by Anna B. Doe
Besides writing, Cambria loves a pumpkin spice latte, staying up late, sleeping in, and watching K drama until her eyes won’t stay open. She considers math human torture and has an irrational fear of chickens (yes, chickens). You can often find her running on the treadmill (she’d rather be eating a donut), painting her toenails (because she bites her fingernails), or walking her chihuahuas (the real bosses of the house).
Cambria has written in many genres, including new adult, sports romance, male/male romance, sci-fi, thriller, suspense, contemporary romance, and young adult. Many of her titles have been translated into foreign languages and have been the recipients of multiple awards.
Cambria Hebert owns and operates Cambria Hebert Books, LLC.
You can find out more about Cambria and her titles by visiting her website:
http://www.cambriahebert.com
Blue Christmas
A Falling Series Short Story
Ginger Scott
Author’s Note
This short story is inspired by and a continuation of characters in my book This Is Falling, which is part of The Falling Series. You can find the full book here: https://books2read.com/ThisIsFalling or enjoy the series here: https://books2read.com/TheFallingSeries.
Chapter One
Nate Preeter
This seemed like a good idea. Send the girls out to ski for the afternoon while my brother and I whip up an impressive feast for the four of us as well as our parents, who are coming up to the cabin tonight. I’d say my brother and I were drunk when we concocted this plan, but it was seven in the morning. That’s even too early for Ty to hit the booze.
“Dude, I don’t even know what half of this shit is.” Ty spreads out the various ingredients he’s unbagged on the kitchen island. It looks like a cornucopia with corn and leafy green stuff, and some round thing the guy at the market told me was a tuber?
“You’re the one who said Cass has this ‘bomb’ stew recipe.” I air quote his words as I throw them back at him.
“She does. It’s her recipe, though. I’ve never cooked it; I just eat the stuff.” Ty holds up a green leafy thing that I hope isn’t kale. I hate kale. His girlfriend Cass loves it. And since my girlfriend Rowe and I basically like to make everyone happy, we’ll pretend to like kale if we have to.
“I’m pretty sure we just need to cut all this up and throw it in a pot,” Ty says, already picking out a knife. I drop the tuber back on the counter and stare at him with an open mouth.
“Pretty sure. You mean, you don’t actually have the recipe?” My eyes flutter closed at this revelation. I should have known.
“I mean, it’s basically just soup, and I know most of the stuff that goes in it.” He picks up the sharp knife and runs the blade against a handheld sharpener while his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.
“Pretty sure and basically. This is how we’re doing this? Flying by the seat of our pants?” I rub my temples.
“You worry too much, bro. Why don’t you take a nice, long, hot shower while I get the prep done.” He slams the blade down into my mom’s butcher-block cutting board with enough force that it sticks. A sly grin tugs up his lip.
If this stew is edible, it’ll be a damn miracle.
“You know what? Fine. Yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna shower, and I’ll cook the meat when I get back out here.” Ty waves me off, his tongue covering his front teeth as his concentration centers on the first stalk of the kale-looking stuff he’s about to chop into bits.
My brother knows how to push my buttons. I love him fiercely, though. Other than Rowe, he’s my best friend. He also inspires the hell out of me. He finished grad school a semester early and is opening his own training facility for para-athletes by spring. I might be the one getting the buzz for next summer’s baseball draft, but Ty’s ten times the athlete I am. He just finished his first season ever of wheelchair softball, and already made ESPN’s Top Ten with two back-to-back dingers over the fence—a highlight I haven’t achieved yet, as he so lovingly—and regularly—likes to point out.
I leave the mad chef alone in the kitchen and head down the hall to the master bath. My parents bought the Colorado cabin last year, and ultimately want to sell their house in Louisiana and downsize, probably picking up a small condo wherever I end up getting signed. Ty is making Denver home, and I know for a fact he’s popping the question to Cass soon, maybe as soon as she graduates in the spring. I’ll have a lot of reasons to come here to visit no matter where I end up, and hopefully Rowe will be with me.
