Missing Christmas - Kate Clayborn Page 0,18

know, I think you like these movies.”

No, I think. I like watching these movies with you.

I like everything about this day with her. When I’d woken up this morning, it’d been barely five a.m., and Kristen and I had moved in the night—my back pressed against the arm of the love seat, ass to the edge of the cushions, feet still resting on the floor. Her curled beside me, feet tucked up and head resting on my chest. She sleeps so heavily, and she snores, too, which would probably mortify her to know. I’d watched the snow outside the window and thought: this.

This is what Christmas morning is supposed to feel like.

But soon enough I’d remembered it’s not what Christmas morning feels like to her, so I’d gently disentangled myself and gotten to work. The cookie recipe from her sister, the massive assist from the Dreyers, a cable password borrowed from Ben and Kit for the movies, and my own determination to get it right. Somewhere in the back of my mind the job is kicking around; I’d thought about it all through my snowy walk back and forth to the Dreyers’. But in the cottage, I set it aside. For Kristen. For her Christmas.

On-screen, what’s happening is what I’ve learned is the “low moment”—the couple is about to split. The lady who can’t recognize her neighbor’s eyes, cheeks, teeth, or voice is walking down what I’m pretty sure is the same Main Street set from the previous movie, a single tear tracking down her face. I’ve looked sadder than this after cutting my face shaving, so probably it’s only another few minutes before we get the promised happily ever after.

I sneak a peek over at Kris. She’s got both hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, her brows furrowed in concern. She does this every time, even though it always works out, and for a few seconds I get lost in the expressions that pass over her face as the music swells—Doctor Santa, I’m guessing, is about to make a speech. Another chaste kiss is coming, I’m sure.

“That was a good one,” Kris says, when the credits roll. She looks over at me. “Don’t make that face!”

I school my expression. “I liked it. Very uplifting.”

She snorts, takes a sip of her cocoa. This plus the cookies—she smells like a bag of sugar, probably, and despite my general lack of a sweet tooth, I’ve never wanted to taste something more. I stand from the couch, holding out a hand for her mug. “Want a refill?” I ask, distracting myself. “Then we can watch another.”

She looks up at me, one eyebrow raised. “It’s almost midnight. Four’s not enough?” I can tell by the way she’s said it—four’s enough for her for now, and she’s got something else in mind. Something I’m guessing I won’t like.

“I’m not doing the singing,” I say, trying for a joke.

She doesn’t take the bait. “I kind of thought we should talk about yesterday. What happened in the kitchen, I mean.”

I sit down again, try to keep my face neutral. “I told you. I was off my game.”

“But what Gil said bothered you. I know you, Jasper.”

I sigh, stare down at my hands. “I know you do.”

“Does it—is it something to do with what you told me last night? About how you’re not welcome at home anymore?”

“Kris—”

“Tell me,” she says, and the way she says it. Exactly like that last challenge she put to me, with the same weight behind it. She sets her mug on the table, closes the lid of the laptop. Shifts on the love seat so she’s facing me, her knees hugged to her chest and her arms wrapped around her snowman-covered legs. With the laptop closed most of the light in the cottage is from the garish fiber-optic tree. I take a deep breath, something thudding inside me at what this might reveal to her. Where it’ll lead.

“Gil—the way he is with Tanner—that’s very different from how my dad was with me.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “My dad—all he ever wanted was for me to take over his ranch. No matter the cost—school, fun, whatever. Drove me crazy, working for him.”

“Working for—?” Kris says, clearly confused at the way I’ve described it.

“Mean as hell, he was. About chores, about everything. When I got into science I’d try to bring him stuff, stuff I’d read about agricultural management, but . . .” I trail off, thinking about the way he’d once knocked a book from