by Shyla Colt
“Shhh.” Caleb wipes away my tears. “I’ll take care of you.” He wraps his body around mine, covering us in warm blankets as he rubs my back.
“You okay?” he asks after a time.
“Yes. It was just so intense.”
“I’ll run you a bath, and we’ll soak. Then we’ll open presents.”
“But I-I don’t have many gifts for you.”
“You just gave me something priceless. Yourself.” He kisses me on the forehead.
“I’m falling in love with you.” I shake off the last shackles of fear and embrace the new life dawning on the horizon with the man who helped me heal my heart.
“I’m falling in love with you, too, Romy.” He presses his forehead against mine, and I breathe him in as we bask in the moment. It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had, and I know this is only the beginning.
Epilogue
Two years later
Caleb
“Shh. Neva has your super hearing,” Romy whispers, making me smile as we carefully set the fake food up on the kitchen playset we stayed up all night building.
“All this just to give the jolly man credit,” I mumble.
“It’s the magic of Christmas, babe. Try not to be so grumpy.”
“This dad wants to finish up, so he can get his Christmas present early.”
She bites her bottom lip, and I groan. Three years and one child later, the fire burns between us just as bright. I nip her bottom lip. She hums. Leaning into me, she slips her tongue inside of my mouth. I bury my fingers in her hair and lose myself in her sweet flavor. Christmas gets a little better every year we spend together. Separating for air, I rest my forehead against hers. I massage the back of her neck as I breathe her in.
“What else do we have to do again?” My voice wavers, and she giggles.
“Put a bow on it.”
Releasing her, I rush over to the box full of wrapping accessories. I choose the white bow crafted expertly by my mom, who prefers to be called Mimi these days. Sticking it on the front of the turquoise, fifties-style creation, I try to see it from Neva’s point of view. It’d be just like ours with its fridge, microwave, and oven, complete with realistic burner and sink sounds. We purchased shiny little pots and pans and food. Neva had the entire family wrapped around her chubby little fingers. With brown eyes the same shape and color as her mother’s, and a mixture of both our facial features, she’s a living, breathing miracle.
Standing, I admire our work. “I declare Christmas complete.”
She lifts her arms up in victory and turns to me. “I want to give you that present now. Sit.”
“Right here?” I ask, resting on the carpet.
She nods and sinks down into my lap pressing her back to my front. “Someone’s eager, she said clearly feeling the bulge in my jogging pants. She circles her hips slowly.”
Chills run down my spine.
“Your unicorn onesie leaves nothing to the imagination, little one.”
“I know, that’s why I bought it.” She winks. Leaning forward, she plucks a small box from the pile and holds it up to me. “Here.” She peers up at me expectantly. Arms wrapped around her, I slowly peel back the plaid wrapping paper. She’s all but vibrating with excitement. I lift the lid off the box, and my throat clogs. A pink and white stick with two lines rests in tissue paper.
“We’re going to have another baby?” I place my hand over her belly.
“Yes.” She places her small hand over mine. “I know we didn’t plan it.”
“Hey. I’m over the moon.” I kiss her softly. “The more the merrier in this house.” I caress the side of her face with my thumb. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Let’s go celebrate properly.” I lift her into my arms and stand, ready to worship the body busy at work, making our second child. I pause in the doorway of our bedroom.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Miller.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller.”
The End
Baby It’s Cold Outside
Dedication
To everyone who’s felt like they didn’t fit in.
Chapter One
Delta
I hate Santa Claus. Four words I never thought I’d feel to the depths of my soul. But there’s something about this artistic rendering that always rubbed me the wrong way. The red-cheeked menace with a long white beard and narrowed blue eyes, which appear to watch you no matter what direction you drive on the street, sways back and forth in the windy, snow-speckled weather. My stomach clenches as the statue breaks free from its mooring and crashes down onto the street below.
