Mistletoe & Molly
A Second Chance Holiday Romance
Matilda Martel
Copyright © 2019 by Matilda Martel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Matilda Martel
Artwork by Filitova
Created with Vellum
For anyone whoever fought for love.
Contents
1. Travis
2. Molly
3. Travis
4. Molly
5. Travis
6. Molly
7. Travis
8. Travis
9. Molly
10. Travis
11. Molly
12. Travis
13. Molly- A Year Later
About the Author
Also by Matilda Martel
Travis
https://youtu.be/lFWe2aVrIbo
“May I take that?” A chipper voice startles me. My eyes flare open and I jerk forward in my seat. It’s the flight attendant. She points at my empty glass and smiles.
I hand it to her, annoyed she interrupted my favorite daydream. “Can I get another?”
She tilts her head with an air of sympathy and a dash of condescension. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re landing in twenty minutes.” She wrinkles her nose and waves her hand. It’s a gesture meant to make me place the tray table back in the armrest, but she looks like she’s pointing at the floor.
“What?” I’m giving her a hard time. She’s pissing me off. Her attitude pisses me off. This holiday pisses me off.
“The tray, sir. We’re landing.” She smiles and darts off. It’s one benefit of sitting in first class. The attendants can’t give you too much grief. If I was in coach, she would have snapped. But up here, she grits her teeth and smiles.
I’m a jerk. Sue me. I feel like shit.
With a deep breath, I fight like hell to clear my thoughts. I need to focus. These next few days won’t be easy. Or maybe they will. Who the fuck knows? I don’t know what I’m doing in this seat. I don’t know how I got into these clothes. The last few days have been a blur. How the hell did my mother talk me into coming home? Stretching my legs, the lights below catch my eye. They said we’re close. What am I looking at? Is that Dallas? Why are we flying so low?
For god’s sake, calm the shit down.
I haven’t been home in eight years. No birthdays. No holidays. No weddings or funerals. A week after I graduated from college, I packed my things and moved to Philadelphia. It’s so different, but different is good. I needed a change. There was nothing keeping me here. It’s stupid, but part of me thought if I was closer in proximity, we’d eventually find our way back to one another.
Sounds reasonable. Philadelphia and Manhattan are just a hop, skip and a jump away. What the hell was I thinking?
The wheels come down and the squeaky noise churns the acid dripping into my gut. I scramble for an antacid and stare at the airport below the wing. We’re fucking landing.
It’s not the state. I don’t have a problem with Texas. I was born and raised in Austin. Graduated from the University of Texas. I’m a proud Longhorn. But... never mind. It’s a long story. If I think about it now, I’ll lose my fucking mind. You see, I didn’t want to leave and then I did. I would have left earlier, if my father hadn’t guilted me into attending his alma mater. I shouldn’t say that. There’s nothing to regret. I’d always wanted to go. She’s the only reason I wanted to leave. I would have gone anywhere with Molly.
Fuck... I hate saying her name.
It’s a shame my Dad didn’t live long enough to see me finish.
I’ve had a good run. You don’t know how much work goes into eight years of carefully calculated evasion. When I miss my mother, I fly her to Philly. For a woman previously terrified of flying, she’s been great about making the trip. But this year, she asked me to come home.
“At least for Christmas, Trav. Come home for Christmas.”
How could I say no?
Her baby sister, my Aunt Rachel, lost her husband six months ago. She and Mom are tight. There’s no way she’d leave her alone for the holiday. I tried to get out of it. I came up with a thousand excuses. I’d fly her up after the New Year. We see each other all the time. What’s one Christmas? But when sniffles followed sighs, and those spiraled into a voice of sad resignation, I gave in.
Besides, I turn thirty next month and eventually I need to face my demons. That’s what my piece of shit shrink says. I don’t mean that. He’s okay. But it’s been a few years and I’m not any better than I was when I started going. I realize I have my part to do, but come on, three damn years and zilch. I think I might be worse. Just medicate me, already!
With a jolt, we slam into the runway and the tires shriek against the wet concrete. My heart thunders in my chest. My pulse spikes. I’m here.
Goddammit, I’m here.
She could be here, too. Her parents still live next door. Mom mentioned she saw her last year. Maybe, she won’t come again. Who comes every year? She’s twenty-nine.
Jesus, Molly, get a life.
The words sink in. Suddenly, the ache in my heart travels north and my mind spins with remorse.
No, don’t get a life. Not yet.
As we taxi to the gate, I power up my phone and my weather app gives me an update. Thirty degrees? What the shit? It was warmer in Philadelphia. This is a sign. I should have stayed home. That was the only good thing about coming here. Maybe, just maybe, I’d get to wear shorts for Christmas. It’s a small thing. I don’t ask for much these days. Ice and snow? Seriously?
Rushing through the jetway, I circumvent the dawdlers and dart into the terminal. My jaw slacks. I don’t recognize this place at all. It’s been eight years and this airport is wholly unfamiliar. When I see the new luxury stores and the high-tech sushi bar with the individual iPads per seat, I hang my head and march forward. Maybe, this new Austin won’t bring back as many memories as I imagined.
