“A blizzard’s more than a little time.”
“Then it’s the right amount,” he said.
Outside, the wind stung like penance. Snow swallowed Main Street, leaving two narrow ruts and ghosts of Christmas lights buried under white. I drove slow, the truck chains clinking a steady rhythm.
The community center’s windows glowed like a beacon through the storm. Inside, the place already buzzed with Lydia’s brand of controlled chaos.
“Look who decided to show up!” she called, clipboard in hand, sweater readingSleigh the Dayin glitter. “You’re my favorite Benedict—today.”
“Put it in writing,” I said, setting the heater down.
“After you move those cots. East wall, heads toward the stage. Blankets by size. Cocoa station by the outlets. And for thelove of Christmas, if Mr. Halvorsen won’t wear his hat again, no cookies.”
“Copy that.”
Riley arrived next, arms full of hats and mittens. “Hey, Blue Christmas,” she said. “Here to brood or lift things?”
“Both,” I said.
“Perfect. I’m short one grumpy Santa.” She winked. “By the way, Melanie’s in the corner with Lydia tying bows like she’s personally strangling every ribbon in town. Just thought you’d want to know.”
My pulse stuttered. “Noted.”
The gym turned into a storm shelter in motion—volunteers hauling cots, teens unloading bottled water, Mrs. Mowley setting up a “comfort library” of dog-eared romance novels and worn mysteries. It smelled like cocoa, wet wool, and effort.
I focused on motion. Lift, carry, fix, repeat. The rhythm dulled the ache. I kept my head down and my hands busy until I couldn’t anymore.
Because there she was.
Melanie, in a gray sweater and red scarf, hair escaping from her hat, cheeks flushed from cold and work. She stood by the folding table, helping Lydia stack cups near the cocoa station. Every few minutes, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall again like it didn’t believe in resolve.
I told myself to focus on the extension cords. I even made it three full steps toward the wall before Riley appeared with a box of marshmallows and a smirk. “Maybe start by saying hi. Just an idea.”
“I’m busy.”
“Sure. With your emotional avoidance project.” She dropped the box in my hands. “Deliver these to the cocoa station, Braveheart.”
Traitor.
I crossed the gym, feeling her before she looked up.
Melanie saw me and immediately found something else to adjust—a mug, a napkin, her entire posture. Lydia caught the shift and gave me that warning look that saidbe careful with my friend or I’ll bury you under a snowbank.
I stopped beside the table. “Delivery.”
Melanie didn’t look up. “Riley said you’d bring marshmallows.”
“Yeah. Apparently I’m versatile.”
“Good for you,” she said, her tone sharp enough to slice a ribbon.
I set the box down and watched her tie another bow, this one a little too tight.
“That one didn’t deserve to die,” I said quietly.
Her hands stilled. “I’m working.”
“I can see that.”