Tires squeal as smoke rises up from the asphalt. Cars swerve and spin out as the tires catch the patches of ice and slush the salt trucks have yet to get to. A chorus of horns erupt. A split second later, the bone-jarring sound of metal against metal rocks through my body as the accident happens and traffic comes to a halt.
Heart launching from my chest to my throat, I press my face against the glass of the Uber. I hope everyone is okay. The snow continues to come down with no signs of stopping, and I slump down in my seat. Suddenly, the check-in window for my flight out tonight is shrinking like an ice cube left out in the Nevada sun. There’s no time for me to miss this plane. I know everything leaving tonight is full. I held off flying in until Christmas Eve to work up the nerve to return home. Saginaw, Michigan has been my residence for nearly two years, but Philadelphia will always be my home. Born and raised in the historical City of Brotherly Love, I could never get it out of my blood.
The people I’ve claimed as my family still live there. After a little space and therapy, I’m ready to return. It’s insane how quickly you can pack up your life and relocate. As a social worker, jobs are plentiful. The pay won’t ever make me rich, but it fulfills a part of my damaged soul. It’s incredible how much you can care about people you’ve never met once you walk in their shoes. Helping others heals the part of me that counseling doesn’t always reach.
Glancing down at my watch, I swear. We’re going to be cutting it close. The Uber driver, Carl, peers at me from his black-framed, square spectacles. A fringe of reddish-brown hair peeks out from his heather gray beanie.
“What time is your flight again?”
“Three-thirty.”
He lets out a low whistle. “We’re going to be cutting it close by the time this is cleared up.”
“Merry Christmas to me,” I mumble, slumping down in the back seat. If this is how the trip is starting, I’m afraid to think about what might lie ahead. I sure as hell hope this isn’t an omen. The shriek of sirens is accompanied by the flash of red and blue lights as police pull up and begin to direct traffic. The unmistakable sound of a fire red engine coming up beside us a few minutes later ignites the wicked headache centered at the top of my skull. Shrugging out of my black backpack, I dig into the second pocket to find my emergency stash of ibuprofen. I pop two of the white miracle workers, swallow them dry, and rest my head against the cool window.
Forcing myself not to look at my watch as we inch forward at a snail’s pace, I focus on the decorations that litter the car. Gingerbread gel clings dance on the windows. Red tinsel is wrapped around the handles and in the back of the window. The outside of the car itself looked like a giant ugly sweater—a crocheted, green Christmas tree, multi-colored gifts, and ornaments stand out against the car’s dark red.
Carl pays attention to details. He’ll get a higher review for the mini bottles of waters and mints in the slots of the net he’s hung up on the backs of both seats. As my headache wanes, I pop in my earbuds and cue up “Eagle When She Flies”. From the first time I salvaged one of her old tapes in a Walkman I found in a thrift store for three dollars, Dolly Parton has gotten me through the worst times in my life. A little tinkering and new double A batteries got the outdated tech running again. The cassette allowed me to block out everything else going on in that particular foster home after the sunset.
It takes
three officers to get Santa’s leg from boot to thigh, and three more to heft his head. The dismembered enforcer of jolliness won’t be put together again. It’s the only good thing to come out of this freak show. I snap a few pictures with my phone and post them to Insta with the phrase “Massacre on 34th Street.” Snickering at my friend’s colorful responses, I feel my spirits lift. Letting go of the things I can’t control will always be a challenge, but I’m heaps better than I used to be.
It’s 2:45 when we pull up, and I’m a hundred dollars lighter. Tightening the shoulder straps on my book bag, I grab my carry-on and jump out of the car.
“Thanks, Carl.” I wave at him before plunging into the crowd. Thanking the airline gods for early check-in, I power walk past the people lined up outside of kiosks. The line inside stretches out like a cash register on Black Friday. Moving from a walk to a jog, I skid to a stop in front of security. The hands on my Sailor Moon watch seem to move faster than usual as the line moves slow. The piles of gifts have slowed the conveyor belt to a crawl.