Trudging along, circumventing a group who have decamped right in the middle of the aisle, I search through the sea of faces coming and going. I’ll never have any peace if I keep this up. There’s a possibility she’s coming and a slim chance we arrived on the same day, but there is zero chance we flew in on flights landing at the same time. I’m looking for a sign that isn’t here. That’s what I do. I get it from my Dad. When in doubt, I search for signs to guide me in the right direction.
The truth is, I know what to do. I just want confirmation. It’s superstitious at best. Ridiculous and immature at worst. But, in the meantime, it keeps me sane. There are no signs here. Maybe, I’ll see her, Maybe, I won’t. We had seven months, twelve years ago. No one comes back after twelve years.
On my way down the escalator, I pull out my phone from my coat pocket and scroll for ride share. A horde of holiday travelers zoom past me, and I think I hear someone call my name. Travis is common enough. It’s the name of the county. I look to my right, then keep walking towards the doors.
“Travis Ford!” A woman’s voice calls out and my brain freezes. I’d know that voice anywhere.
I spin around. “Mrs. Gunther!”
Holy shit, it’s Molly’s mother.
Molly
https://youtu.be/ejh85Cnticc
Charging through the airport, swerving through families, errant toddlers and festive travelers, I jump on the escalator and head towards baggage. I’m right on schedule. Whoa, Nelly! This never happens. There’s something fabulous about smaller airports. No trams. No changing terminals. A
ll you do is buzz through the sparkle, happy faces and cruise on home.
I’m coming, Mama!
Except, this isn’t home. This used to be home. But not anymore. Geez, what has it been? Twelve years. Gosh, twelve whole years!
A month after high school graduation, I made like a tree and left this burg for good. Wait a minute, that makes more sense in the present tense. Oh, hell, you know what I mean. I skedaddled. I blew this joint. I had dreams that needed chasing and the clock was a-ticking.
Forgive my dialect. I never talk this way in the city, but I’m home and feelin’ super peachy.
Austin’s a great town, everyone’s sweet as pie. But I couldn’t wait to get out. I always knew I’d leave. New York called. Juilliard called. I had a hankering to live in the big city and one day play Carnegie Hall. And it’s finally coming true. Yep. Yours truly will be featured in a Franz Liszt Tribute this spring along with a cellist, another pianist and a string quartet. Can you believe that? Mary Margaret Gunther is playing Carnegie freaking Hall!
I use my full name professionally. Molly is for babies.
I haven’t shared the news with Mama and Daddy yet. I’m telling them tonight over dinner and flying them out for opening night in April. All the sacrifices over the years. The late night practices. Forgoing much of a social life. Only coming home a few times a year. And most of all, postponing all my other dreams. All of it might finally mean something.
I wag my head and think about Travis. If I don’t do what I set out to do. If I don’t catch that falling star and put it in my pocket, then leaving him was for nothing. Then all of it was for nothing!
Stop that, Molly. For heaven’s sake. It’s Christmastime.
Weaving through the disgruntled crowd blocking the carousel, I grab my luggage and text my mother.
Me: I’m coming out. Third door. Not the last one. The third one.
Mom: Sweetheart, I’m right here. We’re on the benches near the bouquet dispenser.
Me: We? Did Daddy come too?
I prop my bag up and roll it through the dividers. I see Mama waving furiously. She’s sporting a brand-new Christmas sweater and dazzling ornament earrings. That woman is in full holiday swing. I’ll bet she smells like gingerbread. Smiling and waving back, I search for Daddy. I crane my neck, glance towards the soda machine, then squint, in a mad search for the man in charge of rolling this heavy luggage the rest of the way.
No sign of him.
When I draw closer, a younger man stands behind my mother. He looks familiar. Towering over her, he’s got dark brown wavy locks, full lips, a strong jaw and gorgeous hazel eyes. He looks like my Travis, but he’s too bulky. This guy has sixty pounds of muscle on him. A few steps more and the world stops spinning. His mouth twitches into a crooked smile. It’s not a smile. It’s an awkward smirk. Oh, my word, it’s Travis. It’s Travis Ford. Travis Booker Ford is standing right in front of me for the first time in twelve years, looking like a male model and I am wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt that reads: Piano is my Jam alongside a cute photo of a jar of jam.
Why Jesus? Why?
Mom rushes over. Arms flailing, hips wiggling, she’s squeals like she’s here to bring me home after my first day at kindergarten.
“Baby! How’s my girl?!” She wraps her arms around me and swings me from side to side. With my head on her shoulder, I glance at Travis and his kind eyes meet mine.
“Hey, Molly.” His deep voice soothes me and for a single second I close my eyes and drink it in. Memories I’ve sealed in a box, packed into an airtight container and buried six feet underground are unearthed in that single second. When I open my eyes, they all flood my mind at once.
“Hey, Travis.”
Travis
https://youtu.be/3_mL5nfovYI
This is a sign. No doubt about it.
The first four years after graduation, she stayed away every damn Christmas. I was here, waiting. Hoping for a chance. But every year, her mother told me she scored some holiday job with an orchestra or theater.
