Mistletoe and Mr. Right

by Lyla Payne

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  It’s making me think that there’s way to keep my future safe without planning every last detail. Or trying to, anyway.

  It’s crazy to think that I came here with the idea that it would make Brennan see me in a different light—a serious one—so that the plan for my life can stay on track. I’m leaving in a few days with a new plan. To maybe not have a plan other than finding what and who I love and being able to take care of myself.

  An odd sense of freedom, accompanies the thought. I can do anything. Go anywhere. Be a field reporter, travel with nothing but my iPhone and my wallet, or work at a network. I can be single, get engaged if I find the right guy, and it doesn’t matter. Not knowing doesn’t have to mean following my parents into poverty. I can do things right, make sure I have a safety net, and maybe take a few chances, too.

  Like Grady, that stubborn voice whispers from the back of my mind.

  I shove it away and get up, deciding that a warm glass of milk will put me to sleep. My penchant for the old-lady cure to insomnia fuels endless jokes in the sorority house.

  The Donnelly B&B is so quiet I can almost hear it breathing through the vents. My feet don’t make any sound on my way down the hall to the kitchen, but when the light from the fridge illuminates Grady on a stool at the bar, a decidedly not quiet curse word pops like fireworks.

  “That’s not at all ladylike.”

  I snort, putting a hand to my chest to slow my heart. “Because that’s my main goal in life.”

  I remove the gallon of milk from the top shelf and a coffee mug from the press, popping it into the microwave before confronting him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “There’s some weather blowing in and Maeve likes to start Christmas morning early.”

  A glance out the kitchen window reveals the first, lacy flakes fluttering from the sky. The microwave releases my hot milk and I slide onto the stool next to Grady, content to watch the snow and let the beverage warm my belly.

  “I can’t believe you drink warm milk when you can’t sleep. I thought only old people did that.”

  The comment distracts me from the beauty outside, but one look at Grady Callaghan reminds me there’s plenty to be found inside, too. He cuts off my retort by tipping his own mug in my direction to reveal its identical contents.

  He winks. “I like to add cinnamon.”

  There’s nothing to do but shake my head and try to remember why I’m in Ireland in the first place. “I thought you were all mad at me for questioning your honor or whatever.”

  “Maybe I was cheesed off at you for questioning your own honor.”

  The suggestion halts my attempt to keep him at arm’s length. Or keep dancing around whatever’s stirring up the air between us.

  “I normally wouldn’t,” I reply, finding my voice. “But I’m not sure I trust myself around you, Grady Callaghan.”

  That seems to please him, and he spends an inordinate amount of time smiling into the bottom of his mug after draining it. When he finally looks up to meet my gaze his blue eyes are a veil, hiding his feelings from sight.

  “Well, we got ourselves a little pickle, then. But you’re the girl with the plan, Jessie MacFarlane. I’m going to let you lead the way.”

  We’re sitting so close the heat from his body thwarts the chill sneaking in under the thresholds and around the old wooden windows. He smells like cinnamon and pine trees, like crisp wind and a hint of the barn.

  It tugs me even closer and he leans in, one hand scooting forward on the counter until our fingers are touching. I stare at them, expecting to see sparks. Expecting one of us to pull back.

  Eventually I tug against the magnetic field that keeps shoving us together, putting space between us. I have a boyfriend.

  The fact that I’ve never wanted to be single so badly propels me off the stool and down the hall, my throat clogged with the words I didn’t get to say. It’s weird, but back in bed, a hand pressed to my fluttery chest, I can’t make myself believe I just missed my last chance.

  *

  Morning comes way too soon, if my puffy, tired eyes are any indication. There’s no telling where all of these revelations will take me, but they’re definitely taking me about five thousand miles away. And who knows, this new, relaxed me might find Brennan more attractive than ever.

  I do what I can with water and makeup, and the end result isn’t too bad. The spirit of Christmas finds me, helping me banish the useless thoughts of Grady to the corners of my mind. They’re hidden behind the expectation of giving gifts, of sitting in a room that smells of fresh evergreen and tea, of gathering around a table later this afternoon and celebrating the one holiday that’s escaped me for years.

  The family—plus Katie and Grady, though they might technically count—gathers around the tree. Granddad Donnelly reclines in a big cushy chair while Molly, Brennan, and Grady sit cross-legged in front of the fireplace, golden flames dancing behind them. Katie and Mrs. Donnelly move to make space for me on the couch, and Mr. Donnelly settles in a wing-back chair.

  “Happy Christmas,” they chorus almost as one voice, the happy sound pinging off the frosted windows and warm bricks.

