It takes me half a moment to remember the awful poodle. He was old when we were dating, crotchety even back then, with buggy eyes and this weird bucktooth. He was still alive? I figured he kicked the bucket ages ago.
“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing how much she loved the awful thing.
“No, you’re not. You hated him.”
I laugh because she’s right. “Believe me, the feeling was mutual.”
“And I got fired.”
My laugh dies in my throat. Georgia and fired are two words that don’t go together. I can’t even wrap my head around it.
“And my landlord is kicking me out because his daughter needs somewhere to stay while her house is being built.” She sighs. “And then there’s my car.”
“Georgia,” I say, my tone sharp, though don’t ask me why. I’m not upset with her. Maybe I’m irritated with myself because I haven’t been there—not that that’s any fault of my own. “What are you going to do?”
She gives me a humorless smile. “I can see the wheels in your head already turning.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
“We’re not a ‘we,’ Isaac. I’ll figure it out.”
The words are a slap in the face—or maybe they’re a cattle prod, Georgia’s way of keeping me at arm’s length.
“Are you happy?” she asks before I can think of a response, her tone dark. “Do you feel better now that you see just how well I’ve been doing since I left?”
I stare at her, my mind mulling over everything she just said. After several long seconds, I answer lightly, “So…what you’re saying is you’re not having guy trouble?”
Growling out something that could almost be considered a laugh, she rubs her gloved hands over her face. “There is no guy, Isaac. Now, will you please take me home?”
Without a word, wisely hiding my smile, I pull out of the dark parking lot and onto the snowy road.
5
Should I go downstairs or stay in my room all day? Mentally, I make a list of pros and cons, putting a point in either box every time I yank a picture from the mirror.
Pro: If I stay up here, I won’t have to face Isaac.
Last night was a train wreck. Why couldn’t I just play it cool? You know, “Hey, Isaac. Fancy meeting you here.” Smile, smile, laugh, laugh, laugh.
But no. I couldn’t hide my irritation, which was just a thin veil for my anxiety. Isaac read me like an open book.
In my defense, it was jarring to see him after all this time. Feelings are intense when you’re a teen, and a lot of them came rushing back the moment our eyes met in the airport—not that I’m still harboring anything for him now. Of course I’m not. How could I be after all that time? They were merely memories, shadows from long ago. Intense, but fleeting. And I might have lashed out in hopes of hiding them.
Anyway, back to the list.
Con: The coffee is downstairs.
Pro: If I stay up here, I won’t have to face Isaac.
Con: My mother will make a scene if I don’t show up for breakfast.
Pro: If I stay up here, I won’t have to face Isaac.
Con: I’m pretty sure I smell French toast, which is my all-time favorite breakfast.
Pro: If I stay up here, I won’t have to face Isaac.
Obviously, the pros are winning.
“Gigi, sweetheart,” Mom calls with a knock at my door. “Are you up? Breakfast is almost ready.”
I’m about to throw the stack of photos away, but at the last minute, I stash them in the top drawer of my old desk. “I’m not feeling too hot, Mom. I think I’m going to rest for a bit.”
She opens the door and frowns. Dayton’s fever was, indeed, due to an ear infection, but I can see her questioning it—worrying that Christmas is going to be ruined by a rogue virus. “What’s wrong?”
I give her a listless shrug. “Headache. My stomach is a bit upset.”
Nodding sagely, she takes me by the shoulder and herds me toward the door. “Sounds like your blood sugar is low. Let’s get you some eggs.”
“What? No—”
“You have to see it, Georgia. Your father put away his laptop and his phone. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” I point out with a sigh, giving in.
“Close enough.”
I stop at the base of the stairs when I see Isaac in my mother’s kitchen. He’s standing over a griddle at the island. He glances up when he notices me, and our eyes meet for half a second before he looks back at the French toast. “Morning, Georgia,” he says with an easy smile, acting as though this isn’t the weirdest situation ever.
And though I don’t want to, I’m helpless but to stand here and stare at the man. My first impulse is to find a fault, something to fixate on, but I can’t. It’s not because Isaac is the most handsome man alive—he’s not really. Yes, he’s good-looking, but his nose is slightly crooked from when he broke it in high school. His hair is cut too short to be stylish, and his smile is too warm—too open and friendly.
The problem is, I like all those things about him. And the new things—I like those too. The things that separate the man from the boy.
His broad shoulders stretch out the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt, and blond stubble shadows his jaw. His bicep flexes as he whisks eggs in a mixing bowl. My eyes move to his strong hands, which are now peppered with several small scars—the product of using them for a living.
Who even notices such a thing?
“There’s coffee,” Mom says to me as she shoos Calliope away from the Christmas tree. “And I can make more if we need it.”
I blink my thoughts away and head toward the carafe, which is unfortunately right next to the griddle.
“Sleep well?” Isaac asks as I pour myself a cup.
Better than I expected, to be honest. I thought I’d be up all night, tossing and turning with the knowledge that he was just on the other side of the bathroom.
“Fine,” I answer, deciding I will be nothing but civil today. I’ve resigned myself to my fate—he’s not going anywhere. I’m just going to pretend last night didn’t happen. “And you?”
