Unwrapped

by Amelia Wilde

Just not now.

  Just not Finn.

  No matter how right it felt to have his hands on me, to have his thickness buried inside of me once again.

  Someone else could know me that way.

  Right?

  “Come home for Christmas,” my mother begs on the phone, two weeks and three days after Thanksgiving.

  I don’t want to go home for Christmas. I don’t want to be that close to Finn and risk succumbing to such reckless behavior again. Not this soon. I owe him an apology, but it can wait. It’ll have to wait. I’m exhausted.

  “Mom, I’m tired.”

  “Come home,” she says. “You can sleep late every day. I’ll cook. I don’t mind, Emily. You’ve been working so hard.”

  “I know.” I swallow down a painful lump in my throat. I’m not the type to get homesick—forty-eight hours at my parents’ house was enough to send me running to the bar at Thanksgiving—but the urge to go home is strong. I can practically smell the fabric softener on the comforter of my bed. “But it’s late to book a flight, Mom. I think it would make more financial sense—”

  “How many days do you have off for the holiday?”

  I flip open my laptop and scroll through my emails, even though I already know. This is the most days we’ll have off all year—Christmas through New Year’s.

  “I have to work until the twenty-first.”

  “And then?”

  I sigh. My head feels heavy. My limbs feel heavy. I could sleep for a week. The pressure of life at the firm must be getting to me. “We have to be back at the office January 2. Just on-call over the holiday.”

  There’s a silence. This is Mom’s ace in the hole. She could wait out the Dalai Lama.

  Well, I can wait, too.

  We sit there, breathing on the phone, and in the pit of my gut, my homesickness grows until it overwhelms everything else. I want to go home. I want to rest.

  I want to see Finn.

  “You sound really run-down, Em,” my mom says softly. “Do me a favor?”

  I know what the favor is. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’ll head into the clinic tonight, just to make sure.”

  “If I book you a flight home on Christmas Eve, will you get on the plane?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “For my favorite daughter? I’ll do anything.”

  “I’m your only daughter.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll book a flight for your brother, too.”

  “He’s in Indonesia. What are you, made of money?”

  “For you guys, I am. Text me when you’re done at the clinic.”

  “I will. I love you, Mom.”

  By the time I get home—by the time everything’s changed, rocked to my core—the flight itinerary is in my inbox.

  I’m going home for Christmas.

  Chapter Seven

  Finn

  “Mrs. Holec, you don’t have to do that.”

  She’s pressing two one hundred-dollar bills into my hands on top of the check she’s already written to me for the storm door I fixed. It’s a tip that’s far too generous to accept. I don’t need it. I have savings upon savings, because it’s not as if I’ve lived a particularly wild existence here in the same town I grew up in.

  Mrs. Holec purses her lips. “The customer is always right.”

  “The customer is doing too much.”

  “The customer wants you to have a Merry Christmas.”

  “I am having a Merry Christmas.”

  “You came out here three days before Christmas Eve to fix an old person’s storm door. That’s worth rewarding.” Mrs. Holec folds her hands so I can’t give her the money back, and draws herself up to her full height of what has to be 4’8.’’ “If you don’t leave, it’ll only get worse. I’ll make you come in and have cookies.” She narrows her eyes. “And I have hundreds of cookies.”

  I believe her. I swallow a sigh that goes down to my core. “Thanks very much, Mrs. Holec. It means a lot.”

  “Go be with your family.” She gives a little wave and closes the door.

  That’s not going to happen. The last person I want to see this week—or any week—is my father. The only person I want to see is Emily, but that’s over now, too.

  I start my truck up and let it warm up, clearing the windshield of every bit of snow and ice before I hop back into the cab. It was a good run we had, back in the day. I’m trying not to be bitter about the fact that she treated me like a fucking one-night stand and just hold the memory close to my heart.

  Or…really, close to somewhere else. Because damn, she was even more beautiful than she was at eighteen. I didn’t think it was possible, but it is.

  I don’t bother with the Brew Pub or even the gas station for a six-pack. I don’t want a drink. Normally, I can keep my father separate from my daily life. His habits are not my habits. But today, thoughtless drinking seems too close for comfort. I’m not going to go there. Last time I let my guard down—on Thanksgiving—I ended up falling into a fucking fantasy involving Emily coming back to me, and it’s left a dull ache in the center of my chest ever since then.

  Fuck that.

  At home, I spend the evening with the West Wing turned on low in the background while I cook. Most of my clients press food on me with their tips. Carpenters can’t cook, I guess, which is why I’ve got a counterful of baked goods from the last week alone and three honest-to-God freezer casseroles.

  I don’t feel like eating that tonight.

  Instead, I cook a turkey breast.

  There’s no fucking point in ever cooking a full turkey. I don’t know anyone who can do it well, and that’s why somebody runs an editorial in the Lakewood Daily every single year about how we should collectively move on from turkey. That opinion is also bullshit. Turkey is good, if you know what you’re doing, and I do, so ninety minutes in the kitchen nets me a meal fit for a king.

