by Beth K. Vogt
“After eight years together, Johanna? Nothing?”
She closed her eyes. She used to think he was so handsome. Now all she could think of was him kissing Iris . . . being with Iris . . . “It’s funny how eight years can suddenly mean nothing, Beckett.”
“Are you really so surprised that I slept with someone else?” He stood with his hands on his hips, his winter coat unbuttoned.
“What kind of question is that?” Johanna stood her ground, determined not to let him see how the question rattled her.
“I mean, I’m a guy. I traveled a lot. We had a long-distance relationship. I was deployed overseas.”
“Are you saying all those things give you permission, the right, to cheat on me?”
“You never slept with anyone else while we were dating?”
“You and I obviously have a very different idea of what it means to be in a committed relationship—to be engaged.”
“It would have been different if we were married.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that.” She mirrored his hands-on-hips posture.
Johanna’s heartbeat seemed to be slowing, her chest aching more with every dull beat. The pain was laced with the humiliating reality that she’d been fooled by Beckett for years.
When he opened his mouth again—most likely to defend himself—Johanna raised her hands. “Beckett, stop talking. You’re only making it worse.”
“I’m trying to explain . . .”
“Fine. I accept your explanation. You’re a guy. The kind of guy who sleeps around even though he’s engaged because he’s in a long-distance relationship. And because he travels. Now give me my house key.” She held out her hand, pulling back once he dropped it into her palm.
But as he turned to leave, she stopped him. “Wait.”
Giving him a wide berth, she went to the front hall closet. Pulled out the black garbage bag where she’d dumped all his stuff. A spare uniform. Casual clothes. Another coat. Shoes. Dirty workout clothes. His toiletries that she’d put in a ziplock bag. Several framed photographs of them. And every photograph he’d taken—removed from their frames and tossed into the bag, unprotected.
This was what it came down to. This was how their relationship ended after eight years—with her handing him bits and pieces of his belongings. The bag wasn’t heavy. She could throw it at him if she wanted to. Or dump it out on the ground. But she was a better person than that. A better person than Beckett. Johanna dropped the bag at his feet.
Beckett crossed his arms, staring at her. “Is the ring in there, too?”
“The ring.”
“Your engagement ring, Johanna. Did you put it in the bag?”
Her engagement ring.
“You broke up with me. It’s customary for you to return the ring . . .”
She couldn’t hold back a sharp laugh. “You’re lecturing me on traditions or customs . . . That’s like Benedict Arnold telling someone what loyalty means.”
Johanna pivoted and escaped to her bedroom. Yanked open the top drawer of her dresser. Shoved aside a layer of lingerie. Oh, she needed to throw all of that out, too. Found the ring where she’d thrown it after removing it the day she’d kicked Beckett out.
It was an elegant ring—an oval-cut diamond set on a slender band of smaller diamonds.
And she hated it to the point that her stomach roiled. She clenched the broken symbol in her fist until she stood in front of Beckett again.
He held out his hand and she dropped it into his palm, snatching her hand back, careful once again that she didn’t touch him.
“I’m not a leper.”
“No. You’re a cheater. And a liar. Those are worse.”
He stuffed the ring in his coat pocket. Picked up the trash bag. Turned. Paused. “It’s been fun, Johanna.”
“Oh no, Beckett. It’s been fake—all of it.”
When she slammed the door, it seemed to reverberate through her entire body.
If only she’d found the ability to say, “Good riddance” or “I won’t miss you.” Or if she could tell herself that she was glad. That she was relieved.
But all she wanted to do was ask him why.
And then she remembered he’d told her why. He slept with Iris—and most likely other women—because of their long-distance relationship. And because they weren’t married. And because he was a guy.
GEOFF AND I WERE HAVING our own “not a creature was stirring” Christmas Eve moment at his parents’ house.
After one last reminder that they’d see us in the morning, his mother and father—or Lilith and Felix, as they requested I call them—had disappeared upstairs to their bedroom, dimming lights as they went. Once I’d changed into my pajamas and robe, Winston had followed me through the darkened house into the living room, curling up on the carpet in front of the gas fireplace.
Geoff appeared moments later, carrying tall glass Irish coffee mugs. “I thought tonight called for some hot chocolate.”
I tucked my bare feet up underneath my body. “Is that whipped cream?”
“I found some left over from dessert.” He shrugged, managing to hold the mugs steady. “Of course, the housekeeper is going to wonder what happened to it.”
“Geoff!”
“Don’t worry—she’s always liked me.” He handed me a mug, placing his on the side table, and sat beside me, resting his arm around my shoulders. “A nice, traditional Christmas Eve. Hot chocolate with real whipped cream. A fake Christmas tree. And a fake fire . . . All we need is a selection of Christmas music to complete the mood.”
I snuggled closer. “No. I’m good. I’m enjoying the quiet. Now, if you could arrange for snow . . .”
“You heard the weatherman. No snow for Christmas. Sorry.”
“A girl can still hope to wake up tomorrow and find out the weatherman got it wrong. Even if the girl is in her thirties.” I sipped my hot chocolate, wiping away the whipped cream left on my top lip with my tongue. “I think your parents liked their Christmas gift.”