Rowe and I haven’t talked about the future since the end of last season. That’s when the talk about me and the draft and going pro got real. I know it’s unfair to expect Rowe to pick up and follow me around the triple-A ball circuit, from small town to small town, her life and dreams on hold while we chase mine. I just don’t know how to find a way to get it all—the game and the girl. The dream and the dream life. I won’t give up on it, though. When we need to have the hard talk, we’ll have it, and whatever is in our way, we’ll find a way around. My future has this girl in it—that I’m certain of.
Ty has connected his phone to the big speaker in the living room and is already filling the cabin with his music. It’s a little early to thump this hard, but thankfully, the thick pine door on the bathroom dampens the sound a little. The full spray of the shower takes care of the rest. I like my mornings peaceful, which is a rare occurrence with my brother in the house. I slip off my shoes and hop around, tugging off one of my socks. For being one of the top-ranked catchers in the NCAA, I have really shitty balance.
When I finally get my foot free, I stumble and catch myself on the side of the claw-foot tub. At first glance, I dismiss the small strip of plastic on the floor as an old tag, but something about its shape beckons me to look closer. I would never have seen it if it weren’t for my crummy balance. The thin stick rests under the front of the tub, nestled in a groove between two tiles. Someone missed the trash in the corner. Someone who probably did not want this stick to be found. This . . . pregnancy test.
What. The. Fuck?
“Tyson?” I shout my brother’s name and hold the stick in front of my face, a blue line across the tip. I scream my brother’s name two more times before flinging the bathroom door open and gripping the entry frame.
“Tyson, I know you hear me!” My voice echoes around the lofted ceiling just down the hall, and this time, it’s enough to cause him to pause his music.
“What?” he shouts back.
“I’m gonna need you to come here and see this!”
“Why do I have to come? You come to me.” he responds.
Typical.
“Ty, not the time, dude! Not. The. Time!” My knees are wobbling, and if I left this space right now I’m pretty sure I’d pass out. I hold on while I hear my brother spinning his chair wheels, the shadow of his form hitting the hallway before I make eye contact with him.
“You look freaked out. I swear to God, if you called me in here to kill a spider, I am never going to stop making fun of—” Ty’s joke stops right there when I hold the stick up between us. His throat moves with the hard swallow. He is having the same panic attack I am. I recognize it because I feel the same physical symptoms.
Both of our girls have used this bathroom in the last twenty-four hours. Looking back through this new totally-freaked-out lens, there was a lot of whispering and secret meetings in here last night.
“Bro, stay calm, stay calm,” Ty says. I’m convinced he’s talking to himself. He looks so far from cool. “First, we need to figure out what a blue line means. Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. If it means . . . what we are both probably thinking it means, then we move on to the next phase of this.”
“Next phase?” I look at him like he’s a moron. He is a moron.
“Phase Operation Who’s a Daddy,” he adds.
And suddenly, that hard conversation between me and Rowe seems closer to happening than it did five minutes ago.
Chapter Two
Tyson Preeter
Strangest thing is happening in my head right now. I am literally of two minds. On one side, I want that blue stick to mean I’m a dad. On the other side? I hope like hell it’s my brother. Not because I don’t want kids with Cass. I do. I do more than anything. But she and I have big plans, and I haven’t even proposed yet. Not that she doesn’t totally know it’s coming. Hell, she’s sent me no less than seven screenshots of rings she thinks are “pretty cool.” I might be daft sometimes, but I know when “pretty cool” really means “buy me one of these, ASAP!”
“You find it yet?” I bark at Nate. He’s already sorted through the kitchen trash and the two bags tied up in the canister by the garage. No evidence exists anywhere of the box this test came in.
“I’m Googling. There are basically a million of these things, so just trying to find one that matches.” Nate sounds panicked. I guess I’m panicked, too. I’m sweating for sure.
