“I told you this summer we were through. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Come on.” He reached across the table, covering my damp hand on the beer bottle. “Jo, I love you.”
My chest hurt. “I love you, too, Trey. Just not . . . like that.”
“But you could. I know you could,” he insisted. “Maybe you don’t feel the way I do—yet. I can live with that.”
“But I can’t.”
“Things change. People change.”
“Not in Bunyan,” I said.
His eyes blazed. “That’s why I need you. I can’t stay old Mr. Laurence’s grandson for the rest of my life.”
“And I won’t be young Mr. Laurence’s wife.”
“So you said.” His tone was bitter.
I swallowed and looked away. My sister had joined the pool players, good ol’ boys in flannel shirts, feed caps, and various stages of drunk, playing a drinking game: miss a shot, take a shot. The tables around them were littered with empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. A tall, bearded dude at the bar said something to the bartender, who shook his head.
Trey followed my gaze and then turned back to me, his face tight. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Who?”
“The guy from the blog. You’re dumping me for the guy with the tattoos. That old cook, Wolfgang Fuck, whoever the hell he is. Wherever he came from.”
“His name is Eric Bhaer.” Distracted, I watched Amy toss back a shot while her new pals hollered encouragement. “And he’s not an old cook, he’s a talented, passionate, incredibly accomplished chef with his own restaurant. Anyway, that’s over.”
Trey’s fingers gripped mine against the cold glass. “Then there’s still a chance for us.”
I regarded him across the table, my oldest pal, my closest coconspirator. Who would I be without Trey? For years, we’d laughed and studied and played together, gotten each other in and out of trouble. But this was one stupid thing I wasn’t going to let myself get talked into.
I had loved three men in my life. My father, who made me feel smart and special. Trey, who made me feel upbeat and happy. And Eric, who had made me feel . . . whole. Maybe I didn’t have the stuff to make a real relationship work. To make it last. But I knew now how it should feel. And I didn’t feel that way with Trey.
Gently, I slid my hand away. “No.”
Something flickered in his face. He drew his breath. “Jo . . .”
A raucous cheer rose from the pool table.
Trey glanced over his shoulder. “Christ. What is she doing?”
Amy downed another shot and tossed her head, almost as if she were aware of his gaze. Stroking her cue, she sauntered to the table. At the bar, the bearded guy sighed and shook his head.
“Yeah, baby,” somebody yelled.
There were leers and whistles as she bent over to take her shot. Planted her feet. Wiggled her hips in that short, tight skirt. The guy behind her grabbed her ass, and she straightened, whirled, and cracked her cue over his head.
Oh shit.
Trey shouted. I lurched from the booth at the same moment Bearded Guy launched from the bar, muscling in between Amy and the guy she’d just clobbered.
Chairs scraped—customers pushing to their feet, jostling to get closer or away. Beer spilled. A woman screamed. Her boyfriend threw a punch at one of the pool players, who swung back. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Breathless, I shoved through a blur of bodies, beer, and sweat, desperate to get to Amy. I threw my arm around her. Bearded Guy had grabbed her elbow on the other side and was hauling her toward the door. I hung on, looking back for Trey. He was at the bar, his wallet out.
“She with you?” I heard the bartender ask.
“Yes.”
“Get her out of here.”
We were already out, pushing through the door, spilling into the sputtering neon light of the bar sign. Amy wobbled as the cold air hit her. Among the pickups in the parking lot, Trey’s low-slung Italian sports car was easy to spot. We crunched toward it over the gravel, our breath fogging in the dark.
“Thank you,” I said to Bearded Guy. Was he the bouncer? He looked vaguely familiar.
He frowned down at me. “Does your ma know you girls are here?”
Thanksgiving, I thought. He’d come to our house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Amy hiccupped. “Momma’s in the hospital.”
He went still. “She gonna be okay?”
“She had back surgery,” I said. “She’s doing much better now.”
“Glad to hear it. Nice lady, your mother.”
Trey appeared, striding onto the scene like a Disney prince, lean build, dark hair, great teeth. “Are you all right?”
Amy turned her face into my shoulder, refusing to look at him. She was probably mortified. “Fine,” I said. “Thanks to, uh . . .” Well, shoot. I couldn’t remember his name.
Trey extended his hand to our bearded rescuer. “Appreciate it, man.”
The man ignored his gesture. “What the hell were you thinking, bringing these girls to a place like this?”
Trey scowled.
“It was my idea,” I said hastily. “My fault.”
My fault. Amy’s fault. We brought out the worst in each other. We always had. Me running away, her following . . . Disaster.
“People change,” Trey had insisted.
But where my sisters were concerned, I hadn’t changed at all.
* * *
The next morning Amy staggered downstairs looking wan. “Coffee,” she croaked.
I glanced up from my laptop, fighting my own fatigue. “You should eat something first.”
She turned paler, if that were possible. “I can’t.”
“Hangover?” I asked sympathetically.
She sank gracefully into our mother’s chair, closing her eyes. “Jet lag.”
I snorted as I got up to pour her coffee. “Still?” I set the full mug on the table in front of her, bending to kiss her brow. “Merry Christmas.”
