Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
She doesn’t know I’ve been plotting ways to make the distance more manageable or that my feelings for her have grown so intense, so quickly. Why in the world would she limit her romantic options for a man who’s only sticking around for a few weeks?
She wouldn’t.
She shouldn’t. I’m a reasonable man. I understand that I have no right to consider a woman my “territory” simply because we’ve kissed and begun to establish a connection.
But why did she lie?
She didn’t have to lie…
That’s what guts me, what makes the sick feeling spread from my stomach to my chest, to my throat as the man pulls back from the hug to smile down at her.
She grins back, dimples popping, and I suddenly can’t.
I can’t, not for another second.
“Where are you going?” Elliot whispers as I back away through the crunchy snow.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I mutter, my voice is hollow. “I’m not feeling well again, but Bran should be here soon. He can drive you back.”
“Okay.” Elliot’s brow furrows with concern. “Text when you get home, so we know you’re all right.”
I nod, though I already know I’m not going to be “all right” for quite some time.
I turn and walk away, my movements stiff, brittle. Behind me, the carolers finish “Silent Night” and launch into an upbeat rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” their cheerful voices soaring.
The sound makes my ribs clench even tighter.
I aim myself down the street, moving fast, heading back to the dark field where we parked, then to my grandfather’s home, where I can lock myself away and do some serious self-reflection.
I’ve been a fool.
That much is obvious, but it’s important to pinpoint why.
How.
To realize exactly where I lost my way, so that I can correct course in the future.
Thirty minutes later, I’m alone in the mansion I longed to return to so desperately as a boy. Especially that first winter in the city with my father. At eleven, how I ached to be in Vermont, playing with my siblings, surrounded by softness and warmth, and looking forward to the annual trip up to the widow’s walk. The Christmases of my tween years—working beside my father or left alone in our penthouse while he hit the town with the woman of the moment—were miserable to say the least.
But by fourteen, I’d begun to realize I was actually the lucky one.
Better to learn the truth early. Better to learn that there is no reason for hope and no one is coming to save you when you’re young, so that you can be properly prepared for the cruel indifference of the world.
So that you can learn to shield yourself before it eats you, or the people you’ve promised to protect, alive.
The study is dark, chilled, but I don’t flick on the lights or turn up the heat. I simply pour three fingers of whiskey from the decanter and ease into the leather chair by the window, watching the lights flicker in the village below.
The first sip burns, but it’s a good burn.
A clarifying burn.
Holly truly isn’t to blame. She probably only lied to avoid a confrontation with an angry man. That’s what people really mean when they say “grumpy,” isn’t it? It’s just a softer way of saying that a man is angry, unpredictable, maybe even dangerous under the right circumstances.
Men are often dangerous to women. Men hurt women in serious, devastating, and often permanent ways every single day. I can’t blame Holly for being cautious.
No, the only person I blame is myself.
For dropping my guard so ridiculously fast. For mooning around the mansion like a teenager with a crush in front of my siblings. For dancing the night away with Holly in the village pub, proving to everyone just how desperate I secretly was to be cared for.
To be loved…
My throat locks down, threatening to trap my last sip halfway down.
I force myself to relax and pour myself another drink, hoping it will take the edge off the shame threatening to reduce my internal organs to pulp.
In another hour, maybe slightly more, Bran’s headlights sweep across the pines as he turns up the driveway. I should go greet my siblings. Or hurry up to my room and shut the door to make my “sick again” lie more believable.
Instead, I stay in the dark study, alone with my whiskey and my walls.
I rebuild them brick by painful brick, until they’re even higher than they were before. Thicker. Reinforced with regret and mortared with shame.
This time, they’ll hold. This experience has been invaluable, really. It’s proven that I was right all along. Hope is for fools and those under the protection of someone willing to do whatever they have to do to keep their family safe.
Hope is not for men like me.
Neither is Christmas.
There is no “magical season” for those who see the world as it truly is. Once you’ve awakened to the chilling reality that even a wealthy man is only as safe as his ability to outplay the even wealthier, more evil men at the top, you can’t go back to dreaming of sugarplums and happily ever after.