“Wait. How does this look?” My brother flips his phone to face me, and I hold up the stick next to the photo on his screen. They look pretty freakin’ identical.
“Winner, winner, chicken—”
“No. Just no,” Nate interrupts. He’s moody, which I guess I get. Maybe this means I’m really okay with this test belonging to Cass.
“Blue line means . . .” Nate pauses while he scrolls, his thumb flipping manically up and down his screen. He finally stops and grips his device in both palms, stretching the image on the screen wide so he can read the fine print. “Positive. Blue. Means. Positive.”
“Huh. Well, wow.” I puff out a short laugh.
Nate immediately begins to pace. First around me, then down the hallway to the bathroom where he made the pee-stick discovery, and back to where I’m monitoring the bomb stew brewing on the stove.
“Wow. That’s all you’ve got?” He holds out both palms.
“I guess. Yeah. I mean, what am I gonna do? I’m either going to have a kid in a few months or a few years.” I shrug it off and glance back to the stick held between my thumb and finger. “We should put this in a bag or something. Somebody peed on it. Come to think of it, I should wash my hands.”
I wheel around the center island and pull the top drawer open, pulling a sandwich bag free to store the pregnancy test in before moving to the sink to scrub my hands. By the time I turn around, Nate has found a nearby stool and is rubbing his palms into his eyeballs as if he’s trying to erase them. Through this discovery, I assumed if that stick belongs to anyone, it’s Cass. I guess this really could be about him and Rowe.
“Hey, it’s gonna be all right,” I reassure, moving close enough that I can pat his back. He looks up, his eyes red from rubbing and his features weighed down with a thousand pounds of stress.
“How? I mean, what about the draft?” Nate’s eyes scrunch up as if he’s watching his dream wither up and die, and he’s trying to maintain sight of it.
“You go into the draft. Cass and I help. Mom and Dad help. Rowe’s parents, they help.” I’m being oddly calm, but maybe that’s what Nate needs. He doesn’t need me to needle him about the hard realities, like late-night feedings, crying, diapers, traveling with a baby, starting a college fund, missing out on all the firsts while he’s out on the road.
Suddenly, I feel faint.
“You don’t look so good,” Nate says. He sounds like he’s in a tunnel.
Maybe I’m not totally cool, calm and collected.
“You know what? We need to know whose this is.” I move to the open space next to him and rest my forearms on the counter, pushing the baggie with the test inside toward him. He instantly pushes it back, and after a few silent seconds, we both laugh.
“Dude, it’s not Hot Potato. You can’t just say ‘not it!’” Nate says.
“Yeah, well same goes for you,” I add, pushing the bag and stick a few inches toward him again.
Before Nate can shove it back in my direction, the oversized front door sweeps open on the other side of the house, a rush of cold air spilling in behind Rowe and Cass. They’re giggling and happy and celebrating a good time, yet all I can think of is this massive secret one of them is hiding. Hell, probably both of them! No way one of them is pregnant without the other being aware. In a moment of panic, Nate grabs the test from the counter and shoves it in the back pocket of his jeans as he walks across the open room toward his girlfriend. My eyes are instantly on Cass’s tummy, searching for a bump.
“Baby,” I say, catching myself just before Nate turns to flash me his wide eyes. I fake a huge grin and open my arms, welcoming Cass to my lap. I kiss her, glad to have her home, but I also make eye contact with my brother over her shoulder while he stares back at me over Rowe’s.
We’re about to play a really fucked up reality game of Clue. I need to know if I’m the one who did it, in the back seat of the Range Rover, six weeks ago, by Obillon Lake near our campus. No need to figure out the weapon. Pretty sure I have a handle on that.
Chapter Three
Rowe Stanton
I can’t help but inspect every nook and cranny of this bedroom, based on the way Nate has been acting since Cass and I got in from skiing. His guard is up so high I need stairs to climb over it. And he keeps asking me the weirdest questions about how I feel. He’s acting so . . . nervous.
He must be proposing!
