Mistletoe and Mr. Right (12 page)

“Grady said your parents love her. Like, they-pretty-much-named-your-kids love her.” I bite my lip harder and wish there was a polite way to put some space between us. I feel disgusting. Also, I might have kissed another man a few hours ago.

The slick, oily feeling in my intestines climbs up toward my throat.

He grimaces at the mention of Grady but his silence is all the answer I need. Between the lingering effects of last night and the discomfort swirling off him, almost gagging me it's so thick, I'm about to run for the toilet.

“They love her. I loved her, too. Katie and I . . .” He pauses, as though trying to decide what to say. Whether to be honest, maybe, or to sugarcoat it. But Brennan doesn't own a single pair of kid gloves. “It wasn't like a silly high school romance. It was real and everyone knew it.”

“So, what happened?”

“I left for the States. She decided we should move on.” He swivels his head so he can look into my eyes, gives me a sweet smile. “I met you.”

“Yeah, but what
happened
?” I wonder if he knows, if Katie even told him. An image of Grady not wanting to talk about it yesterday pops into my mind. He might know the truth.

“It's ancient history. It doesn't matter why she made that choice, it only matters that you know I've moved on. Things have been a little awkward since you got here, with the surprise and then running into Katie and everything getting tossed off-kilter. But nothing has changed, right?”

It's crazy to me that he can sit here and say that as though he actually believes it. I got drunk last night. Me. I feel like two people right now, the old one fading while the new one is struggling to define herself. To figure out what it means, all of the possibilities.

I don't know what it says about Brennan that he can't see it. Can't tell. Maybe he's never seen me at all.

My hair is sticking under his shoulder when I nod in agreement. Because it's not fair to expect him to read my mind. We need to have a different talk, a more relevant one, but now isn't the time. It's Christmas Eve, and I've already disturbed too much of the Donnellys' holiday.

“Right.” My best smile seems to work.

“Good.” He presses a short kiss to my lips. “Mam and Katie are in the kitchen whipping up some last-minute dessert. They said to see if you want to help.”

I nod again, grateful for the chance to get out of the room. To spend Christmas Eve in the kitchen with the other women. “Sure. I'm just going to throw up and I'll be right there.”

*

I spend five minutes tying up my hair and smoothing on a bit of makeup, brush my teeth a second time, then don a bright red sweater and a pair of deep-gray corduroy pants and black flats. I feel ready for the holiday and the spirit of the day wriggles its way into my veins, spilling comfort and happiness through my blood.

The warmth of the kitchen wraps around me as securely as the strings of the apron Mrs. Donnelly hands over when I join her at the counter. She's got the space covered in open cans of apples, along with the traditional cake ingredients and a few of the same spices that went into my pumpkin pie—minus the nutmeg.

“What are we making?”

“Apple cake,” Katie answers, sliding a recipe across the counter toward me. “We usually wing the amounts, but I figured you might like to have it written down. It's one of Brennan's favorites.”

My mouth waters just reading the mixture of ingredients, and my excitement flickers at the finishing touch. “Ooh, we get to make a custard sauce?”

Mrs. Donnelly winks at me. “That's the best part.”

The three of us fall into an easy rhythm of questions and answers, with a fair smattering of laughter mixed in with our cake. We finish up and they both disappear with excuses of needing to shower and dress for the evening, but the happiness at living my dream holiday—minus the boyfriend troubles—has sunk deep under my skin.

Brennan's nowhere to be found, so I put on a coat and boots and go for a walk in the new dusting of snow. The fresh air is exactly what I need. It clears my head and settles my belly, and by the time the farmhouse comes into view again I'm so excited for tonight. For gifts and dinner and warmth from the fire, and everything else that's making me feel better about everything. Life.

Especially the future, no matter what it holds.

Then Grady pops up, arms full of firewood, before I can take refuge in the warm, Christmassy house. An evil glint in his bright eyes startles a grin out of me, then a grimace.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I try to step around him and up the porch but he blocks me. “I'm cold.”

