A Cliché Christmas

by Nicole Deese

“Hmm . . .”

  “What?” he asked, glancing over at me.

  “Nothing,” I said in a sing-song voice.

  Weston poked my thigh with his finger. “Tell me.”

  I squirmed in my seat as he repeated the gesture. “It’s just that Savannah seems to have a knack for loving exasperating creatures . . .”

  His mouth fell open in mock offense. “Oh. No. You. Didn’t.”

  Swallowing the giggle in my throat, I pushed my door open the second Weston parked in front of Willa’s house. In no time, he was trotting up the porch stairs after me.

  “Take it back.”

  I shook my head. “No way.”

  “Georgia Cole, I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly lovable—”

  A shrill bark interrupted Weston’s rant.

  “Weston? That you?” An older man rounded the corner holding a dog that looked like the end of a dirty mop. The mutt squirmed in his arms, wagging his tail as Weston reached for him.

  Apparently, Weston’s feelings toward the dog weren’t mutual.

  “Thanks, Mr. Murphy. Sorry he got out . . . again.”

  Mr. Murphy waved him off. “No problem. I know what he means to that girl. You should tell your sister to keep better track of him.”

  Weston frowned at the animal now licking his cheek with unabashed pleasure. “I will, thanks again.”

  I laughed and shoved my frozen hands into my pockets. I waited for Weston to open the front door as Mr. Murphy walked away.

  Prince Pickles went crazy the second Weston set him down. He spun in circles, his cottony hair a magnet for every piece of lint it encountered. No wonder he looked like a Q-tip dipped in soil. He ran to a room down the hall and then back out, barking at Weston’s feet.

  “She’s not here, buddy.”

  The dog sobered instantly, as if that were the only explanation he needed.

  I took a tentative step forward. “He understands you?”

  “He has some weird doggy ESP with Savannah. I think he knew she was sick even before Willa realized it. He wouldn’t leave Savannah’s side for weeks . . .” Weston looked out the window as Prince Pickles laid his head on the linoleum floor.

  I glanced down the hallway, fighting to squelch the uncomfortable burn at the base of my throat. I was much better at writing dialogue than saying it. While Weston filled Prince Pickles’s water and food bowls, I studied each picture on the wall. Most were of Savannah, but a few were of Willa and Weston.

  The wall of photographs was a timeline of memories, and one in particular twisted around my heart like barbed wire. I paused in front of it, taking in every detail. The background, the faces, the costumes—it was the night of the Christmas play seven years ago. There Weston stood, his arm around his sister’s shoulders, beaming at the camera . . . while I was weeping alone in the playground, nursing a broken heart.

  Suddenly, my skin burned with fury. How dare he—

  “Whatcha thinking about?”

  I started at the sound of his voice. My heart flung itself against the brick wall I just rebuilt.

  “Can we go back now?” I asked.

  “Are you okay?” Concern edged his voice.

  No. In no sense of the word was I okay, especially not while in the presence of Weston James. “I’m fine. I just need to get going.”

  “Need to or want to?” He scanned my face for answers I prayed weren’t there.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  I rolled my eyes and hiked my satchel strap higher onto my shoulders. I squeezed past him in the tight hallway.

  Peeking my head into the living room, I whispered, “Bye, Prince Pickles. I hope you get reunited with your owner soon.”

  The dog was safe, fed, and drooling on a large pillow.

  Crisis averted. Weston didn’t need me after all.

  He never had.

  Jerking the front door open, I made my way back to my car, unwilling to allow Weston to bully me into staying there a minute longer.

  I stood outside in the cold, waiting for Weston to unlock my car with the keys he’d stolen from me, when I heard his voice.

  “We’re not driving anywhere until we talk.”

  I whipped my head around. “What?”

  Arms folded, eyes narrowed, Weston stood with his feet planted shoulder-width on the porch steps.

  “Be serious, Weston. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, I’m serious. And if you think you’re getting these keys back without wrestling me to the ground—a wrestling match I’d thoroughly enjoy, by the way—then you’re crazy. It’s time to talk, Georgia. Inside, where we won’t die from hypothermia.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, mirroring his macho demeanor. “No.”

  The smirk on his face churned my organs into a rage stew.

  “Then what’s your plan, Georgia?”

  I had no plan, other than to get away from him—far, far away.

  “Give me the keys.” I held out my palm as a shudder racked my body from head to toe.

  He arched an eyebrow. “And if I refuse?”

  Before I could answer, he strode toward me and manacled his large, warm hand around my wrist. My strength faded, extracted from my being by the heart-sucking vacuum that was Weston James. My knees trembled as he raised my hand to his mouth, warming it with his breath.

  And then I was transported to another lifetime.

  By the age of ten, Weston had more than made himself known in my life: pulling my hair, pushing me into puddles, and giggling when I misspelled a word during the spelling bee in fourth grade. But then one afternoon after school, he found me crying alone in the park.