Shifting my weight from one side to the other, I try not to breathe down the man’s neck standing in front of me. I kick off the knee-high boots and plop them in the gray basket along with my book bag and the regulation-size toothpaste, mouthwash, and contact solution. The silver carry-on is plunked directly onto the conveyor belt. We’re herded through the machines, and I hold my arms out, musing on how bizarre it is that they’re looking at my insides.
Freed from security, I snatch my boots out of the bin and tug them on. Hopping on one foot, I get the last one on, sling one arm through the backpack strap, and grab the handle of carry-on Taking off to the left, I head for gate B12. I dodge the kids stopped in the middle of the walkway and spin like a football player around the cluster of workers talking. The A gates go by in a blur. I skip the moving walkway to run to B and slow as I see B6.
Slightly out of breath, I count down. I find twelve on my left and feel my body unclench at the sight of the full area and the flashing ‘delayed’ on the screen above the ticket woman behind the counter.
“We’re delayed?” I ask the blonde with the pixie cut, pink lips, and make-up straight from a YouTube video.
“Yes, ma’am. Right now, it looks like it’s a thirty-minute delay.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Scanning the area, I find a few seats near the end of the aisle across the room, vacant save for an extra-large man with jet black hair. He has to be at least six-foot-four or more with long arms and legs that took up enough space to make him intimidating by default. With noise-canceling headphones on, he mouthed the words to whatever he was listening to and typed on a laptop that looked ridiculously small in his lap. Shuffling over, I plopped beside him and smiled. He blinked at me and looked around as if to make sure I was directing my attention on him.
“Hi.”
He nods and returns to typing.
Rude. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, letting my heart rate come back down.
“Ladies and gentleman, Flight 1321 will be delayed forty-five minutes due to inclement weather.”
Groaning, I shrug off my backpack, ready to get comfortable. The air ripples beside me as the dark-haired man removes his headphones and frowns. I glance over at him and note his eyes are equally dark—the kind of expresso color you rarely see.
“Forty-five minutes?” He holds up a watch that does way more than tell time. “They’re not right.”
“How would you know? Do you have an inside tip?”
Frowning, his gaze meets mine. “No. I know planes. Seventy percent of canceled flights are due to weather. At negative twenty degrees Fahrenheit, the fuel freezes on the ground.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say honestly.
“The cold right now coupled with the snow is going to lead to a longer delay. I enjoy flying and planes. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sure you do,” I whisper, hearing his defensive tone.
He blinks, looking surprised that I’ve agreed. Despite his rudeness earlier, there’s something about him that speaks to me. I observe him out of the corner of my eyes. The Star Trek socks that peek out from under his expensive slacks coupled with the hiking boots give him just a bit of quirk to break him from the stuffy businessman I pegged him for earlier. His lips are so red I could swear he’d been drinking Kool-Aid, and he has lashes most women pay for. Why do men get the best features?
The snowflakes are more oversized and coming down faster. Maybe there was more truth to the man’s predictions than I thought.
Pulling out my phone, I call Rose.
“Shouldn’t you be boarding?”
“Hey, Rosie. I’m fine. How are you?”
“Hi. Now, why aren’t you boarding?”
“We’re delayed.”
She groans. “How long?”
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Why did you say it like that?” My detail-oriented, left-brain led friend doesn’t miss much.
“Because I’m watching the snow come down, and it’s worse than it was when they first delayed us by thirty-minutes.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve.”
“You need to worry about keeping my godson in there.”
She laughs. “You have two more months before he makes his appearance. Plus, it’s not up to me. He lets me know daily he’s in charge between his cravings and holding my bladder hostage.”
I snicker. “Oh, his cravings.”
“I’m eating onions, Del. Onions.”
“Oh, the horror,” I whisper.
“Yes. Ugh.” She sighs. “I just want you here.”
