Wrapped Up in Christmas Joy - Janice Lynn Page 0,5

eyes. “But…”

“Look.” He ran his fingers through his hair, still not completely used to having anything more than stubble after years of keeping his dark hair buzzed. “I’m sorry you wasted your time. You should’ve just thrown it out. That book’s nothing but garbage.”

Lots and lots of scribbled garbage a chaplain had suggested he get out of his head by pouring it into the journal the man had gifted to Cole. Not for the first time, Cole regretted giving in to that advice. Seeing everything written out just made him more disgusted with himself, causing the memories to hang even heavier on his shoulders.

Why hadn’t he burned the book rather than packing it with the things he’d brought with him to Pine Hill? The mere act of destroying the journal might have gone further in annihilating his memories than putting them onto paper ever had.

“But,” Sophie began again, her eyes wide and her voice a little trembly. “But it’s…I mean, well, it’s—”

“Garbage,” he repeated, cramming his hands into his pants pockets and clenching his short nails into his palms as deeply as they’d go. He just wanted away from their conversation, away from the book that felt like his personal Achilles’ heel—the weak spot in his defenses that could ruin everything good he’d patched his broken life with. “Throw it away.”

“I…”

At her indecision, understanding dawned.

“You read it, didn’t you?” Cole felt like a fool for not immediately realizing. A new wave of nausea spread through him, popping sweat beads out over his skin despite the crisp November air.

Wide-eyed, her lips parted but no sound came out. No matter. She didn’t need to say the words. The truth was written all over her face.

One of the things Cole most enjoyed about being in Pine Hill was that no one knew of his past. Chief had some idea, and the guys had picked up on a little thanks to Cole’s occasional nightmares, but none of them were in on the nitty-gritty details.

In Pine Hill, he was seen as a man who volunteered his time and energy to everything the firehall was asked to participate in; a man who put his life on the line to save others.

If, while out battling those fires, he fought inner demons, trying to quench them the way he and his crew squelched nearly uncontrollable blazes from time to time, well, no one needed to know that but him.

Only, Sophie had read about his bleakest moments—and his biggest mistake. She knew the truth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking truly remorseful that she’d pried between the pages of his private hell. “I opened it thinking I might find a name so I could return it, but there wasn’t one.” Grimacing, she continued. “And, well, the truth is that once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”

She’d read it all. Of course, she’d read it all. She probably thought him a monster.

As much as he wanted to look away, he didn’t. Jaw locked tight, he kept his gaze unyielding as it met hers. He could handle whatever judgement she placed on him.

Lord knew she couldn’t judge him any more harshly than he judged himself.

“How did you figure out it was mine?”

“There was a Christmas card addressed to you inside a crossword puzzle book that came from the same box. I stuck the card there, inside your journal.”

Without looking at the book, he knew the one she meant. Why had he kept the photo card his mother had sent?

“Toss it as well.”

“But…” she paused, “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” He didn’t want the sentimental reminder of the family he’d never felt a part of any more than he wanted the journal. His mother had her new life, as did his father, complete with new families. There wasn’t a place for him in that picture—but at least they were happy. That was enough for Cole.

“I’m so sorry for what you went through,” Sophie said softly, hugging the journal to her as if she was clinging to the book in effort to keep her hands to herself. As if she wanted to reach out to him.

He didn’t need or want her pity. He’d rather she screamed and yelled at him for his failures. Feeling sorry for him? That, he couldn’t take. He wasn’t some emotional charity case needing her Christmastime goodwill.

He was fine.

Frustration and anger that she’d read his journal burned, taking hold and quickly consuming him. The rational part of him knew it was his fault for not realizing the journal was in the donated box, but