“The holidays are their busiest time, honey.”
After the fourth year, I stopped waiting and by the fifth, I was gone. It’s three days before Christmas. We flew in from different cities on the other side of the country and we landed fifteen minutes apart. I would have kept walking, if her Mom hadn’t spotted me and called me over. She offered me a ride home. I hesitated, but then she said the magic words.
“Molly’s here. She’s coming down now. You live next door. I’m sure she’d love to see you again.”
It was a nice gesture. You can’t tell a woman you’ve known since you were six years old, the mother of the only girl you’ve ever loved, to beat it. And fuck it, I didn’t want to say no. It is a waste of money. And like I said, this is a goddamn sign. This is the sign of all signs.
Piano is my jam. How fucking adorable is that?
While she hugs her mother hello, we have a moment. Our eyes lock, but it’s brief and I have no idea what it means. She’s right in front of me for the first time in twelve years and the only words I can utter are, “Hey, Molly.”
Real smooth, cowboy.
We exchange hellos and I take her luggage. She hesitates, but I insist. It’s heavy and she looks beat. Not in a bad way. She looks beautiful. Molly is beautiful. She’d look stunning if she just stumbled out of bed with the flu. But I can tell, she’s exhausted. The girl I remember always had a twinkle in her eye and tonight it’s gone. It must have been a rough day of traveling.
On our way to the car, I watch her familiar gait. She’s exactly as I remember. Except, her long dark hair is shorter and cut in layers now. Her freckles have faded. I didn’t know that was possible. Maybe, her face is thinner. I don’t remember her cheekbones being so sharp. Is she eating? Okay, she’s changed a little. But, what do you expect? She’s a woman. You don’t go from eighteen to twenty-nine without a few adjustments. She’s perfect. Molly Gunther’s always been perfect. She was born perfect. Perfect for me.
Fuck. What am I doing? Five minutes and I’ve reverted to puberty.
Stepping outside, a gust of wind hits us. It’s so strong, it catches Molly off guard and makes her trip on her own feet. She’s always been a klutz. Giggling at herself, she lets out a childish squeal that reminds me of a different time and my heart skips a beat. Although she pretends not to care, a blush tints her skin.
Bundling up in her wool coat, she shivers and wraps her scarf tighter. In a subtle move, she peeks over her shoulder and slays me with a quick glimpse of those baby blue eyes.
“How have we gone so long without seeing each other?” She smiles, half-heartedly. It doesn’t feel disingenuous or sarcastic. She and I both know we’ve avoided this moment for over a decade, but it suddenly hits me that maybe she wasn’t avoiding it. She comes down all the time. I’m the one who held on to my pain, guarding it like it was something precious.
“Life, I guess.” That’s a bullshit answer, but it’s the best I can do.
She nods. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve changed. I mean, in a good way. I suppose twelve years will do that to anyone.” She fidgets with her gloves and tries to help me lift her luggage into the trunk. I grab it before she has a chance.
“You’ve hardly changed at all.” I watch her eyes widen and her jaw fall open. She doubts my sincerity. I’m not lying. She looks better. Sexier. Not even that sweatshirt can hide it.
“Travis, you should ride shotgun. Your legs are longer than mine.” She makes a move, but I shake my head and swing open the front passenger door.
“Your Mom is giving me a ride. I’ll sit in back. Get in, Moll.” I glare at her sternly and she clutches her chest, surprised by my tone.
I haven’t seen this girl in over a decade. If I’m in the front, I won’t be able to stare at her comfortably. From the back, I can ogle her to my heart’s content.
Molly
https://youtu.be/kWJrUGjZwr4
I must be dreaming. Whether this is someth
ing wonderful or my worst nightmare, remains to be seen. Sitting in front, it feels like the latter. Sweat streams down my temples. I wipe it discreetly with my mitten and yank off my scarf. I don’t know if it’s the damn heater blasting warm air in my face or the incredibly hot man in the back seat. But this car feels like a sauna.
If we don’t get home soon, I may overheat.
While Mama talks our ears off, I think about the last time we sat this close. It was the night before I left for New York. I’d never seen him so angry. We were heartbroken but there were no surprises. He begged me to stay. But I couldn’t. How could I? My future, my dreams, all the hours, all the practice, everything was at stake. I won my spot at Juilliard. He knew what that school meant to me. I shared my dreams with him from the start.
He was an asshole to make me choose.
New York or me.
Those were my options. He wouldn’t consider anything else. That was his ultimatum.
And I chose New York.
But it wasn’t easy. I was miserable without him. It took years before I stopped doubting my decision to leave because before he turned into an insecure jerk, Travis was wonderful. No, seriously. Once upon a time, he was something out of a dream. We were the best of friends and then one day, we were so much more. With a sigh, I bury the pain in my chest and will myself to hold in the floodgates until I’m home and locked behind my bedroom door.
Please, oh please, don’t cry in front of him!
My mother’s small talk only makes things worse. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. As I listen to her drone on about dinner plans, a new casserole recipe and my Dad’s refusal to go vegetarian, she asks Travis about his life in Philadelphia.
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