A Little Christmas Romance by H.M. Ward

Author:H.M. Ward [Ward, H.M.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Laree Bailey Press
Published: 2013-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

There’s a fire crackling in front of us. Chris is sitting on the couch next to me while I cradle a cup of cocoa and sip it slowly. I stare at the dancing flames, wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Not leaving now means that I’m staying. The snow is piling up outside and the roads are getting worse. I glance at the window again with worry twisting my gut into knots.

Chris notices and stands up after setting his cup down on the coffee table. He walks over to the tree and says, “You want to see something funny?” I nod. He twists the base so the trunk turns and the tree spins slowly. The part that faced the wall is bare. “I didn’t get a chance to finish so I shoved the undecorated side into the wall.”

I laugh lightly. “Slacker.”

“Always. But now we have something to do until Santa comes.” He winks at me and reaches for a box that’s on the floor at the base of the tree. He sets it down on the table and opens the lid. “Come help me finish it. There are a few more ornaments in here and a shitload of tinsel.”

He’s so tactless sometimes, and I wonder if it’s on purpose. Chris is always suave, constructing these wonderful sounding sentences and then throws in some jarring slang or a nasty word just to mix it up. I love it. Every time he does something like that, it’s difficult not to smile. The corners of my lips tug up on their own and my bad mood evaporates.

I place my mug down and walk over, and pick up a glass ornament. It’s a green ball with ivy etched into the sides. I walk toward the tree and hang it on a branch. Something deep inside twists and I don’t feel the agony until the smile falls off my face. I swallow the tears, the loss, and every never-again scenario that pops into my head—basically, all the grief from losing my mom—and take another ornament.

I do it again and take a slow steady breath. Chris moves closer to me and reaches over my head, putting a plastic Santa head up high. Before he steps back, he lingers in the space and I can feel him there, wondering if he should put his hands on me and offer some comfort. He knows what’s going through my head, he always has. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he saved this to make me do it with him.

The first time is the hardest. For the past few years, I let this holiday come and go. There were no decorations, no lights or tinsel. Decorating a tree next year won’t be so bittersweet and the following year, it might even be nice again. But this year, right now, it’s ripping out my insides.

Chris lingers and slips another ornament into my hands. He takes my fingers and helps me reach forward and loop it over a branch.

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