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I laugh before the sound falls flat. Cousin. That’s the second time Oxley has called Nick his cousin, but yesterday as he drove me home from the airport, he’d mentioned that it was only a few months ago he’d helped his cousin bury his aunt. Is he referring to the same cousin?
“Wait,” I say, my mind whirling. When we were out by the side of the road, Nick had mentioned something to me about dealing with grief, about how the essence of our loved ones is still around us, woven into the fabric of our memories, and I’d brushed him off, assuming he didn’t know what he was talking about because he’s never lost anyone in his life, and I was sure that if he had, Nana would have said something. But if I’m right, if Nick is the cousin Oxley was referring to, then his aunt would be Nick’s mom. “Oh shit,” I breathe, my eyes widening with horror as I grip Nick’s hand, looking up into his heavy blue stare.
His brows furrow, clearly having no idea what I’ve just figured out, but as he holds my stare and takes in the horror deep in my eyes, he quickly figures it out.
“No,” I breathe, having so many memories of Nick’s mom. Hell, she was practically a mother to me too. Before her, I didn’t know what it was like to be loved by a mom. Of course, I always had Nana, but after my real mother abandoned me at six years old, I’d always had a gaping hole in my chest, always wondering what it meant to be loved in that way. Nick’s mom gave me that. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
“Come on, B,” Nick says, fear in his eyes as the grief wells up inside of me, darkening my soul. “After everything that’s already gone down today, let’s not get into it. I can’t talk about her with you, not yet.”
I swallow hard. His words are like a blade right through the chest.
“Oh,” I say, dropping my gaze and releasing my hold on his hand. I turn my face away, not wanting him to see the fresh tears pooling in my eyes. All of this time, he’s been dealing with the loss of his mother, and I’ve been living it up in New York, blissfully unaware when he needed me more than anything. I wasn’t there for him, but when it came down to it, would he have wanted me here in the first place? I doubt it.
I sit in silence, the heaviness stretching between us. My tears start to fall, but in an effort not to draw attention to my grief, I just leave them slowly rolling down my cheeks until they drop to my chest.
With Nick’s attention out the window, it’s easy to hide my tears, but with my chin pointed toward Oxley, the tears don’t entirely go unnoticed. He gives me a small smile, and without skipping a beat, he reaches toward the dash, pressing a button before cranking the volume.
A song begins to play and my brows furrow, recognizing the tune but unable to quite put my finger on it until the line,put your hands down my pants and I’ll bet you’ll feel nutsblares through the speakers. I burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, realizing Oxley has put on only the best song of my childhood, “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang.
When the chorus hits, Oxley and I can’t resist singing it word for word at the top of our voices while the broody asshole beside me continues to brood, but there’s no mistaking the tiny little smirk playing on his lips. He never could resist this song.
The song quickly eats up the tension in the cab, and before I know it, we’re flying right back through our little town of Blushing. It’s only a few minutes before we pull up outside my nana’s place, and knowing that my time with Nick is almost up, a pang of sadness spreads through my chest. I have no idea when I might get to see him again.
Are we just going to leave our insults and admissions hanging in the air around us, with both of us still hurting?
Shit.
Oxley cuts the engine, and before the music has even faded out of existence, