That hit her. Not hard—but she blinked like it grazed something real. She turned away, fiddling with a stack of bookmarks near the register, pretending to straighten them. Her silence was louder than any response.
“I didn’t mean to make things harder,” I offered, softer now.
She let out a quiet laugh—dry and brittle. “You didn’t make them harder. They were already hard. You just… showed up in the middle of it.”
Fair enough.
I moved to the front table, hands in my coat pockets, letting my gaze sweep over the tree she’d set up—its lights still blinking steadily, oblivious to the mess in the room. “Nice display,” I said after a beat, trying for something normal.
Her lips twitched. “Thanks. It’s crooked.”
I tilted my head. “A little. But I figure crooked fits the vibe.”
This time, the smile came—small, reluctant, but real. “You always were the worst at compliments.”
“Didn’t realize that’s what that was.”
“You’re not very good at those either.”
Silence settled again, but it was… lighter now. The tension still lived in the corners, like ghosts that didn’t quite want to leave, but at least it wasn’t sitting between us like a wall anymore.
I tapped the envelope I’d set on the counter earlier. “We’ll be here at five thirty. Should be done before seven.”
“Okay.”
I turned to go but hesitated at the door. “You can say no, you know. If it’s too much. The group, I mean.”
She shook her head slowly. “It’s not too much. It’s good, actually. For the town. For you guys.” She looked at me then, something unreadable in her gaze. “I want this place to mean something again.”
I nodded once.
And then I left—because I knew if I stayed a second longer, I might say something I couldn’t take back.
Chapter4
Callie
The community center buzzed with laughter and the scent of cinnamon and pine, holiday warmth curling around me like an old blanket that didn’t quite fit the way it used to. Twinkling lights hung from the rafters, casting a soft glow over tables dressed in red and green tablecloths. Every surface was smothered in Christmas cheer—paper snowflakes taped to windows, garlands twisted along door frames, and a towering tree in the corner dripping in mismatched ornaments, many of them handmade by kids from the elementary school.
I sat near the back with my arms crossed tight, doing my best impression of invisible. The room overflowed with locals—sipping cider, chatting, their sweaters ranging from “festive” to “fire hazard.” Somewhere, someone’s reindeer antlers were blinking.
I kept my eyes forward, trying not to sigh too obviously as the clipboard-wielding woman up front cheerfully read out names from the volunteer roster.
“Carol Smith for cookie donations! Thank you, Carol!”
Applause rippled around me. I didn’t clap. I’d already donated the shop as a toy drop-off point. That was enough. More than enough. I didn’t need any more holiday spirit shoved onto my plate. As much as I wanted to help, I wanted to make sure that the shop had its best chance of getting the attention it deserved.
She moved on—something about wrapping parties and ornament swaps—while the buzz in the room grew warmer, livelier. Everyone was glowing with good intentions and just the right amount of cinnamon. And yet, I couldn’t shake this twinge in my gut, like something was about to go wrong.
“Now,” the woman said, flipping to a new page, “our most important task of the season—our holiday charity circuit.”
Chairs squeaked as people shifted, some leaning in, others already pulling back.
“Unfortunately, our delivery van driver had to drop out due to an injury, so we’re in urgent need of volunteers to deliver food, gifts, and supplies to elderly residents and families in need.”
And there it was.
A silence crept in—polite, hesitant, the kind that made you stare at your drink or fake a sudden need to check your phone. I did both. The energy in the room dimmed, as if someone had pulled a string of lights and half the bulbs flickered out.