  Even though I knew he lived across the street, I wasn’t worried about running into him—or anyone for that matter. No one played at the park in mid-October. It was too cold.

  Leaning against the big oak tree, I shivered as tears rolled down my cheeks. My mom’s most recent lecture replayed in my mind—her insensitive words, her unyielding expectations, her uncompromising demands.

  When Weston slumped down beside me, I envisioned every nickname imaginable involving the word baby being tacked on to Georgia by the end of the school week. He’d mock me, tease me, ridicule me for years to come. All because the girl he saw every day at school—the one who wouldn’t be caught dead showing weakness to the world, the one who had challenged him time and time again inside the safety of those four walls Monday through Friday—didn’t match the girl who sat crying in the park. The girl who was so tired of compensating for her emotionally absent mother.

  But Weston said nothing.

  He simply lifted my hands to his mouth and warmed me from the inside out.

  No words needed.

  After that day, he still pestered me, of course, still sought me out in school and joked with me, but that day at the tree changed me—gave me hope.

  That we could be more than just classmates.

  That he could be something I’d never really had before.

  A friend.

  An unspoken, unexpected, friend.

  Weston’s inviting breath dissolved the knot that had wrapped itself around my heart and held me captive to my doubts. As his lips brushed against my fingertips, his warmth sparked my frozen core back to life. I didn’t yank my hand away, or twist my arm, or elbow his wickedly attractive face. I simply thawed under his touch, berating myself for the weakness that had once again taken me over.

  He reached for my other hand as if it were a piece of kindling to add to a fire—the one he’d just built inside me. “You are so stubborn.”

  Diverting my eyes, I exhaled shakily.

  “Why do you do this, Weston?”

  “Do what?”

  “This?” I nodded to my hands and pulled them away from his grasp, cold seeping into my
bones immediately. “Just stop it already. We aren’t kids anymore.”

  His intense gaze steamrolled me. “No, we certainly are not.”

  Every hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I swallowed.

  “Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know, Georgia? Tell me why one day I was confessing my feelings to you and the next you pretended not to know me. Like I was suddenly some kind of creep for trying to talk to you at school . . . or anywhere.”

  Weston stepped closer as my backside pressed against the freezing metal of my car door.

  “Maybe I got tired of being your dirty little secret, the butt of your jokes.”

  His jaw clenched. “What are you talking about?”

  Placing my hands firmly on his chest, I pushed against him. He didn’t budge an inch. Instead, he caged me in, pressing his palms to the car on either side of me.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m an expert in one-sided relationships.” I practically spat the words.

  Weston shook his head, and his body inched close, close, closer. “There was nothing one-sided about what we had . . . what I thought we had. You still owe me an explanation.”

  I fought against him. “I owe you? Are you kidding me? Do you even remember what happened the night of the Christmas play, when you left me lying on the floor with a ripped dress, gawking at me like you had no idea why I had just flung myself at you?” My voice cracked. “While everyone laughed . . . including you and Miss Perfect!”

  Weston’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the memory, a memory that was still near the forefront of my mind. “Why would I laugh at you? I don’t even know what happened that night.”

  “You’re unbelievable!” I took a step to the side, struggling to free myself from him. “You and Sydney tricked me. You added that last-minute scene change just to humiliate me. Why? So the two most popular kids in school could have one last laugh at the underdog?”

  Weston flattened me against the car door, holding me captive. His breath warmed the side of my neck as I turned my head away. “I made no plans to trick you that night, Georgia—not with Sydney or anyone else. I swear to you.”

  I snapped my eyes back to him. “But I saw you wink at me—after Mr. Daniels told you about the scene change. I saw you! You agreed to that kiss and then let me stumble and fall off the stage!”

  “No.” His soft whisper caressed my cheek. “No, sweetheart. I never agreed to anything like that. Whatever you saw, it was misinterpreted.”

  “But Sydney said—”

  “You’re really going to believe her over me?”

  Yes. No. Maybe?

  “But why . . . why would Sydney do that to me?” My voice was shaky and small.

  As I stared at Weston’s painfully handsome face, I could think of a few reasons.

  Sydney had always wanted Weston—to be crowned senior-prom queen and king with him, to be Lenox’s little couple of popularity and perfection.

  But Weston hadn’t wanted that. He’d been too busy rehearsing for the lead in the winter play to think about that, too busy spending his extra time with me.

  “I wish I knew, Georgia.”

  A sob caught in my throat. “But you did know how I felt about you . . .”

  The weight of his body against mine made my stomach spasm. “Remind me. How did you feel?”

  Shaking my head, I closed my eyes for a long second under the scrutiny of his gaze. His lips were a mere millimeter from mine. “It doesn’t matter now. My feelings weren’t real.”

  The tip of his nose traced my jaw. As he worked his way past my earlobe, I struggled to breathe.

  “Oh, I think they were very real . . . are very real.”

  I shuddered as his hands cradled my face.