“They liked it even more when they found out we were going to the theater with them. You, Mrs. Hennessey, had a brilliant idea.” Geoff shifted so my body fit closer to his.
“You helped me choose which show we’re going to see.” I clinked our mugs together. “Job well done. I’m so glad they’re excited. I wish we could have done more, but with the renovation . . .”
“Don’t worry, Jill. They’re happy. They’re glad we’re here tonight, and they’re looking forward to going to your parents’ tomorrow for dinner.”
“It’ll be pretty casual, compared to tonight . . .”
“That’s one of the things I like about being with your family.”
A comfortable silence settled between us, one void of all our recent struggles.
How was it that Christmas had the ability to pause real life? To just for a few moments, a few days, hush some of the unresolved tensions? Sitting here, I could close my eyes . . . could pretend to believe in all the things I had when I was a little girl. Not in Santa Claus, but in the magical “more” that Christmas promised.
Magic wasn’t all that hard to embrace while we were at Geoff’s parents’ home. The decor was a silver, gold, and blue theme, complete with a designer Christmas tree overloaded with fake snow and matching ornaments—not a single one with sentimental value. The mantel mirrored the color theme with a lit garland decorated with more coordinated ornaments and tall silver pillar candlestick holders. A silver cashmere throw was draped across one chair while a “Merry Christmas” pillow was tucked into its companion, and other silver, blue, and gold embellishments graced the room. A large abstract painting of an angel hung over the mantel.
Again and again, my eyes were drawn to this painting.
There was no Nativity in Geoff’s parents’ house, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about God this holiday season. For the first time, the concept of angels and shepherds and a young Jewish couple’s plan for marriage interrupted by an unexpected, God-o
rdained pregnancy lingered on the outskirts of my thoughts as more than a story—as part of my fledgling faith journey.
“Why so quiet?”
“I’m thinking about the Christmas story.”
“The Christmas story? Which one? Scrooge? Or Charlie Brown?”
“The Bible one.”
Geoff covered any hesitation by taking a gulp of his hot chocolate. “Did you enjoy going to the Christmas Eve service earlier today?”
His question was nice—and unexpected. I’d managed to slip away to a church close by before any preparations for dinner had begun. My first time in church since Payton had prayed for me. I’d invited him to the candlelight service, thinking maybe he’d want to go with me.
He hadn’t, but asking now was an acknowledgment of something important to me, if not an expression of real interest.
“It was odd to attend a candlelight service at ten o’clock in the morning. I was surprised by how many people were there—the sanctuary was packed. I should have arrived earlier.”
I waited for him to ask for more details. Nothing.
“But I liked it. We sang some Christmas carols. Well, I tried to. At least they put the words up on screens in the front of the auditorium. And I liked the pastor’s sermon—it was brief, but still meaningful.”
Still no response from Geoff. Maybe he hadn’t been all that interested. But for some reason, I kept talking, kept sharing, as if something I said would spark his curiosity.
“My favorite part was when they darkened the sanctuary and we all sang ‘Silent Night’ and everyone lit each other’s candle, one by one.”
“Why was that your favorite part?”
Finally a question . . . and one that I struggled to answer.
“Because . . . I felt some of the peace I think Payton has—that I’m looking for.”
It was like trying to translate something for Geoff when I barely knew the language myself. I mixed up the words. Definitions eluded me. Had I ever understood what peace was—peace that reached deep into my heart? Or had I settled for something temporary, like the warmth of the hot chocolate as I sipped on it?
Geoff didn’t respond, shifting against me, clearing his throat . . . and then, “I have a Christmas present for you.”
“What?” I startled, splashing a bit of hot chocolate on my robe. “Geoff, we agreed no presents this year, not after the extra expense of the kitchen.”
“You know, when someone gets you a gift, you’re supposed to say thank you.”
I rubbed at the dark stain. “Not when we agreed no gifts this Christmas.”
Geoff reached beside the couch and set a large red gift bag, white tissue paper sticking out of the top, on my lap.
I handed him my hot chocolate so he could set it on the side table. “Where did you hide this?”
“Ho, ho, ho.” Geoff moved over a bit, giving me room. A smile accompanied his Santa laugh, but it seemed forced. “My elves helped me. But before you open it, I have to tell you something.”
My hands stilled against the tissue paper. “What?”
“I—I haven’t been completely honest with you.” Geoff removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes as an exhale escaped.
“Is this about Brian? You want to talk about him now?”
“No.” Geoff slipped his glasses back on. Straightened them. Rubbed his hand across his mouth. “No. I need to tell you about . . . about Kyler.”
Kyler.
“Who is Kyler?”
“My younger brother.”
My vision blurred, the room seeming to darken for a moment. I shook my head, trying to refocus on my husband. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No. I would never do that to you.”
“But you’d date me . . . marry me . . . without telling me you have not one, but two brothers?” My voice shrilled on the last words.
“I couldn’t.”
“You . . . couldn’t.”
“You have to understand my family. We don’t talk about Brian. Or Kyler. Ever.” Geoff’s voice rasped on his brothers’ names, as if a heavy wooden door, long closed, had been pulled open mere inches.