  “I made you some tea,” Katie says with a smile, shining in a pair of black button-up pajamas and pants that skim the floor. There’s something about her this morning that’s fragile, as though she’s got cracks around the edges, but she looks away before I can guess what it is.

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking my knees underneath me and wrapping my chilly hands around the mug.

  Brennan hops up and comes to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Happy Christmas, chicken.”

  “Back at you, gorgeous.” It’s easier than I imagine, pretending nothing has changed.

  “All right, Molly, get to passing out gifts.” Mrs. Donnelly instructs.

  She groans at what I’m assuming is her job as the youngest, but Brennan pitches in after a minute, the two of them dragging brightly tied packages from under the tree and distributing them around the room. I’m touched by the pile that stacks up in front of me. It’s not as big as the others but is on par with Katie’s. My surety wavers again. They obviously bought me a few things before Mr. Do
nnelly collapsed the other night.

  I sense eyes on me and look over to find Grady watching me, his gaze a confusion of emotions that speed up my heart. Moisture leeches from my mouth, and it isn’t until Katie clears her throat that I realize Grady and I have been staring at each other way too long.

  Her eyebrows are raised and I look away, hoping to avoid her questions. “Brennan, did you pass out the ones I brought, too?”

  “Yep, in the TCU paper. All done.”

  “Okay, for Jessica’s sake. We all open our present from the same person at the same time so we can show them off,” Molly explains. “Let’s do Granddad’s first; they’re always the best.”

  “And the same,” her brother adds with a smile.

  “You kids are ungrateful wretches and you know it. I bet Jessica’s going to like my gift.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “I think you and I might be friends, after all, but you’re going to have to stop being so nice. It could make a person sick.” He gives me a toothless grin. “Like black pudding.”

  That makes me snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We dig through our piles, coming up with what has to be a jar wrapped in newsprint, and tear off the paper. Inside is a jar of home-harvested Irish honey that I am sure is delicious.

  “Thank you!” I tell him, hugging it to my chest. The others echo my sentiment but set the jars aside quickly, as though they’re going to join a dozen more just like them in a cabinet.

  “Don’t go wasting it on any waffles,” he replies in a gruff tone that’s offset by the smile stretching his cheeks.

  “Granddad, knock it off,” Brennan huffs, giving me an apologetic smile.

  I shake my head, tears stuck in my throat, to let him know that it doesn’t bother me. Good-natured ribbing from Grandfather Donnelly only makes me feel more a part of the family.

  We open gifts from Molly next, which are copies of her favorite book by her favorite author—at least this past year—and pairs of hand-knit wool socks from Katie, like the ones she had on the other morning.

  She nudges my shoulder, whispering, “I had to give you a pair of mine, since I didn’t know you’d be here, but I washed them.”

  “I would have accepted even if you hadn’t,” I whisper back. “I don’t have anything for you.”

  She waves me off, turning to admire her handiwork on Mrs. Donnelly’s feet. Katie doesn’t seem herself, not making eye contact and fluttering from one conversation to another as though she can’t or won’t let her mind or her voice sit still. A shiver wracks her body and she hugs her arms over her chest.

  “Do you want a sweater?” I ask, concerned by the abject misery on her pretty face. “I have extras.”

  “I would love that. I can’t shake this chill for some reason.”

  She puts out a hand to stop me when I start to get up. “I’ll get it. In your room?”

  “Yeah, I left it in my suitcase. Should be near the top.”

  Katie slips into the hall, trailing her odd melancholy behind her as Molly announces it’s time to open Grady’s gift. She grabs at her newsprint-wrapped gift with all the glee of a five-year-old in the same situation while Grady ducks his head and blushes as though he’d like to protest but there’s not much point to asking people not to open your gifts on Christmas morning.

  Everyone tears into his or her present, but I’m smiling so big at mine I can’t look around right away to see what everyone else received. It’s a black-and-white framed picture of Nanny Goat with an ice pack wrapped around her foreleg with an ACE bandage … that’s quickly disappearing into her mouth. Subject matter aside, the photograph is expertly framed, backlit by the sun setting across the water and dappling the gray boulders under the goat’s feet.

  “This is amazing,” I say with a laugh, looking up to find his eyes. In them I see embarrassment and expectation and hope for something I’m too afraid to name. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I look around at everyone else’s gifts then and find that they’re all beautiful photographs. Brennan received one of his parents laughing by the kitchen sink; Molly, a gorgeous candid photo of herself. The Donnellys’ received different photos of their children, and Grandfather a still life of a pint of Guinness.

  Everyone’s in the middle of opening their TCU T-shirts and golf shirts and Mrs. Donnelly has exclaimed over tea when Katie clears her throat from the doorway.