She smiled without opening her eyes.
I got back to work on my blog. The recipe was fine. I’d tested it last night. The problem was the tone, which was preachy and treacly and heavy-handed. Ugh.
My phone chimed with a text from Meg. Merry Christmas, darling sisters!
It didn’t feel like Christmas without any stockings or presents. Without a tree. Without our mother home. It was even worse for Amy, I imagined. She must miss all the holiday trappings and fuss. She used to wander through December in a little cloud of glitter, trailing ribbons and glue.
Another ping. Beth, from the hospital. Mom feeling better!!! Best Christmas present ever!!!
I smiled at the news and the string of joyful emojis. Can’t wait to see you all, I typed.
When can you leave???
As soon as Dad gets back from church. I’d stayed home this morning, out of guilt, so Amy wouldn’t wake up alone.
“Who are you texting?” she asked.
“Meg and Beth. They messaged you, too,” I offered.
She sipped her coffee. “I thought maybe it was your boyfriend. The arm-porn guy? From your blog.”
I could have explained that Eric was never my boyfriend. I could have pointed out that Amy had never expressed any interest in my blog before. “We broke up,” I said.
Amy nodded sagely. “Guys always break up with you before the holidays. That way they don’t have to buy you presents.”
I smiled, amused in spite of myself. “So young and yet so cynical.”
“Not cynical. Realistic. Most couples break up over money. Or sex.” She rested her head on the back of her chair, closing her eyes again. “Either they don’t have enough or they’re not comfortable talking about it. Look at Meg and John.”
Meg had always protected Amy. It wasn’t my place to confid
e her worries about John. Even sisters were entitled to some secrets. Anyway, Meg and John had seemed happy enough at the hospital. “Meg and John are fine. They’re like Jane Bennet and Bingley.”
Amy raised her hand. Stop. “Please. Not Pride and Prejudice again.”
“Pride and Prejudice is a timeless novel. I love Pride and Prejudice.”
“Of course you do. Because you get Darcy. You’re always Lizzy, and Meg gets to be Jane, and who’s left? It’s like Beth and I don’t count.”
“I guess . . . Beth could be Mary.” The quiet one who played the piano. “Although obviously Beth is much nicer,” I added. “And a better singer.”
“You know what your problem is?” Amy demanded.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You pigeonhole everybody. Like we have to fit into the same little boxes we had when we were kids. The responsible one. The smart one. The talented one. The pretty one. But real people aren’t all one thing. We’re all mixed up.”
Her criticism stung. Maybe because it was true. “I never said you were.”
“Uh-huh. Which sister am I?” Amy asked.
I flushed. “What?”
“Which Bennet sister?” Amy narrowed her blue eyes. “Lydia, right? The slutty one.”
I set my laptop on the coffee table. “This conversation is ridiculous. I’m going to get you some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” Amy said.
“You’ll feel better after you eat,” I said.
The cheesy casserole I’d put together the night before was keeping warm in the oven. I put a big slice on a plate and dug out the red napkins, arranging everything as nicely as I could on Momma’s special “sick” tray.
Carrying the tray to the living room, I set it proudly on the coffee table in front of Amy. “Merry Christmas,” I said, satisfied I’d done my best to save Christmas.
Until she vomited all over my open laptop.
CHAPTER 22
Meg
The tree lights twinkled. The Christmas stockings were emptied and flung on the floor. DJ, ignoring his new toys, climbed into the carton John’s mother used to mail their presents. Daisy was burying him under discarded wrapping paper.
“Snow!” she cried, tossing sparkly tissue paper high.
I smiled ruefully at John. “That’s it. No more presents. Next year, I’m giving them a box.”
But they looked so adorable, giggling in their matching Christmas pajamas. I took a picture to send to Momma and my sisters.
John smiled back at me, his eyes warm. “Maybe one or two more.” He laid a flat rectangle in my lap. “For you.”
“Oh my goodness.” I flushed with pleasure and surprise. He’d even wrapped it himself, with a stick-on bow and corners secured with tape.
We’d already exchanged the usual, practical gifts, the way you do when you’re on a budget, shopping from each other’s preselected wish lists, a socket wrench set and a jacket for him, an electric toothbrush and a sweater for me. Underwear. Socks.
Only John had given me a present that wasn’t on my list. The best gift ever—my sisters for Christmas. And now . . . This. It was too much.
“Wait.” I scrambled up. “Let me give you your present first.”
I fetched an envelope tied with ribbons from under the tree, my heart beating in anticipation.
John shot me a bemused look as I handed him the envelope. I held my breath as he unstuck the flap and slid out the pages inside. A computer printout of the North Carolina High School Wrestling Association schedule. A Greensboro map. Hotel reservations.
John stared at the pages in his lap, his face unreadable.
I hurried into explanations. “I called Ben Hardy. At the high school? He said you wouldn’t be reporting scores until next month, but that Jason and some of the other boys had a good chance of making Regionals. Maybe even States.” I took a deep breath, willing John to smile. Praying I’d got this right. “Tickets for the championship aren’t on sale yet. But I made hotel reservations. For both weekends.” I smiled tremulously. “In case your team goes all the way.”
