wasn’t easy to work out how to live with your father, but it was easy to love him. It’s been worth any struggle in between. And there’s always a struggle, Kate. Always. No matter how much you love someone, they won’t be perfect.” She set the turkey to rest on the stove. “Nor will you be.”
An understatement.
Perhaps why I hadn’t fallen in love yet, found a life partner, or been with a man for longer than six months before growing tired of him, or he tired of me. I wanted a partner to honor my drive instead of feeling threatened by it. Sometimes, I wondered if my expectations were too high.
Or maybe I set the bar high so no one could reach it.
Elbowing with men who expected me to accommodate their ambitions, asking me to tone down mine. Breaking up with me when I wouldn’t.
Or maybe I selected the wrong men on purpose.
“Sometimes it feels easier to keep things casual,” I said, getting up to help my mom set up the buffet-style Christmas Eve meal.
Safer, I meant.
My mom, for all her Christmas spirit seriousness, insisted on an informal affair with paper plates, plastic silverware, and paper napkins. It was one of my favorite things about her. My mom put others at ease because her world had no pomp and circumstance.
While she supported my goals and ambitions, she always made it clear that professional accolades were only as meaningful as the life they propped up. I forgot that sometimes, being so far from home and the reminder that maybe there was more to life than deadlines and killing myself to earn praise from a publishing goddess.
More to life than taking a conference call earlier on Christmas Eve because pleasing that goddess and earning her good faith held more weight than personal boundaries.
Maybe I was foolish to give in, spending three hours on a call that led to nothing more than frustration. Crappel and Bologna fighting, and Taylor nervously pulling at her hair. Time that could have been spent perfecting my frosting technique.
Maybe I’d been foolish to separate these pieces of my life—my family, my insecurities, and my relationships. Or perhaps I’d been just as scared to talk about the idea of love as I was to fall into it, and it was easier to compartmentalize than figure it out.
I cleared my throat, fanning a stack of paper napkins. “You and Dad, what you have isn’t typical.”
My mom hummed for a moment. “I wouldn’t say that. Your father and I work hard to love one another. We put in the effort. Every single day. Some days are easier than others. Some days, he loves me more than I love him. Some days, I love him more. Some days, I’m not sure either of us loves the other.”
I gaped, feeling like my mom had just revealed that Santa wasn’t real. Except I wasn’t six years old, and this was so much less believable.
“But most days, we love each other like one can’t breathe without the other.” She gave a gentle smile. “You make the choice, do your best, and love hard. Casual is easier.”
Her hand rested over the top of mine. “It’s lonelier.”
My mom’s words danced through my head all evening, even after Beau and Jason returned from their snow play. Even as my dad reluctantly turned off the TV to join us at the height of the game. Even as my mom placed her palm on my forehead to ensure I was feeling okay when I declined the offer of wine with our meal.
Jason kicked my foot underneath the table, grinning as he dug into his food and chatted with Beau next to him. Jason’s eyes would drift to mine every few words, then back to his food.
He fit so nicely at the table with my family. He always had. Would he return next year? Or find a new table for himself?
I worried I’d be sitting in the same seat, if I came home at all. Would I work through the holidays like I had the past few years? Would I fall asleep in my office like the woman whose career I envied?
Was Carmen Crappel my Ghost of Christmas Future? Successful but lonely? Heart intact but empty?
Jason kicked me again, noticing my frown, this time nailing my ankle and causing me to curse.
My mom scolded me as my dad bit back a smile and nodded his agreement that colorful language was best saved for after dinner.
Beau, maybe my Ghost of Christmas Past, smirked as he informed my parents of all the words I liked to use outside their earshot.
The time when I was twelve and yelled over at the fence for Peter McDuffin to fuck off because he watered the wisteria along the yard line and sprayed me and my friends as we sunbathed.
And Jason, my Ghost of Christmas Present, laughed the entire time and stared at me with eyes that made me wonder if he’d haunt me forever.
Even when he was gone.
Twenty-three
Jason
“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Kate frowned.
I could see her breath in the freezing cab of the truck as I climbed in beside her. The temperature was brutal this evening, even with the cloud cover.
Thankfully, we were cruising to look at Christmas lights from the warmth of the truck. If it ever adequately warmed.
I took Kate’s gloved hand, squeezing it. “I don’t need to go to The Barn. Besides, I know how thrilled you are to be publicly seen with me.”
Kate withdrew her hand from mine, turning her attention out the truck window and to the glow of the lights strung along the house.
“It’s not my fault you’re a hideous bridge troll.”
She smoothed her hands over her jeans, crossing her legs and shifting away from me.
I chuckled and turned over the ignition.
“I assumed you wanted to leave the house after dark to see the Christmas lights. Now I know it’s under the blanket of night to keep me from the public eye.”
Kate shrugged. “We can’t all be beauty queens.” With a breezy exhale, she said, “I would like to go. If you don’t mind.”
The truck roared to life, the radio kicking in with the jarring noise pop of Locust Laced through the speakers. It wasn’t the over-razored guitar that startled me. “I’m sorry? You want to go?”