“No, you're not.” He peers at me, confused now. “What's wrong?”

“If you're going to recount the sordid details of how I cheated on my boyfriend last night, I'd really rather not hear them.” Tears fill my eyes as I look up to find exasperation on his face. “What?”

“Nothing happened. You literally passed out in the middle of a sentence and I carried you to bed, gave you some water and pills, then left.” His arms tighten on the stack of wood. “But it's nice to know you think so highly of me. See you.”

He steps around me and I pinch the bridge of my nose, headache roaring back. “Grady, wait.”

It's too late. He's striding away with long steps, and there isn't anything I can say, anyway. Whatever happened last night, whatever's
been
happening, can't be a thing. I have a boyfriend, and Grady's just a farmhand in Fanore, Ireland.

Plus, he hates me now. That should make things easier.

I brush away the odd sense of loss and step into the foyer, shrugging out of my coat and kicking my boots off on the rug, breathing in the reminder that it's Christmas Eve.

The inside of the Donnelly home smells amazing. Exactly like Christmas should, with spices and sugar and cooking turkey twisting together, forming braided scents in the air. The sweetness of it dispels my lingering feeling of
ick
over Grady and sparks the tiniest flicker of hope that maybe things from here on out will go off without a hitch.

This will be the first real Christmas I've had in a real home with a real family since I was six years old, and even though that should mean the holiday holds bad memories for me, it doesn't. A night like this, a tree like this, presents like these and a family like the Donnellys' have been the focus of a million daydreams.

They're about to come true, and even if life is slightly less perfect than I'd prefer, this is a thousand times better than the past decade. I swallow hard, gratitude coursing through me, tears blurring my vision.

“Molly, is that you?” Mrs. Donnelly calls from the sitting room. “It's time to light the candle and you're still the youngest!”

“It's Jessica,” I say, popping into the room with my best smile, unwinding my scarf in the process. Mrs. Donnelly's at the front window beside a taper candle, a box of matches in her hand. A fire crackles in the stone fireplace and Granddad Donnelly snores in the recliner, mouth hanging open.

Brennan's mother is still wearing an apron but has swapped out house clothes for a pretty, deep-emerald dress that sets off her attractive face. The room seems to glow even without the candle, from the soft lamps in the corner to the muted television playing a black-and-white film, and the bright-green holly wreaths scattered in between. The smell of cinnamon and cloves add nuance to the picturesque room, and Mrs. Donnelly offering me a real smile pushes it into perfection.

“Oh, hello dear. It's time you were back—you'll want to run and change for dinner after we light the candle.” She presses her lips together, but the sparkle in her eye gives away her happiness in the moment. “Family! Get your arses in here so we can light this candle before dinner goes to shite!”

Thuds and shuffling footsteps signal her success this time around, and her shoulders relax. Her good mood infects me further and I settle into the scene. “Why do you light the candle on Christmas Eve?”

“It's an old tradition. The candle is a beacon of safety, a symbol that Mary and Joseph are welcome in this home as we celebrate the birth of their child.”

“That's nice.” It is nice, a beautiful symbol that's a reminder of what the holiday means at it's heart and not what it's become because of the retail industry. “And having the youngest girl in the house light it is tradition, too?”

She nods. “During Penal Times a lit candle in the window also signaled safe passage for priests who were being persecuted by the Protestants.”

I sense the conversation wandering onto more unstable grounds but we're saved by the entrance of the rest of the family, Molly and Brennan shoving one another lightly as they come through the door.

“Settle down, now,” their mother admonishes, handing the box of matches over to her daughter. She must think about what it will be like to hand over the candle-lighting duties to Brennan's or Molly's daughter one day, to watch her family keep expanding and love trickling down through generations.

It's something I always think about over the holidays—what it will be like to be surrounded by my own family some day, if I'm lucky enough to have one. In this perfect, glowing moment it's possible to believe in the dream, and that these people might even be a part of it.

