Page 105 of The Christmas Yes List

I’m weak and pathetic.

And I can’t say no. To anybody.

“You’re not walking but running into the arms of this guy who tells you that he wants you and who fulfills some deep desires, but at the same time . . . to what end? To what goal? You’ve got to grow up, Chloe. You’ve got to learn to say no before you really, seriously get hurt.”

I sit in the silence with her.

She’s never talked to me like this in her life. Genie is trying to rip the daydream away. She’s worried, and the seriousness in her gaze tells me I need to be too.

It’s time to grow up.

Maybe.

I throw up my hands. “Fine, Genie. I’ll talk to him. I’ll . . . talk to him tonight.”

Chapter 15

Dinner is, as usual, a chaotic but warm and highly lovable mess of hands reaching in for platters and chatter so loud that it threatens to blow the ceiling off. Tablecloths cover folding tables laid out across nearly every square inch of the living room. The high ceiling and its old bronze chandelier quake when laughter (from two uncles in particular) reaches a certain volume.

Our tree, which was grabbed swiftly by half a dozen helpful people when we returned, was taken inside and, for all intents and purposes, attacked by children with lights and ornaments until they, at last, stepped back and chaotic beauty was achieved.

I was right.

It’s glorious.

Genie and Peter’s tree (a full two feet shorter and far less refined than ours, thankyouverymuch) was similarly attacked and clobbered with ornaments in the library, where it glows adjacent to us now.

Everybody is dressed in their finest for the evening, except for a few kids who are already in costume, ready for the after-dinner no-talent Christmas-themed talent show. A paper elf hat keeps falling off the head of the six-year-old seated beside me and onto her plate, which means that 95 percent of the time, it lands in mashed potatoes. On the other side of us, Genie and Peter chat and eat.

And James?

Well, he smiles just as politely as anyone ever has while the man beside him shares all about his real estate business.

By dessert, my nerves are starting to short-circuit. I take one sip of the after-dinner coffee and then push it away before I blow up. I’m not going to make it to after the show.

“Hey,” I lean over and whisper as the plates begin to clear. “Do you have a minute?”

Evidently, these are universal words that grab anyone’s attention.

James pauses halfway to standing with his plate, and his forehead screws up into several folds. “Sure,” he says lightly, though I can feel him sensing the seriousness of my request.

“All right, everyone!” my mother calls, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “The no-talent talent show is starting in five minutes beside the tree!”

“Where do you . . . want to talk?” he asks.

I put on a smile that projects We’re all okay here. “We can clear these plates, then I know a spot.”

We put our dishes in the sink with an unusual stifled, awkward silence between us. Then, still smiling in a reassuring way, I head to the front of the house and shrug on my coat. He does the same.

The outside of the farmhouse is cold, with almost painfully lung-cleaning freezing oxygen. The floorboards of the old porch creak in protest as I walk us past glowing window after window. We turn to the side porch, then at last exit through a screen and onto the back. It’s here, at an abandoned old porch swing, I rest.

With a certain level of uncertainty, James clasps his hands and sits too.

“So,” I say.

Oh, I loathe this. I loathe this moment.

“I just . . . wanted to . . . check in.”