Kate leaned forward to turn down the volume. “Yeah, why not? Unless you don’t want to go.”
Beau had already left to meet Fallon at The Barn in Gosford for a local Christmas Eve party. Mr. and Mama Dalton left an hour before him.
When Beau invited me along, I politely declined with the excuse that I didn’t want to be his third wheel. He squinted his disapproval and grumbled about leaving me alone with his baby sister. His twenty-eight-year-old baby sister. He also disagreed with my opinion that Kate’s age was relevant to my ability to be unsupervised with her.
Only when Fallon arrived to pick up Beau did he stop his muttering. His entire demeanor shifted, his face lighting up and his mood softening.
Kate stood in the living room, watching the pair at the front door. Elbowing me in the gut, she said, “You see that?”
“I do,” I said, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. Kate’s hair smelled like something savory. Maybe gravy. She’d been in the kitchen all day with Mama Dalton. “I think he has a crush.”
“I can hear you, assholes,” Beau said, flipping us off as he wrapped his arm around Fallon’s shoulders and guided her outside.
I suggested we use our alone time to do some very intimate touching. Kate waved me off, complaining of a need for a shower, but I didn’t protest. I did join her, though.
While there were no sinful touches—mostly—and I refrained from fucking her against the shower wall the way I wanted to, it was perhaps more intimate.
Because Kate let me wash her hair.
It drove me wild. Not with lust, but with adoration. Her head tipped against my chest, my fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp, the quiet and breathy moans from her parted lips—it was delectation.
What I was beginning to realize with Kate wasn’t how well our bodies fit together or how electric our chemistry could be. It was how vulnerable and soft the affection was and had been all along, even when I hadn’t understood it.
It was both falling into the familiar and examining this entirely new thing. An intersection that made sense and also confused me. How was it possible to feel like this was both new and old? Timeless and passing? Here... and soon to be gone?
I reminded myself that this moment with Kate was the one I had, and borrowing tomorrow’s problems would do me no favors.
“I’d like to go to The Barn with you,” I said, patting her leg and kicking the truck into reverse.
Kate scooted closer to me, her elbow leaning on the console between us. “You sure?”
I kissed her temple. “I’m sure.”
And I was because Kate wanted to go, which meant she wasn’t as concerned about others knowing we were... whatever we were.
I declined Beau’s offer because I’d rather spend time with Kate, not because I didn’t want to be there. The Barn had been one of my favorite Christmas traditions with my mom.
Turning onto the highway, I headed for Gosford. Tall piles of snow banked the roads from the earlier plowing, and there’d been no new accumulation.
Headlights were the only illumination on the long stretch of road as we weaved and winded toward The Barn. We stayed silent for the drive, Kate only breaking it when I found a spot to park in the gravel lot with dozens of others who’d arrived earlier.
Facing me, she quietly asked, “Will you dance with me tonight?”
Tracing my knuckle over her jaw, I gave a faint smile. “Until our feet go numb.”
“Well, I’m a terrible dancer, and I’ll step on your feet plenty. I imagine you’ll go numb quickly.”
I’d still dance with her all night if she wanted.
Kate dropped her head, fiddling with the zipper of her parka. “Jason.”
Her mouth quirked to the side, eyes pinching like she wanted to say more, but she shook her head, reached for the door, and let herself out.
I followed her inside, wondering what thought coated the tip of her tongue. Rather than ask, I shook off my jacket, gloves, and hat, hanging them at the coat check while waiting for Kate to shed her layers.
An oversized warehouse straddling the county line, The Barn was used in the summers for fairs and animal shows. The faint stench of hay couldn’t be scrubbed or washed out of the concrete floor, but the pine-scented garland and fragrant spice of cinnamon wafting from the build-your-own gingerbread table were potent enough to ignore it.
Lights strung through exposed beams overhead, running down the walls and casting a soft yellow glow against the white-painted wood interior. Dozens of tables and vendor stalls lined the outer edges of the floor space, each decorated with festive displays and lights. A small stage stood at the far end of the floor with space sequestered for dancing. Tables and chairs lined the dancefloor boundary, just in front of the indoor beer garden.
The stall that once belonged to my mother had been filled, not by a new chocolatier, but by an ancient woman selling knitted socks. Kate stood at my side, her arm wrapped with mine as she squeezed me tightly.
“Is it strange being here? Without your mom’s stall?”
Yes. No. Sort of.
“I miss her.” There wasn’t much else to say. Even after ten years, I didn’t miss her any less. I had plenty of distractions to keep the sadness at a distance. I had distance to keep the sadness at a distance. “Grief is strange.”
Kate dropped her head against my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
I cleared my throat, moving her along as we circled the venue. The band played a lively rendition of Let It Snow as we strolled the floor. Dozens of people danced, some I recognized. It was still early, and The Barn hadn’t yet swelled to capacity. It would, after people made their rounds looking at lights and fluttered about Candy Cane Lane.