  I look up—we all do—and horror explodes inside me. It splatters on my organs like goo, making it hard to breathe as she stares right at me, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

  She’s got my unopened pregnancy test clutched in her hand.

  “It’s not what you think,” I start, leaping to my feet and taking the little pink box from her while the family gapes, and turn a pleading gaze on Grady. “Tell them.”

  “It’s true,” he says in a rush, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “It was a joke. I bought it for her while I was out getting groceries because I caught her throwing up that pudding.”

  Mrs. Donnelly’s face regains a bit of color and Granddad can’t stop snickering. Mr. Donnelly appears bemused by the entire thing, and I stare at my boyfriend, hoping this isn’t going to look like something it kind of is—a private joke between me and the farmhand he doesn’t seem to love.

  But Brennan’s eyes are on Katie.

  I follow his gaze, and find her on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees and tears streaming down her face. Sobs wrack her bony chest and, like everyone else in the room, I’m completely taken aback.

  For her part, Katie seems to have forgotten the rest of us are in the room. She raises her head and stares at Grady, the accusation she’d reserved for me changing targets. “How could you make a joke like that?”

  All of us are staring at Katie, completely transfixed. What’s super weird is that she’s only talking to Grady, as though he’s the only person in the world who might understand what’s set her off.

  “Katie, a grhá, what are you talking about? Are you okay?” The concern brimming in Brennan’s eyes, the way they’re focused on her as though he’d throw himself under a crashing boulder if it was causing her tears, breaks my heart for so many reasons.

  He’s at her side in a heartbeat, but she pulls away when he tries to put an arm around her. “Stop.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  She keeps crying, her green eyes almost glowing as they stray, unfocused, out the front window. “Did you never wonder if something triggered our breakup? It was all so easy for you to understand, that one day I would wake up and change all of our plans.”

  “Easy for me? Have you lost your brain? It killed me, but you said it was what you needed. Not what you wanted, what you needed. How could I argue?”

  Brennan’s words totally suck for me, but anything I’m feeling pales in comparison with the pain etching lines on her stunning face. It’s so pale her freckles look copper in the early morning light. We all watch, rapt as though they’re players on a stage, afraid to move and interrupt a moment that must have been a long time coming.

  “You should have argued. You should have asked.” She turns her fiery gaze on him.

  He sits back as though physically burned but his voice grows more desperate. As though he’s holding the water, waiting for her to tell him where to toss it. “What would you have said, a ghrá? I’m asking now. What changed your mind? What happened?”

  Katie’s emerald eyes drop back to the picture. “I lost her.”

  “Lost who? You’re not making sense.”

  “The baby. Our baby. I lost her.”

  *

  If I could put the ingredients together that create the word stunned, it would include everything in this room right now. The tension in the air. The way all the color drains from Brennan’s face. The slight gasp that emits from Molly, the quick movement of Mrs. Donnelly’s hand to cover her mouth. The twist of my heart.

  The horror on Grady’s fac
e at the realization that his spontaneous joke became the catalyst of this eruption of emotions, the loss of a secret that maybe has been waiting to escape for months.

  His expression convinces me that he’s known all along that Katie had been pregnant, but maybe he didn’t know she’d never told Brennan. The gruff distaste for the guy he’d grown up with could be easily explained by thinking he’d abandoned his girlfriend in her moment of need.

  The silence, the lack of reaction from Brennan, goes on a moment too long, and Katie stumbles to her feet. Brennan makes a grab for her hand but misses. The sound of her sobs echo from the foyer, where she pauses—maybe to put on her boots—before the front door slams.

  Brennan looks lost. Like a statue that someone put down in the wrong place.

  “If you don’t get off your arse and go after her, man, I am going to smash your face,” Grady growls.

  The threat spurs my boyfriend into action and he leaps from the couch. He turns in the doorway, gaze ending its search when it lands on my face. He’s asking silent permission—I’ve seen the request a million times when he wants to stay late at a party or go to a game with his friends, but this time it’s more than that.

  He’s asking for permission to go after Katie, but I know, in reality, I’m granting him permission to leave me.

  It’s harder than I think it will be, maybe harder than it should be given the situation, to give him that nod. But I do. And then he’s gone.

  “Did you know about this?” Mr. Donnelly asks his wife in a soft voice that’s full of more reproach than he’s used since I’ve met him. Even over Nanny Goat.

  “No, of course not. And there’s no way she confided to her parents. Poor dear.”

  “Her parents are missionaries,” Molly explains softly, for my benefit. “Super strict.”

  I’m honestly surprised that the Donnellys aren’t more upset to find out their son’s been violating God’s laws, but they love Katie like a daughter. They might be disappointed later but right now they’re worried about her.

  “You knew,” I say to Grady, more a statement than a question.