I turn from him, looking in the fridge for the cream.
Isaac clears his throat. When I turn, I find him holding the carton. Instead of handing it to me, he turns to my cup. “How much?”
“Just a splash.”
He pours a little in and then raises his brows, somehow sensing that’s not enough. I didn’t even drink coffee in high school, so don’t ask me how he knows.
With a sigh, I say, “A little more.”
He smiles to himself and then pulls a spoon from the drawer—somehow remembering exactly where they are, stirs in the cream, and then offers me the cup.
As I take it, our fingers brush.
Butterflies do not flutter in my stomach, neither does my breath catch. My heart doesn’t skip a beat just because his warm skin touches mine, and I certainly do not take a quick jaunt down memory lane and remember back to a time, long ago, when I could have kissed him.
Or at least I won’t admit it.
Angry with myself, I turn from him. “How did you get roped into making breakfast?”
“I volunteered.”
“CALLIOPE!” my mother hollers, and the words are followed by a crash.
Poindexter barks once, excited, and bounds into the living room. The Christmas tree lies on its side, and cinnamon bundles and dried apple ornaments litter the rug.
Mom attempts to drag the puppy away before he dives in for a snack, and Dad hurries to right the tree. Calliope leaps from the center of the mess, letting out a horrified yowl that would make you think she was nothing but an innocent victim in the ordeal.
Water from the base pools on the floor, soaking the rug, and half the tree’s needles appear to have fallen from the branches.
Isaac abandons his French toast, and I leave my coffee. Together, we hurry in to assist.
“Out!” Mom says to the dog, ushering
him through the sliding glass door.
Poindexter stares at the ornaments mournfully from the other side, his head drooping and his tail falling between his legs.
“That dog,” she mutters, turning to face the mess. “I really need to work with him.”
As she’s said for the last three months.
Dad frowns at the tree, shaking his head. It’s a sorry sight—a Charlie Brown tree if I’ve ever seen one. The sparkly garland hangs in long, uneven loops, and the very top branch has snapped. One of the large bottom boughs broke too, and it sags like a broken arm on the ground.
The paper is ripped on several of the gifts. A dollhouse peeks out from red and green wrapping, and the bread maker Mom and Dad bought for Clara is torn up too.
Mom's shoulders sag, making her look as sad as the dog. “What a mess.”
“I’ll rewrap the presents,” Dad offers, tugging the largest box from under the tree. “The boxes look all right.”
“The tree though,” she says. “It’s….”
As we stare at it, another candy cane falls, smacks into a gift, and breaks in two.
For several seconds, we’re perfectly silent. Calliope saunters back in the room, sits right in front of the tree, and begins grooming her paw.
“I’ll get another one today,” Isaac offers, Mr. Helpful himself.
I’m about to tell him he doesn’t need to do that when Mom turns to him, hope lighting her face like the star that used to top the tree. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not,” he assures her with one of his sunny smiles—specifically, the one that tricked her into loving him when he and I were dating.
I want to tell him to knock it off—stop buttering up my parents—but it would just make me look like a troll. So I resist the urge to roll my eyes and make a vow to myself that I will get through this holiday weekend like a rational, mature adult.
“Georgia can go with you,” Mom offers.
“Excuse me?” I whip toward her.
She widens her eyes ever so slightly—a “be nice to our guest and don’t make a scene” look.
“You can take my truck,” Dad adds.
Isaac glances at me, wary.
But my face is now blank, serene.
“Is that all right with you, Georgia?” Isaac asks.
No, it’s not all right! Nothing about this is all right. This is surreal—a nightmare. What grown woman is forced to spend Christmas with her high school boyfriend? Doesn’t anyone see how unnatural this is?
“Sure,” I say.
“Let’s have some breakfast first,” Mom says, placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on Isaac’s as she guides us back to the kitchen. “It smells amazing, Isaac.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Because neither can see me, I give in to one teeny, tiny eye roll. Then I retrieve my coffee, grasping the handle like it’s the only thing that’s going to get me through the morning, and take a long, lukewarm gulp.
“Brian, do you still have that extra tree permit?” Mom asks as we sit down to eat.
I look up sharply. “Tree permit?”
“I picked up one for Clara when I bought ours,” Dad explains to me, “but I didn’t realize Jeremiah had already gotten theirs.”
“We’re not cutting a tree,” I say, aghast at the thought of taking off into the woods with Isaac. “I’m sure one from the store will be just fine.”
Mom’s face falls. “I doubt they’ll have anything left.”
Determined, I stab my fork into a piece of French toast and pull it to my plate. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something.”
6
Christmas carols play over the speakers in an attempt to make the frazzled last-minute shoppers feel merry enough to be generous with their money.
Georgia and I stand in the outdoor garden center of the local home improvement store, staring at the slim pickings. In the summer, the aisles overflow with flowers and shrubs, but right now, they’re empty save a dozen scraggly, browning trees. A handwritten clearance sign hangs over them—half off.
They’re wrapped in netting and leaning against each other haphazardly. One gave up the fight, and it lies on its side, never to stand again.