  I should feel good about it. It’s delicious. The turkey is tender, and the rolls I made from scratch are buttery and good, and even the vegetables turned out perfect. I should be happy to sit down in my armchair in front of the TV, finally turn up the volume on my show, and eat in peaceful solitude. Silent night, all that.

  I don’t.

  I can hardly concentrate on tasting the food.

  All I feel is emptiness.

  Someone is knocking on the door.

  It’s not the wind. I can tell from the rhythm of the knocks that it’s not the branches of the oak tree next to my house tapping on the roof.

  I haul myself bodily out of sleep into the bright white light of the morning. It snowed. Fuck, did it snow. And someone is here. Who? Not my dad. He lost his license years ago, so unless he found someone to give him a ride, there’s no way he made his way across all of Lakewood in the snow. What time is it? A little past nine. He’s probably on his fourth drink of the morning by now.

  I throw on the flannel shirt I was wearing yesterday and jump into my jeans, detouring into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Maybe they’ll be gone by the time I get to the door. That would be ideal.

  When I step into the hallway, the knock comes again—with a voice. I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  “Coming,” I call, barefoot on the wood floors I installed by myself when I bought this place. Who the hell wants to see me at my house? I don’t have any jobs lined up until after the first of the year. If it’s a client with more food, I’m going to have to put a stop to this. Nobody died. Being single isn’t a death sentence.

  I run my hand through my hair and yank open the door. “Hey, what—”

  “Hey, Finn.” Emily is standing on my front porch, in a coat so thick I can hardly see her in it, wearing a red hat with a pom pom and a scarf that looks like she dug it out from her mother’s collection. “Did I wake you up?”

  Chapter Eight

  Emily

  He blinks at me, like he can’t believe I’m standing here. I can’t believe I’m standing here at ten in th
e morning, after my mother expressly commanded me to rest. Not only that, but I’ve clearly woken him up. One of his cheeks is still pink, like it was recently pressed into a pillow.

  “Not really,” he says, and a gust of wind wraps its frozen claws around me and hits him in the face. Finn takes a look around, like this is some kind of trick, and then back at me. I’m obviously looking my best in this get-up. “Do you want to come in?”

  “That would be great.”

  I’ve never been to Finn’s house before. Last time I saw him, he still lived at his dad’s place. But, since this is Lakewood, it only took a minimum of sleuthing to get his address from Kenzie’s friend Laura, who’s lived here every day of her life and still likes to reign over the local city council like she reigned over the senior class back in the day.

  I step in behind him and he shuts the door firmly, then flips the lock, tests the door with the flat of his hand.

  I’m instantly burning up.

  “It’s warm in here.” I snatch the hat off my head and the scarf, too, and then wriggle out of the coat before I’m sweating. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t have a fever—at least, I don’t think I do—but I’m so hot.

  “I’d hope so. If it was cold, I’d have to replace the furnace.”

  We look at each other, and my whole body goes even hotter. Jesus. What was I thinking, coming here? Oh, right—there are matters to be dealt with. Matters that had my heart racing at four o’clock this morning, even after the late travel last night that left me so exhausted I went to sleep right after I walked in the door. Looking at him, the speech I rehearsed on the way over in my mother’s SUV blows away on the winter wind.

  “I…” I have nothing. I was going to come right out with it, and now I’ve said nothing.

  Finn looks at me levelly. “Em, what are you doing here?”

  I swallow hard. “I wanted to see you.”

  He lets out a low breath. “I don’t want to be a prick, but last time didn’t end so well.”

  “Really?” My voice is too bright, and it cracks a little. “I thought it ended okay.”

  A flash of pain crosses his face, but he locks it down. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here. I’m glad to see you, but—” He shrugs. “I’m not really into one-night stands.”

  It cuts me to the core. All of it. His expression. The fact that he reduced me to a one-night stand. The fact that he’s right. Of course he’s right. What have I been to him in the years since graduation? Nothing but a one-night stand on Thanksgiving, a woman who snuck out without waking him up and didn’t even leave her number. It’s a choking, aching sadness, and I’m crying before I realize it’s happening.

  “Em—” Finn starts toward me, then turns abruptly on his heel and heads further into the house.

  I wipe furiously at my eyes. What the hell is this? I’m not a crier. “I’m fine,” I call after him, but the tears keep falling. “You’re right, Finn. This is not a big deal. I’m just—”

  “Here.”

  He’s back at my side, pressing tissues into my hands. Nice tissues, the kind with embedded lotion.

  First things first. I blow my nose and it’s loud, like a honking goose. “Oh, my God. This could not get any worse.”

  Finn laughs under his breath. “It’s almost Christmas. Does that help?”

  I finish with the tissues. “Where’s your sink?”

  “Right this way.”

  He leads me into the kitchen, which is spotless. Spotless. Finn, it turns out, is not the high school boy with a collection of energy-drink cans in the corner of his room and God knows what else in his closet. This place is clean. As if at any moment, he’s expecting guests. I wash my hands at the pristine sink and turn toward him, straightening my back.

  “Let’s just…forget that happened.”

  “I don’t think so.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s going on with you? Did you really come here to cry in my foyer?”

  “That was unexpected.”

  “This is all unexpected.”

