Page 25 of Rebel Moon

“I know. He stayed with me, Ivy. Like the whole night. I was totally passed out, and he must have thought I needed tending, in case I was sick or something.” I paused dramatically. “I could die right now. Honestly, this might be the most mortifying thing I’ve ever done. He’ll never let me live this down.”

“Jack talked to him at breakfast,” Ivy said. “Knox wanted him to know you were fine, so nobody worried. He told Jack he sat up with you till four in the morning just to make sure. Jack said he was really cute about it, actually. I knew it all along. Knox is a softie under all that gruff.”

“Oh, Ivy, this is awful.”

“Honey, you’re not the first person to get drunk at a party and have a sweet boy get you home.”

“I’m not?”

Ivy laughed. “Of course not. It happens to all of us at least once.”

“Not to me.”

“Apparently, it does.” Ivy grinned.

“This is not funny.”

She sobered, but her eyes still twinkled. “Right. Deadly serious. Regardless, brush yourself off. We’re going into town to shop at the Christmas market. We’re all choosing a family to adopt and buy presents for.”

“I can’t go,” I said.

“Put your big girl panties on and be ready in an hour.”

I cringed, thinking about Knox seeing me in my panties. Thank God they’d been a good pair and not one of my weekend cotton granny ones. “You can’t make me.”

“I’m the bride. I get to tell everyone what to do. And you’re my best friend and maid of honor, so you have to do what I want.” She pointed toward the inside of the restaurant. “Go get yourself some greasy food. Nothing a few French fries and a BLT can’t cure.”

“You know I don’t eat meat,” I said under my breath.

Ivy was having none of it. “Grilled cheese, then. I’ll see you in an hour.”

I had no choice but to do as she asked. Even if it killed me.

I was feeling slightly better after a grilled cheese and tomato soup brought to me by the lovely Elliot. She’d also brought me what she claimed was a hangover cure, made of coconut water, orange juice, honey and freshly grated ginger, with a pinch of salt. Although it hadn’t entirely taken away my self-inflicted symptoms, my head ached less and my stomach felt almost back to normal.

Finley drove us to downtown Blue Fern in the ranch bus. On the way, Ivy explained the plan for the day. We would each adopt a local family off a list the town’s committee had put together that included names, ages, sizes, and a few wishes. We’d shop the market, buy gifts, and drop everything with the organizers to be delivered before Christmas.

“The organizers are absolute dolls,” Ivy said. “They said there’s no pressure to spend a lot and that it’s about the spirit of Christmas, not the gifts.” She handed out slips of paper from a folder. “Try to explain the spirit of Christmas to a six-year-old kid, right? So you people need to go big or go home. We can all afford it.”

“Amen, baby,” Jack said.

The Christmas market had taken over the main street of Blue Fern, a double row of white-tented booths strung end to end with lights. Snow had been packed down along the walkways. A brass quartet played carols on the corner by the courthouse. Scents of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and grilled sausages added to the festive mood as folks milled about, shopping and snacking.

I looked down at the slip that ended up in my hand. A single mother. Two kids, a boy of nine and a girl of six. Under wishes, it said: Warm coats. The little girl would love anything to do with art. The boy wants a baseball mitt so he can play in the spring. Mom says please don’t spend money on her, only the children.

I read the last sentence three times, and I don’t know what happened to me, but my eyes filled with tears and my throat ached so badly I could hardly swallow.

Because I knew that mother. I’d never met her but I knew her. I knew the exact math she was doing, the arithmetic of a woman who’d learned to want nothing so there’d be more left over for the people who mattered. My own mother had written that sentence a thousand times without ever writing it down—only the children, don’t worry about me—standing at the stove in a cold house, and I had spent my entire adult life making sure she would never have to say it again.

“You okay?” Ivy asked, beside me.

“Fine.” I swiped the tears from my eyes and put the slip of paper into my pocket. “I’m going to absolutely destroy this assignment. Do we know anything about the mom? Something that she would need or want?”

Let’s ask,” Ivy said. “I see the organizer over by the sausage cart.”

We headed that direction. When Ivy asked the woman for details, she flipped through a notebook. “Ah yes, that’s Martha King. She lost her husband last year. Car accident. Tragic. She’s having trouble making ends meet without him.”

“What can I get her?” I asked. “That would help her.”