A warm hand on my shoulder.
A kiss that’s slow and reverent.
His eyes are bright green, not blue.
And looking at me like I am his whole world.
My heart pounds, trying to escape my chest. But it’s a dream, just a silly figment of my imagination. I shove the images down where I keep everything I can’t face.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, wanting to laugh and cry simultaneously. This is what hope gets me. The universe is crashing me back to reality. My hand gravitates to my stomach, drawn by instinct to what might lie within. The possibility that changes everything. The complication I never saw coming.
Slipping on my robe, I make my way to the sunroom. Beyond a wall of glass, snow-capped mountains rise against the sky, their peaks glistening in the moonlight. This is my favorite corner of the house.
With her green thumb and artistic eye, my mother-in-law has transformed the space into a lush oasis. Ferns, pothos, and monsteras spill from shelves andcorners, their vibrant leaves creating the feeling of a secret garden. A cozy seating area with plush armchairs, a Chesterfield sofa, and a gas fireplace invites you to curl up with a book, disappear into the view, or escape for a moment of solitude.
I gaze out over the mountains as memories of Christmases here flood back.
Margaret's patience teaching me to bake, sharing stories about love and life. Hours of laughter with Jules, conversations that always made me smile and think. Watching the twins grow from tiny infants into opinionated, hilarious boys. Gary and Tom battling over snowman building while my nephews directed from the sidelines. Afternoons teaching my nephews how to ice skate.
My period has been late before—from stress, too much running, or simply not taking care of my body. It could be any of those things, and Jules could be wrong. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it today. It’s Christmas, and nothing will be open—a charm of this little Vermont village.
I wrap myself in a chair and watch for hours as the moonlight dances across the peaks, until the sound of my nephews stirring begins to rouse the house.Santa came. Everyone but Mason and Ivy shows up. They both skip the early morning gift opening, choosing sleep over chaos. James is here, and somehow that doesn’t surprise me.
Sinking into the sectional cushions, I get lost in the pleasure of seeing the twins’ eyes wide with wonder at each new item unwrapped. James stands off to the side, his eyes analyzing the seating options. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he gingerly makes his way to the open cushion on the sectional, which is next to me.
I fold my hands together and cross my legs, holding my body as still as possible. He seems equally affected by the proximity. His eyes stay on Beck and Leo until Bell walks over and rests her head on his knee. He exhales and pats the dog, finally looking at me.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“Yeah, my stomach’s fine,” I say, hearing how sharp I sound.
What else can I say?
Actually, I’m a fucking mess. I had a dream where I’m pretty sure you were the leading man with me and my baby. Cool, right? We’ve known each other for forty-eight hours. Totally normal.
His hand pauses on Bell’s head, and his jaw tightens. “Can I grab you a coffee?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll get it later.”
“It’s a cup of coffee, Sydney. I’m heading that way anyway. How do you take it?”
“Well… okay.” I glance away, flushed by how monumental the question feels. “Some oat milk. The color of a latte.”
“So, a splash of coffee with oat milk. Got it.”
My eyes, the traitorous things, can’t help but follow him. Gray sweatpants hang loose over long, easy limbs. His old college sweatshirt faded and frayed at the cuffs. Even his tousled hair tells a story: no products, just a quick pass of his hand. Mason will show up in a crisp button-down, not a strand out of place, every inch of him composed to stay that way.
“Did I get it right?” James flushes, watching me examine the cup he’s returned with.
“Yeah, you did.”
After the presents are opened, the kids run off to test their new toys while the other adults drift off. But I stay rooted on the sectional, beside this man I can’t seem to pull myself away from. He leans back, running a hand through his hair. I sit cross-legged, plenty of space between us, but when he leans forward and his eyes fix on me, my stomach flips.
“Tell me about young Sydney.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I choke out.
“Come on, give me something. Were you serious? Funny in a self-deprecating way? Drive all the boys wild in high school?”