No matter how many times I convince myself that thought is ridiculous, it keeps inching its way back to the front of my mind. I’ve gone through his suitcase twice, and there is no way I’m going to get his clothes folded back in here the way they were before, so I might as well just hang them and make it look as if I was simply unpacking for the both of us.
I’m hidden behind the closet door when Cass rushes into our room, abruptly calling my name. I yelp and jump, and she slams the door shut on me.
“You scared me!” She holds her hand over her chest after opening the door again, realizing what she’s done.
“I did, huh?” I glare at her with a flat-lined mouth. “Can’t imagine why.”
Her mouth ticks up and her body shakes with a laugh.
“Sorry,” she says.
I twist to hang the last of Nate’s shirts, then clap my hands together and move toward the bed, fighting the urge to poke around the zipped pockets one more time.
“Ty’s proposing.” Her voice is so sure that my itch to keep searching for a ring suddenly doesn’t need to be scratched. What catches me off guard, though, is how I’ve instantly gone from teeming with nervous energy to frozen in utter disappointment.
“How do you know?” I zip up the suitcase and set it on the floor by the bed, flopping down to lay on my side and listen to her reasoning. My friend does the same, propping her head up with her palm and facing me. For a brief moment, I imagine us both doing this while wearing our wedding dresses, preparing to walk down the aisle together to marry the loves of our lives in one of those cheesy double weddings. So damn corny, yet I went there mentally.
“Ty is acting so weird. He keeps asking if I feel all right. He offered to rub my feet just now, and he told me he thinks I’ll be a good mom one day. And I swear I saw Nate pass him something in the kitchen. It’s a ring. I know it’s a ring. God, I hope it’s the blue one.” Cass rolls to her back and moves her arms above her head to play with her long blonde hair.
“You picked out a ring?” My next question, even before she answers is, “And it’s blue?”
Her head falls to the side and her smile stretches. “Sure is.”
Cass pulls her phone from her pocket and scrolls through a few photos, stopping on one of a simple diamond ring with blue sapphires around the main stone.
“It’s gorgeous,” I respond. Nate and I haven’t talked about it, but I’m guessing the first ring I get will be one he wins in a World Series. In fact, the last time we talked about life beyond the draft, our discussion took a dark turn. I guess I never realized what life on the road with a minor leaguer was truly like. In my mind, Nate was always go
ing to go big, straight to the majors. But now that he’s entering his senior year, we’re both a little more grounded. He’ll get picked up by someone for sure. There’s interest. But he’ll have to put in a few years of nose grinding before any shot at the sweet life.
The soft knock at the door startles Cass and me, and we bolt upright. Cass flips her phone over on the mattress, hiding the bright image of her favorite ring while both Nate and Ty cock their heads and narrow their eyes on us as if they’ve just caught us printing money.
“One of these days I’m going to walk in on you two making out,” Ty says, breaking the noticeable tension that formed during the few seconds of silence.
“In your dreams, Preeter,” I say, grimacing.
“Oh, I know it’s in my dreams. Every night, Rowe. Every single night.” He winks at me and holds out his hand for Cass, who takes it but taps her fingertips against his cheek with her other hand in a playful slap.
“You’re a pig sometimes, you know,” she chastises.
Ty simply oinks and draws her into his lap before wheeling them both out of the room. Nate leans against the door, closing it behind them, and all of those silly fantasies about double weddings and him falling to one knee come rushing back. I get flush and have to pull my thick sweater off. Regardless, the nerves strangle me so much that I feel dizzy and have to lie down again.
“Are you all right?” He’s at my side in a blink, his hand on my forehead, smoothing my hair back while his eyes inspect me from head to literal toe. It’s like he’s inventorying my body to make sure all of my parts are whole.
“Okay, what’s going on?” After three years of dating, we’re long passed mental games. One of the things I love about him most is his straight talk. Whatever this is about, though, really has his tongue, and the longer he stares at me with his brow pulled in and mouth sealed shut, the more I begin to fear the worst.