Molly lights the candle with a dramatic flair. Mrs. Donnelly asks everyone to bow their heads for a prayer and we all comply, though I can't help but sneak glances at everyone while their eyes are closed. I follow suit with a warm face when Molly peeks, too, catching me.

“Our heavenly father, we thank you, as ever, for bringing our family together on such a wonderful occasion. We're grateful for Brennan making it home from school yet again. That Katie made a timely appearance and saved my husband's life, because he's a glutton who can't keep his hands out of the icebox. Above all else we thank you for the gift of your son, born this holy night, and strive to do our best work in his name. Amen.”

“Amen,” I mumble along with the rest, noting that they're obviously not thankful for my arrival. Only Katie's.

I shake off the omission, deciding that being too sensitive is only going to make things harder, and take Brennan's hand as we file into the dining room. The table is set with beautiful, delicate china decorated around the edges with an intricate pattern of holly. The plant seems to have significance in the Irish culture and adds so much to every space. I help Mrs. Donnelly, Katie, and Molly bring the turkey and potatoes and steaming platters of green beans and leafy salad and a million other goodies in from the kitchen.

The rest of dinner is as lovely as the run-up, with quiet laughter and gentle teasing between siblings and parents and children. I think about having a glass of the honeyed wine they pass around when they open the second bottle, but my stomach absolutely refuses to entertain the idea. Grady laughs with the rest of them but I don't miss the glances he shoots my way, ones that say he
doesn't
hate me, and each one heats up my blood to an unbearable degree.

After we've cleared the table and washed the dishes in the kitchen, Molly hands me two clean place settings and nudges me toward the dining room.

“What are these for?” Maybe they set the table for ghosts.

“Oh, it's another of Mam's old traditions,” Brennan explains, coming up behind me and slipping strong arms around my waist. “Calls it the Laden Table. Another welcome for travelers like Mary on Joseph, out on a night like tonight.”

“That's nice.” I repeat the sentiment from earlier, since neither of them heard me then. It's a lame reply but my mind has wandered, still swimming in hormones and hangover.

He kisses my shoulder, then moves up my neck. I pull away, uncomfortable, giving him a swat and a reproachful look. Molly twists her lips like we're grossing her out, putting the finishing touches on the table.

“I'm going to get ready for church,” she announces, flouncing toward the door before pausing to giggle. “I'm kind of tired, bro, so maybe you can wait until Sunday Mass to do your confession. I want to get home before dawn.”

“Ha-ha,” he says, and sighs in her direction, then pulls me into his arms as she disappears.

I let myself relax at his closeness, at the familiar smell of him. All of my dreams, harbored and nurtured by the last four months, glimmer. “You guys go to church tonight?”

He startles, as though I just asked him to sacrifice Nanny Goat for Christmas dinner. “You don't?”

“No. I usually volunteer at a homeless shelter or something.”

It's not that I have a problem attending Mass. My best friend in high school was Jewish and Christina attends a nondenominational service in Fort Worth that I tag along for on occasion. Things have turned around for the better today, and sitting with them through another tradition will top it all off—in a good way, this time.

“I'd love to go.” I give him a smile and a kiss and scoot down to my room to change clothes.

But a million thoughts of Grady, the way he looked at me across the table, how maybe he doesn't hate me, after all, fill my mind along the way. Maybe I'd better see about that confession thing, too.

I get less sleep than a little kid listening for the
clip-clop
of reindeer hooves on the roof, but the thoughts going through my head until dawn aren't so innocent. My boyfriend is seriously one of the hottest guys on campus. He comes from a fabulous, stable family. He's freaking Irish for Saint Patrick's sake, accent and all. We've got four months invested in this thing and they've been steady and safe.

And I'm lying here thinking about Grady Callaghan.

It's not even his face (more interesting than handsome) or his body (definitely earned by a lifetime of hard labor) that's sparking my increasing and undeniable attraction. It's because I know more about Grady Callaghan—deep, true things—than I know about my own boyfriend, and we've been dating four months. And Grady knows those kinds of things about me, too.