  “I’m going to blow your mind, Finn. There’s a lot in life that’s unexpected.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to blurt it out, but now that the moment is here, I can’t do it. What he said about being a one-night stand rattled me, and now I need a different plan. Clearly, if that’s where we stand, there’s not going to be a sit-down conversation at the kitchen table.

  At least, not right now.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here,” I say lamely.

  Finn looks off to the side, a sheepish smile on his face. “It’s where I am every day that I don’t work.”

  “This close to a national holiday?” I tease. “Last one of those that came around, you were at the bar.”

  “I didn’t feel like it today.”

  Change of plans. I’m not telling him now. Not after that embarrassing outburst. I’ll tell him once we’ve had time to get used to each other again.

  “Well, good, because I have something else in mind.” I reach up and adjust my hat. “But you can’t wear that. Go and get ready.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You woke me up, barged into my house, and now you’re going to make plans for my day?”

  “Incorrect,” I say. I can’t help smiling a little. “You invited me in. Now go. I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

  Chapter Nine

  Finn

  “I’d love a short stack of the buttermilk pancakes, please.” Emily beams up at the waitress like she’s descended from on-high. “With the sausage links. Oh, and can you add an egg? Over easy. And—oh, never mind. That’ll be it.”

  The waitress scribbles down the order, but then her head pops up. “Can you give me just one minute? I want to check on whether we’ve got enough sausage left. The delivery doesn’t come in until tonight. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Emily says, with a magnanimous tilt of her head.

  “I’ll be right back to take your husband’s order.”

  Emily’s cheeks flush bright red, and she laughs out loud as the waitress walks away. “Oh, man. That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

  I don’t tell her about the bubbling joy that rose in my chest at the slip-up. “Watch your order. She’s not much for details.”

  Emily waggles her fingers in front of me. “Yeah. If you were my husband, I’d expect a better ring.” Something about this teasing is on the edge of being painful, and she must agree, because she goes back to people-watching. “They’re so cute.” A red-haired woman and what seems to be her real husband are sitting in the next room with two kids in tow. The dad plays peek-a-boo with the younger one, who can’t be a year old, and the mom holds the older daughter in her lap and points to things in the coloring book laid out in front of them. It’s so cute it’s almost disgusting. Through the flow of the chatter in the restaurant, I hear him say, “It’s good to be back, isn’t it, Val?”

  “We should visit in the summer,” she says, shaking her head. “Too cold.”

  When I turn back to Emily, she’s staring in the same direction but pretends not to be.

  “We have sausages!” sings the waitress, and it’s time to order my All-American Breakfast.

  “I love the Short Stack,” Emily says when we’re alone again. “Why didn’t we come here in high school?”

  “Too many prying eyes.”

  She laughs, but a darkness flits across her face, just for a heartbeat. “That’s true. It’s small. But so cute.” It’s been all of thirty seconds since the waitress walked away, but she cranes her neck, looking for her. “I’m starving. I hope the food’s almost ready.”

  Emily inhales her meal like a woman who hasn’t eaten in weeks, and then upgrades to the full stack. “God, those are good. How are yours?”

  I eat another forkful of hash browns. “Really good.”

  “When’s the last time you came here?”

  “I’ve never been here before. I mostly cook for myself.”

  “You coo
k?”

  I give her a look. “I’ve always cooked. You know that.”

  “I mean, you cooked pizza rolls. I didn’t know you’d become a chef.”

  “I had a lot of time on my hands after my apprenticeship.” It’s not a barb, but for a split second, I think it hurts her, so I keep going. “I do a lot of custom work, and people don’t necessarily want me in their houses in the evenings.”

  “Oh,” Emily says, looking relieved. “I can see that.” She adds more syrup to her pancakes and attacks the new ones like it’s her first order. “I’ve never gotten into cooking. The hours can get pretty late at the firm.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that.”

  “About the firm?”

  “About something you said at the bar the last time we saw each other.”

  Pink comes to her cheeks. “Oh, God. I was more than a little buzzed. I can’t remember the whole conversation.”

  “You said you should have dropped out of law school.”

  Emily laughs, but it doesn’t ring true. “That would have really fucked up my life plan, that’s for sure. You can’t become a lawyer if you drop out of law school.”

  “So you’re happy with it, then?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and it sounds like the kind of automatic response you give relatives at the holidays to get them off your back. “Really happy.”

  “Em.”

  “Yeah?” She looks up at me, eyes huge and green.

  “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying to you. What would I be lying about?”

  “Are you really happy at your job?”

  “Yes.” Her voice is firm. “I’m lucky to be there.” She sits back in her seat, surveying the ruins of her plate. “Are you happy at your job?”

  I think of Mrs. Holec’s relief last night. That’s one end of the spectrum—helping people out. But there’s a lot of satisfaction in tearing apart an entire kitchen or bathroom or living room and making the whole thing shine. I charge a fair amount for the work, and I do a damn good job, which is probably why I’ve been getting calls from farther and farther outside Lakewood in the last few years. “Yeah. Sometimes the last-minute stuff can be hard, but I don’t think I’d want to do anything else.” Anything else job-wise, at least. Life-wise? There’s a lot I’d like to do differently.