PJs.”
Rachel was as tired as Scott looked, and she didn’t have the energy to argue with her friend. She could hear them in the bathroom as Annabeth washed his hands and face, brushed his hair, and helped him with his miniature toothbrush.
“He’s all yours,” she said, coming back to the living room. Annabeth handed a sleepy boy off to Rachel.
She took him into his room, rocking him back and forth a minute in the shadowy dark, her son cuddled on her shoulder. Would it be like this if Jonas were here? Would they both come to the side of the crib, or would he wait for her in the living room, like Annabeth was doing now?
Scott didn’t protest bedtime, lying down almost at once. Rachel was all for joining her son in slumberland, but Annabeth had other ideas, having turned on the TV.
“How are you doing?” her friend asked as Rachel sat in the overstuffed recliner.
“I’m all right. And I’m glad you’re here,” Rachel said. “Turn it up a bit.”
The two of them watched TV until Rachel’s eyes were burning, and she stood, stretching her good arm above her head. “I hate to say it, but I’m tired,” she admitted. “Do you need anything before I go to bed?”
Annabeth gave her a long look. “I’m fine,” she said. She stood, putting her arms around Rachel, careful not to jostle her arm. “Have a good sleep.”
They went their separate ways, and for the first time all afternoon, Rachel gave in to the urge to check her phone. She flipped through the notifications sitting on the edge of her bed. Missed call after missed call, all from her mother.
More importantly, none from Jonas.
Her shoulder hurt. Her chest hurt. Or was it her heart?
You wanted him to let you go, and he did. This what you wanted.
Then why didn’t it feel good? Why did it feel so awful he hadn’t called? The lack of his name on her phone screen was a gaping wound, even more painful than her arm. More painful than anything she’d ever experienced.
She turned out the light and curled up in her own bed, rolling over at the last minute onto a soft lump in the middle. Rachel searched with a hand and came up with the fuzzy shape of a stuffed elk. The emotions of the past week—of the past day, of the past hour—came crashing down on her, along with that old familiar letdown of the holidays being over. No more Jonas. No more holidays. No more merry and bright at the Elk Lodge. No more Christmas music, and no more wild hope—
When she’d seen his face and his reaction to his son, it had swept over her like a wave. Now, just like a wave that had crashed into the shore and receded, the hope was gone, and she was left with an aching heart.
Rachel burst into silent tears, all of them dripping down onto her pillow. She cried and cried until, finally, sleep carried her away.
19
The storm had barreled in while Jonas wasn’t looking, pinning him down to the resort. He couldn’t see past his two hands when he left to go home and get his car. He scanned the skies, hoping Rachel managed to stay ahead of the storm. He went back inside the lobby.
His brothers looked up at his approach. “You’re not leaving?” Gabe asked.
“The snow’s coming down hard and fast. It’s whiteout conditions out there,” he said, his plan rearranging itself around the new circumstances.
“Sorry. Maybe it’s for the best,” Chase said. “Grandmother sent a message. She’s not feeling well—and plans to stay in her rooms the rest of the day.” A spike of fear drove itself through Jonas’s heart. This was all his fault. She was a frail and sick woman, and he upset her. She was supposed to have more time, and he had to make things right with her. “I’m going up there.”
“Not by yourself, you’re not,” Gabe said, as his brothers stood, prepared to join him.
Jonas tried to let the warmth of the resort seep through him as they made their way to the elevator, but instead, he felt chilled to the bone. They rode up to her floor in silence, each one knowing that every day their grandmother had was a blessing that would soon come to an end.
Jonas tried the door, taking the lead. He’d been taking the lead all his life, and he wasn’t going to stop now, just because he was sick with shame