“I know. Me too. At least once I get there I won’t be leaving. Until I get my own place at least.” I’m a filthy liar. Part of me is relieved at the extra time I’ve been given. I let life’s wounds fester, and they’d turned to poison. The kind of toxins that transformed me into a shrewish, miserable version of who I once was. Leaving had been the only solution to purge and rebuild. Figuring out who I was outside of co-dependent relationships was a painful, necessary journey.
Growing up in the foster system, family had become what I made it. Finding Rosie, Flynn, and Duncan had been a small miracle. It wasn’t a shock when we paired off as we aged and got a place together. I hung onto Flynn like a baby koala. I trusted him. Honest to a fault, he never pretended to be something he wasn’t or lied to make me happy. I was the one who ignored how different our end pictures began to look as we aged.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I’d better be since I quit my job and sold all my things.”
“Stop,” Rosie chides me.
“To be a godmother? Hell yeah.”
“Delta.”
The warning in her voice stops me short. “You got that mom tone down pat,” I tell her.
“With you, I had to learn it young. I’m worried. You were scary bad. Barely eating or sleeping.”
“And I’ve worked through a lot of what caused my issues. I’ve identified my trigger thanks to the miracle of therapy. Coming back home is the final step on my road to recovery. I’ve learned the tools to deal with things.”
“I know. I know. It’s not the same as being around Flynn twenty-four-seven again.”
“I’ll be fine. I always am. You know me.” As the oldest in the foster home crew, I felt responsible for far more than I should. Distance and counseling helped untangle unhealthy ideals and bad habits.
“I want everything to go well. I’ve missed you and I can’t see doing the parenting thing without you.”
“And you won’t have to. We promised if we ever decided to go that route, we’d give our kids the support system we didn’t have. What happened with Flynn and me was unfortunate, but he didn’t do anything out of malice. I was the one who held on longer than I should’ve. I held too much in and tried to change core things about myself. That was on me. Flynn could never see it. He’s not built that way. Blaming him would be pointless.”
/>
“He missed you, too.”
“I know. I didn’t shut Flynn out completely. And now we can rebuild a new, healthy relationship.”
She sniffles. “That’s so beautiful.”
“Okay, this is your hormones talking. Now take a deep breath and relax. I’ll keep you posted on my travel information. I’m going to get off here and hunt up some food because I’m starving.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Rosie Posie.”
SAM
I, Samuel Solaris, am an idiot. I think the woman beside me tried to be kind. She is beautiful with her perfectly shaped pink lips, heart-shaped face, and large, kind, chocolate-brown-colored eyes. I didn’t always notice others, but she was like a beacon. Which was a big deal. My stomach flipped. I completely missed the cues at first. Now the time frame for responding has closed. Damn my neuro-diverse brain. Facial expressions and tones were difficult for me to read. I’d put a lot of hard work into changing that. Still, it didn’t always work out the way I wanted it to.
Flying is a double-edged sword. I loved and hated it. Loved it because planes and flying were a passion, both in theory and practice. My dad’s a pilot, and aviation is the one common interest we share. I loathe commercial flights, the people, the crowds, the noise, and the light. It combines and can be overwhelming.
Shifting my weight, I place my laptop on the empty seat next to me and allow my left leg more room to bounce. The lights are bright in the gate area, and people are becoming restless and milling around. What was once a reasonably unoccupied and quiet space is becoming crowded.
The speaker crackles to life, and I flinch. “Flight 1321 has now been delayed by three hours.”
A roar of protest goes up. Tolerance level breached, I stand. I’m jerked back by my headphones. Fumbling to remove them, I step away from my things—taking the time to gather them holds little to no appeal. The woman next to me watches me cautiously. I’ve scared her like I do a lot of people. Someone my size is always noticed, and any deviation from normal behavior makes them uneasy. I know this because it’s been explained to me over and over again growing up. It’s what led me to mask to belong.