It’s a depressing sight.
“Maybe we should look at the artificial trees,” Georgia finally says, though we both know if she brings a fake one home, her mother will disown her.
I shove my hands in my pockets and nod.
Georgia is trying hard to keep things friendly between us—and when I say friendly, I mean the type of interaction that’s reserved for business associates you don’t care for but have to get along with. I’ve let her get away with it so far, but it’s starting to get on my nerves.
I end up following her inside the store. The selection of artificial trees isn’t much better than the real ones.
“Seriously?” Georgia demands, more to herself than to me. She’s Goldilocks, looking through the boxes, trying to find something taller than four feet and less than ten. All the “just right” trees were bought weeks ago, and all that are left are either tiny or four hundred dollars.
“There’s still time to cut one,” I offer, eagerly awaiting her response.
She doesn’t disappoint.
Georgia flashes me a dark look and continues her quest. Twenty minutes later, we leave the store empty-handed.
“It’s not like this is the only place in town that sells trees,” she says as we make our way to her dad’s truck. “We’ll just try somewhere else.”
The look on her face tells me we’re going to be at this for a while.
As the weatherman promised, last night’s storm let up a few hours ago. The sun came out, melting the rest of the snow off the roads, but plenty of it blankets trees, shrubs, and grass, offering the hope of a white Christmas.
We drive around for hours, fighting the Christmas crowds, but with no luck.
“Fine,” Georgia says as we leave our fifth store. “Let’s go cut a dumb tree.”
“Ah, there’s the Christmas spirit.” I grin.
She climbs into the truck. “We’ll have to go back to the house for the permit.”
“It’s in the glove box.”
She flashes me such a disgruntled look, I have no choice but to cower or laugh. I choose the latter and hold up my hands in mock surrender.
“Don’t blame me,” I say. “That was all your dad.”
“Honestly,” she mutters, yanking her seatbelt into place. “Let’s get it over with.”
7
I wore the wrong boots for traipsing about in the snowy forest. My toes are frozen, and the bottoms of my jeans are wet.
Isaac and I walk around for hours, looking for a semi-decent tree. If we were to bring home any of the ones we’ve passed, my mother would send us right back out. We don’t talk except to say things like, “What about this one?” and “No, it’s bare on that side.”
“So,” Isaac says when he can take the silence no longer. “You’re an interior designer?”
I look at him, my lips pressed firmly in a thin line. It was only a matter of time before he tried making small talk again. I guess it was just wishful thinking on my part that we might avoid it.
“What do you think of this one?” I say instead of answering, motioning to a tree that’s mostly okay. It’s a little on the short side, a bit squat too, but with a cat like Calliope, it might not be bad to have a tree that’s wider than it is tall—harder to knock over.
Isaac walks around it, studying it with the same look a man might wear while buying a car. After a few moments, he nods. “It’s not terrible.”
And “not terrible” is about as good as it’s going to get.
“Great.” I wave my hand toward the tree. “Cut it down.”
Isaac looks at me, my least favorite smirk ghosting across his face. “With what?”
I stare at him, and I swear my eye begins twitching. “Are you serious? You didn’t bring anything?”
Gi
ving in to his smile, he pulls up the hem of his hoody, revealing my dad’s small hand ax strapped in a pouch on his hip. It’s plenty big enough for a job this size. “Will this do?”
“Just cut the tree,” I say tonelessly.
He leans over, lying on his side to get to the trunk. One shoulder is wedged against the snowy ground, and the other is pressed into the pine branches. “You’re just as fun as ever, Gigi.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say immediately. The nickname is reserved for my family, and only if they use it sparingly. He doesn’t have a right to it anymore.
Chuckling as if that particularly amuses him, he chops at the tree until it slowly falls to the ground, landing with a soft thump in the snow. He then stands, dusting himself clean. “Are you carrying it, or am I?”
“And you’re just as annoying as ever,” I say, stealing his line.
His grin grows. “There was a time you loved me.”
“And then I grew up.” I wince, realizing that was harsh. Letting out a long sigh, I change my tactic. “Listen, I don’t want to do this all weekend…”
I fall silent when I catch the look he’s giving me. He narrows his eyes so they’re creased at the corners, and—dang it all—he’s smirking again. He’s a man with a hundred smiles, but this is the one that drives me insane—and not usually in a good way.
Slowly, he makes his way to me, trudging through the snow that’s thankfully only about six inches deep. We’re at a lower elevation than the surrounding mountains, and it’s still early enough in the season that not too much has accumulated.
“Whatever you’re thinking—don’t,” I warn, taking a step back.
His eyes spark with amusement. “Just what am I thinking, Gigi?”
Now he’s saying it just to tick me off.
“Get the tree, and let’s go.” My back is to a section of thick, scratchy brush. There’s a boulder to my left and a five-foot, rocky drop-off to my right. I might scramble down it if I were in appropriate footwear, but these boots, with their faux-fur-trimmed leg and barely-there tread, wouldn’t get me down. Correction: I’d get down all right…but I’d end up on my tail.
10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex: A 27 Ways Novella (27 Ways Series Book 3) Page 4