“That’s Valentine’s Day weekend,” John said.
“I know. Not so romantic, to spend it with a bunch of sweaty high school wrestlers. But I thought it was important.” To you. To us.
“This is . . . wonderful. Thank you, honey.” He got up to kiss me. “You’ve thought of everything.”
Not everything. My stomach sank even as his lips warmed mine. I’d been so eager to get this right, to get him right, the way he “got” me. He deserved that. “Is something wrong?”
He nodded toward the gift I’d set aside. “You haven’t opened your present yet.”
My fingers traced the lines of the package. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
I fumbled with tape. Ripped the paper. It was a photo, framed. A selfie of the two of us together, standing on the Carolina Beach boardwalk, taken on that first night. I’d been laughing too hard to pose, my hair blowing in my face, but that was all right because we both looked so happy, John slightly stunned, me, almost smug. His arm—the one that wasn’t holding the phone—was around me. Behind us, the Ferris wheel lit up the sky like stars.
Tears pricked my eyes. “It’s beautiful.” I half laughed, moved and embarrassed. “I was so skinny.”
“You look great.” His gaze met mine. “You always look great to me.”
My heart melted. “Oh, John. Thank you.”
His smile seemed forced. “There’s more. Turn it over.”
He’d taped an e-mail on the back. A rental confirmation for an ocean-front suite on Carolina Beach. “Oh, John.”
“It’s not Hawaii, but . . .”
“It’s perfect,” I said. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” He cleared his throat. “I already talked to Hannah. She said she can stay with the kids that weekend.”
I scanned the e-mail, searching for the date. “Valentine’s Day weekend?”
John shrugged.
I laughed. “Can we change it?”
His gaze held mine. After a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I already paid the deposit. But I guess . . . If you want to. If the team makes the championships.”
A warm feeling settled in my chest. “They’ll make it,” I predicted.
And so, I thought, would we.
We kissed. I drew back, flushed with happiness. “You said you had something else for me?”
“Yeah.” He smiled again, more easily this time. “For you and the kids.”
He went to the kitchen. The door to the garage opened and closed. Another new car for Christmas, I thought, another dealership car I could drive for a year and give back. I arranged a properly delighted smile on my face.
I heard a wild scrabble across the kitchen floor.
“Iss a puppy!” Daisy shrieked.
It was not a puppy. It was a large, hairy dog of indeterminate breed with a red bow tied to its collar, lurching forward, straining against John’s hold on its collar. Oh God. The very last thing I needed. Something else to take care of.
DJ crawled out of his box.
Daisy danced forward. “What it name, Daddy?”
No. Don’t name it. A lifetime with Bethie’s strays had taught me once we named it, it was ours.
“Lady.” John pressed his hand to the dog’s haunches. “Lady, sit.”
The dog obeyed, tongue lolling, eyes swiveling anxiously between John and the kids. Even sitting, it was almost as tall as Daisy.
“It’s very . . .” Big. “Pretty.” Black and white and tan, with funny patches like eyebrows.
“She’s part golden,” John said proudly. “Maybe collie.”
Or German shepherd, I thought, regarding those sharp teeth.
John squatted,
uncurling Daisy’s fingers from the dog’s thick fur. “Not like that. Like this, see?” He guided her hand.
Daisy patted the dog’s shoulder, her face pink. DJ hung back, clutching his blanket.
“Where did you get her?” I asked.
“She showed up at the dealership about a week ago. Must have been dumped on the highway.”
My heart gave an unwilling tug. Abandoned. “Poor thing. Beth says it’s because people don’t like to turn their pets in to shelters. They think they’re better off on their own in the country.”
John’s jaw set. “Yeah, well, a week ago she was half-starved and covered in fleas.” He looked at my face. “I took her to a vet. She’s had all her shots. And she’s housebroken.”
Daisy was hugging the dog, her arms as far around its furry neck as she could reach. DJ took a cautious step forward. Before I could react, the dog’s head lunged forward. Her tongue swiped his face.
DJ stumbled back a step, his face clouding. “Ick.” Or maybe he said lick.
John laughed.
“It’s a doggy kiss,” I said. “Lady kissed you.”
DJ’s expression cleared.
“I want a doggy kiss,” Daisy said jealously. “Lick me, Lady. Lady, lick me.”
I looked from our children’s flushed, excited faces to John’s open one.
He’d never had a dog growing up, he’d told me once. Never had any pet at all. His mother struggled hard enough to provide for John and his brother. A dog—that would need food and visits to the vet and attention—was out of the question.
He wanted this, I thought. In all our discussions about getting a pet, he’d never said so. I couldn’t remember the last time John had told me he wanted something for himself.
Maybe I should have asked. Because he wanted this dog. For our children, yes, but also . . .
I leaned forward and kissed him. “What a great present.”
His answering smile made my heart swell. Three sizes, like the Grinch.
* * *
Tubes and wires anchored my mother to the bank of machines by her bed. We all barely fit inside her hospital room. But her breathing was steady, her eyes soft with warmth and love. The twins had been warned not to bounce.
Meg and Jo Page 30