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My voice gives way as I step back and turn toward the truck I abandoned. “Guys?”
Reed, Bennett, and Cox open the doors and hop out, taking the porch steps two at a time to reach us. When they’ve crowded under the ancient awning of the veranda, we’re all sort of huddled together, and Molly’s shoulders relax like she’s warmed a degree or two.
“What is this?” Her voice is quiet and confused. “Bryan Bennett? Shit—Deandre Cox?”
“Don’t forget the fabulous Breland Reed.” Reed steps up to Molly, taking her hand to kiss the back. “Smith did not exaggerate about you, Christmas Angel.”
Her cheeks flush at that, and she turns to look back at me. Her eyes only hold mine for a moment before looking back to the boys.
“What is this?” She repeats.
“Well, we heard you’ve got eggnog,” Reed continues. “And it’s been a long time since I sat on Santa’s lap. Usually I have Santa sitting on my lap this time of year.”
“Strip Club Santa wearing snowflake-shaped pasties doesn’t count,” Cox corrects him. Reed just grins.
“We’re giving back,” Bennett explains for them. “Smith told us you might need some extra funds and, you know, even if it turned out you didn’t, we figured we’d still try to get him laid.”
“We can’t all be devilishly handsome seven-foot pro ballers,” Reed says. “We have to lend Smith a hand sometimes.”
“Theyaren’there to get me laid,” I correct him, flipping the guys off behind Molly’s back. If they screw this up after all it took to get back here, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Molly turns back to me and this time her eyes lock on mine—I can’t decide if that’s better or worse.
“I…” She blinks, like she’s struggling to find the words. “Gray, what you said the other day… and with the storm, I thought…”
“That sounds like our cue.” Bennett waves to the others to follow him into the lobby. The sounds of recognition from the guests are immediate, and the noises flare up and then deflate as the door swings shut behind them.
I hold my breath, feeling weirdly like even that small of a sound could disrupt something delicately balanced between us.
“Your snow is still magic,” I tell her. “It’s still, like, prime Christmas miracle stuff.”
Molly frowns slightly, her arms drawing up to fold together under my coat.
“We sat in Atlanta traffic all afternoon,” I explain. “Which, when I left my sister’s house this morning, was what I was hoping for. I wanted to be snowed in, kept far away from Little Haven. The guys were troopers. No one complained about cell service or phone batteries while we were battling back the snowstorm all day. The only time it came up was when I was on the phone with Gunderson…”
My breath catches at that part. At the part of the story where I have to start diving deep.
“We only got here because your magic snow gave way just in time,” I continue. “The snowstorm stopped to let us through. To let me get back to you. See? Magic snow. Christmas miracle stuff.”
I brave reaching out to graze Molly’s fingertips, but she inches back. My heart aches at that, and it’s like every painful moment from the last twenty-four hours ricochets through me all at once.
“I quit the Liberty,” I say.
Shit, that doesn’t sound quite real coming out of my mouth. Molly’s eyes widen in response, but she still says nothing.
“I had the Zoom meeting with Gunderson this afternoon, which turned into a call in the middle of Atlanta traffic. Maybe that was a good thing. I don’t know if I’d have quite the same bravery if I had to speak with him face to face.”
“Because you didn’t really want to quit?” Molly’s voice wavers. Her fucking lower lip quivers, and her eyes shine dangerously.
“Because I spent way too much of my life telling myself I shouldn’t want to quit,” I clarify. “Because I’ve never been very good at recognizing when slowing down, going small… goingsmall townmight be the best thing for me. I’ve never been good at recognizing when I got something right the first time, and didn’t need to press beyond. Like how I was good here in Little Haven. I’m good coaching their basketball team. And I’m good with you, Molly. Sometimes when things go so well right at the start, we convince ourselves we somehow haven’t done enough. Even though you were off limits when we were kids, I had something great there. And like with basketball, I think I just kept pressing forward. I kept punishing myself for being happy, thinking I couldn’t possibly be doing enough.”
Quiet.
Well, quiet, except for the soft whisper sounds of fresh falling snow. Molly and I both look out at the abandoned street in front of the inn, lit only by dim streetlights. She holds out one naked hand past the veranda, flakes melting onto her warm fingertips.
“Magic Christmas snow…” Molly mutters. She turns back to me, and there’s a new color in her cheeks. “Right on cue.”
“I’m an idiot,” I mutter. “An asshole. I’ve been wrong my whole life, and I was wrong when I said those things to you in your lobby.”
