Page 31 of Go Back to December

“Concessions and incentives!” she yells over my whining. “Negotiations 101. Consider this a field exercise in bringing diverse factions to the negotiating table.”

This is what founders do.

She disconnects as headlights flash, and an older-model SUV pulls up in front of the building. Baz’s dad—he insisted I call him Peter—opens the passenger door from the inside so I can quickly duck out of the cold. Of all the Johnsons who descended this morning, Peter’s the quietest of the bunch. Even his smile is subdued.

“Got here just in time. It’s coming down.” He nods at the snow. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. Thanks for picking me up.”

Once I’m buckled up, he slides back into the traffic. The leather car seats are well broken in, and he’s turned on the seat warmer ahead of my arrival. The sensation is so delicious, when Peter asks if the heat’s okay, my affirmation comes out with a small moan.

His careful smile returns. He has questions for me; how couldn’t he? None of the Johnsons knew I existed before this morning. They didn’t exist for me either. But now they have names and specific smiles and expectations.

I have my own questions for Peter, which could shed some light on the enigma that is Baz. There are too many spinning through my mind; I can’t settle on an opening gambit that won’t lead me down a slippery path that will expose our fake relationship. And it’s a terrible risk, excavating Baz’s secrets when I don’t know what land mines are buried between him and his family. Asking feels like a betrayal of our deal, and the last thing I’m going to do is give him an excuse to say I’m the one who failed to keep up my end of the bargain. Not when the café, and my last chance at the Lightman, are at stake.

Peter doesn’t push for conversation. He lets the classic Christmas music play between us, and what should be loaded silence, is a moment of tranquility. The peace lasts a solid three minutes before my phone lights up with Craig’s number.

“It’s my brother calling from overseas,” I say. “Do you mind—”

He waves his hand like he’d push me out of the car for being so stupid not to take a call from my brother at Christmas.

“I’m fine,” I greet Craig.

“Jesus, Mallow.” His words are garbled around a synthesized echo on the line. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“No stitches. Well, not real ones.”

He curses, says something that drowns in a screech of a siren in the background.

“Honestly, I’m okay. I would tell you if I weren’t.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He yells at someone to fucking leg it. “Two days, and I’ll get to a place where we can talk. Are you at least with other people who will look after you?”

I glance at Peter. “Yes. I’m good. You stay safe too.”

The line disengages with a click.

“Everything okay?”

My throat’s tight from Craig’s overprotective scolding, but I manage a nod. “Craig’s a military pilot. He’s on a flight training exercise.”

“So he taught you those self-defense moves.”

I smile. “A few. I’m glad he called.”

“He wanted to hear your voice.”

“He knows I needed to hear his.”

Peter huffs an agreement. “Your parents were in the service too?”

“My dad.” I thumb Craig’s dog tag necklace. “He retired from the navy when I was in high school. After twenty years at sea, he moved us to the desert.”

“That must have been quite a switch.”

“The hardest part was adjusting to civilian life. He tried a lot of different things, but none of them stuck. He passed away when I was in college.” I swallow. “Leukemia.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter says softly.