My hands clutched the sides of the gift bag. “And this? What is this?”
“Ever since I told you about Brian, I knew I had to tell you the whole truth.” Tears filled my husband’s eyes. “But Kyler . . . losing him . . . was harder than what happened with Brian. I mean, Brian left because he wanted to . . .”
The way Geoff’s words faded into silence chilled me. “What happened?”
“They adopted Kyler when I was five.” For just a moment, Geoff’s eyes warmed again. “Mom and Dad were so excited . . . and I was going to be the best big brother ever.”
“Was Kyler a baby when your parents adopted him?” I struggled to move past all the emotions warring inside me. To listen. To visualize the story Geoff was telling me.
“No. He was two. He’d been in foster care, so we didn’t know his biological parents or much of his medical history.” Geoff twisted to face me. “Kyler was so much smaller than Brian and me. Quieter than us. The doctors said something about ‘failure to thrive’—not that I knew what that meant. Brian kind of ignored Kyler, said he didn’t want to be bothered. But Kyler always tried to keep up with me—and I encouraged him. Let him tag along anytime he wanted. I probably shouldn’t have.”
Just that admission gave me a glimpse of an unseen adversary that preyed on my husband all these years later.
“Then when he was seven, all three of us got a virus—it was going around the school. Kyler couldn’t shake it. He ended up in the hospital because his body was overwhelmed—he was going downhill rather than getting better. They ran some tests . . . and that’s when they found out he had a congenital heart defect.”
“Oh, Geoff . . .”
“Before my parents could even begin to process the news . . . or talk to the doctors about what was going to happen next . . . Kyler’s heart went into an arrhythmia. They couldn’t resuscitate him.”
Geoff’s voice trailed off into silence again and he stared straight ahead. I almost said something, prompted him to keep talking, to tell more of the story. This might be the only time he’d share about Kyler. But I remained still, the unopened gift separating us.
“I was going to visit him after school. That was the routine. Brian and I went to school while Mom stayed with Kyler and then we’d go up with Dad in the evening and see him. I never thought . . .”
When Geoff didn’t continue, I forced myself to ask the question. “How did you find out?”
“Dad picked us up from school. We usually rode the bus home and stayed at a neighbor’s until Dad got home from work. But that day . . . we were called into the office right before school got out. And Dad was there . . . He told us . . .”
Geoff’s shoulders rose and fell with his rapid breathing. “I’m sorry, Jillian. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. . . . It’s just that, after all these years, it’s become easier not to talk about him.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I kept hearing myself telling you that I’m trying to make you happy—and yet my decision to not have children hurts you. I knew I had to be completely honest with you, no matter how hard it was going to be. I thought we could start the New Year off with no secrets between us.” He repositioned the gift in my lap. “Would you open your gift?”
“Now?”
“Please.”
I did as he asked, removing the tissue paper and pulling out a small blue photo album. “What’s this?”
Geoff was silent as I placed the book in my lap, and then his fingers traced the words Family Photos embossed on the front cover in silver. “Something I wanted to share with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
He shifted closer again, opening the front cover and settling the album across both our laps. “These are some of my favorite photos of Kyler.”
And with those words, Geoff invited me into his past.
Hi
s hand shook for a moment, and I almost said he didn’t have to do this. Didn’t have to show me the photos.
But I knew he needed to.
And oh, how I wanted him to.
“I was so excited when I found out I was getting a little brother.” Geoff’s voice was hushed in the light of the Christmas tree and the fireplace. “I’d kept asking my parents for a baby brother or a sister. Brian didn’t care—he always laughed when I said something. I told Mom and Dad I was hoping for a brother. The Hennessey brothers, you know? It took a long time. Brian and I were only twenty months apart, but I didn’t know that my mom had several miscarriages after me and then ended up having a hysterectomy. I mean, you don’t tell a little boy those kinds of things until later . . . and my parents, well, they just don’t talk about anything like that. I don’t know why they decided to adopt. Sometimes I think it was more for me than for them.”
He turned the first few pages as he talked, revealing photos of my then-five-year-old husband and his two-year-old brother. Smiles and silent laughter on their faces.
The two boys sitting on the couch together. Tucked into bed together, their mother sitting on the edge of the bed. Geoff reading books to Kyler. Building block towers. A hodgepodge, out-of-order sequence of photos of Geoff and Kyler. Each photo unlocking a memory for Geoff.
“We had chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream for his third birthday. He was a mess. And that’s us on the first day of school—not kindergarten for Kyler, first grade. He said kindergarten didn’t count because we weren’t in the same school.”
His memories were adding color to the mental portrait of my husband—each word a brushstroke filling in more details. My husband had more than a difficult relationship with an older brother who’d disappeared years ago. He was a big brother whose smile was altogether different when he talked about his little brother.
And then the words stopped as Geoff stared at one photo.
I hesitated to intrude on this memory.
“This—” Geoff traced the edges of the photo—“this was one of our last photos together. I can’t say it was the last one taken. But it’s one of my favorites. Mom took it while we were all walking to the park one day. Me and Kyler running ahead, and Mom and Dad behind us.”
