Stuck in a cabin for God knows how long with my ex-husband? It’s my worst nightmare. I wasn’t counting on Hank being here. He makes it worse. The memories. I wanted to deal with my demons alone.
I need to keep myself busy.
Sighing, I scan the room. The fireplace, the bookshelf and chairs. The corner where we always put our tree.
Bare. This place is so damn bare. There’s nothing, not even a scrap of Christmas cheer.
That’s what I’ll do.
I’ll decorate.
It’s exactly what I need. Mindless work to take my mind off everything. The memories. Hank’s surly attitude. The storm roaring outside.
To set the mood, I make a fire. Then, from the small storage space, I pull out two boxes and a large plastic tote.
I open the first box and laugh. I can’t help it. Hank’s décor is ridiculous. He’s cheesy like that. He loves fruit cake and the not-so-politically-correct 1964Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeermovie. While he preferred traditional Christmas décor—gaudy red and green decorations and multicolored lights—I preferred a more minimalist approach. Bare garland, creamy ivory stockings and white lights that screamed winter wonderland.
Our different tastes made us bicker and laugh and tease, but we made it work. We always made it work.
Until we couldn’t.
I lift a one-eyed nutcracker. Then dump it back in the box.
Nope. This is my Christmas.
For the next few hours, I busy myself with unpacking. By the time noon rolls around, I’ve successfully sorted the decorations and the snow globes, and I’ve untangled the lights.
That’s when I realize Hank’s décor and mine have been mixed together so thoroughly, they’ve merged into one gigantic pile.
I swallow.
It never used to be like this.
It’s so sad that we’re now living two completely separate lives, when for so long, they were one. We were one. Loved careful and close. Like a secret between two souls.
For some, Christmas means big, chaotic families, early mornings and a hundred activities, but for Hank and me, it meant our cabin. It meant five days of cozy cooped-up togetherness. Late mornings tangled in the sheets, then working the tree farm with Papa Blue in the afternoons. At night, we lit a fire and decorated for the upcoming holiday.
Dropping into a crouch, I dig through a box and feel the soft edge of fabric, a small loop catching my index finger. I pull out the decoration, along with the second just like it, and hold them up in front of me. Our stockings. I bite my lip. Do I hang Hank’s? Why would I? He’s not staying.
I agonize over the decision, my chest aching, then decide to hang neither. Back in the box they go.
I’m chewing on a candy cane and pondering next decorating steps when the door flies open. The blast of air rustles the garland wrapped around my neck like a boa.
Hank’s cheekbones and the tip of his nose are bright pink, windswept. Snow dusts his Stetson, those broad shoulders covered in a thick Carhartt jacket. Zelda beelines for me, pawing my leggings and letting out happy yips as I rough her fur.
Maybe he means to, maybe he doesn’t, but he stops at the threshold.
My mind instantly goes to our tradition. Of meeting there after work. How he leaned in. How warm his mouth was against mine, his big hand sliding up my cold throat and cradling my jaw as he kissed me.
The memory is quickly sideswiped by another.
Blood. Footprints.
If I could burn this memory, I would.
Hank’s mouth moves. He’s speaking, but I’ve heard none of it.
I shake my head. “Sorry, what?”