  “You were never my dirty little secret, Georgia.” He studied me, unblinking. “I knew then what I know now. You’re special, unique, and as beautiful on the inside as you’ve always been on the outside. Maybe I never wanted to share you with anyone . . . maybe I still don’t.”

  As Weston’s lips feathered against my forehead, all the anger, frustration, and bitter resentment departed from me with a single exhalation.

  “You’ve always been more than just a friend to me, Georgia Cole. I only wish it hadn’t taken seven years of silence for you to believe that.”

  Weston pulled me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me as my fantasy fused with reality.

  I snuggled deep into his thermal shirt like it was the shelter I’d spent a lifetime trying to find. “I do, too . . . I’m sorry.”

  He stroked my hair softly. “I was a stupid boy to let you walk out of my life so easily, Georgia, but I won’t be a stupid man.” He kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be a stupid man.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I groggily reached for my phone on the nightstand, ready to press snooze, when I realized it was a phone call, not my alarm. I looked at the clock—it was 5:46 a.m.

  My mom.

  “Hi, Summer.”

  She’d asked me to start calling her by her first name after she had the twins.

  “Hey, were you sleeping?”

  I yawned. “Well, you are three hours ahead of me.”

  She laughed, dismissing her absentmindedness without a second thought. “Nan told me you’re staying there for Christmas?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You should have made up an excuse. I bet you’re ready to be back in LA getting on with your life.”

  I felt a prick of defensiveness at her words. She hated it here . . . or maybe just the memories that here held for her. I’d probably never know for sure.

  “It hasn’t been that bad.”

  She huffed. “Well, you never told me what happened with your last script. The one with the schoolteacher set in the 1940s.”

  It was a screenplay I’d written a couple of years ago, one my agent had requested. Although it was still in the holiday genre, it showcased a bit more of my talent than some of the others.

  “I haven’t heard anything about it yet. It takes awhile sometimes.”

  “Well, I’m sure it will at least be picked up for another Hallmark movie. Just remember, this is when you pay your dues. You’ve got to stick with it. You have a good thing going. It usually takes a long time for people to find a niche like you’ve created for yourself.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have told her I’d been thinking about pursuing something different.

  “I’m grateful for what’s happened so far, really.” Even if I’m bored to tears with it.

  “Good. Just don’t go changing things up now. Stay the course, and work hard. It will pay off.”

  What she really meant was, “Don’t try and write other genres. Don’t get too creative or impulsive. Don’t mess this up.”

  “How are the kids?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Great. Brad and I are going to take them to Disney World for New Year’s. Just bought the hotel package.”

  “Aren’t they a little young for that?”

  “What? No. It will be a good family memory for all of us.”

  Family. Hearing her say the word stung, like pouring Tabasco sauce on an open wound.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re happy.”

  She paused for a few seconds. I could hear a small voice calling her in the background. “You’ll find one someday, too, Georgia.”

  “Find what?”

  “A family of your own.”

  You were supposed to be my family, Mom.

  I stood in the shower for a long time—so long that Nan finally rapped on the door to check on me. When the scorching-hot water turned lukewarm and eventually cold, I got out, wrapped myself in a fuzzy towel, and padded down the hallway.

  “Um . . . I’ll just . . .”

  I w
hirled around to see the source of the voice behind me. “Oh my gosh! Weston!”

  Running to my room, I slammed the door, which banged open and closed four times before actually latching shut. I rested my head against the door, and my heart raced as I tried to recall exactly how my towel had been positioned when I left the bathroom.

  “I didn’t see anything! Promise!” he yelled down the hall. “Nan said she told you I was here before she left. Sorry!”

  Was that what she had said?

  I bit my lip, shaking my head. And then . . . I laughed. Hard. For whatever reason, God had decided that Weston James was my personal humility meter.

  By the time I dressed in skinny jeans, a sweater, and boots, my earlier dour mood had lightened considerably. Though Weston and I were still firmly in the “It’s complicated” phase, last night had radically changed something in me. I wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but I was willing to find out.

  “Hey, you.” He smiled and held my jacket out to me.

  “Hey.” I was still blushing from the hallway scene.

  “Thought we might grab a quick cup of coffee before rehearsal. Is that okay?”

  My smile seemed to pull from all directions. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  We took his truck to Brew It & Company and found a table by the window after we ordered.

  “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his leather jacket.

  “You do?”

  “Although I think I might be shooting myself in the foot by giving it to you. I kind of like my remedy for keeping you warm.”

  I eyed him curiously as he placed a small paper bag from Gigi’s Grocery on the table. I picked it up, intrigued.

  Gloves.

  Weston James bought me a pair of gloves?

  I looked up at him, words escaping me. Something in the back of my throat burned.

  “Hey, you okay? I only got black because I didn’t know what other color you’d want.”

  “Thank you.” My words were thin, shaky. “Really, thank you for these.”

  He touched my arm. “I know we can’t go back in time, Georgia, but I don’t want to waste any time now.”

  I nodded. “Me, either.”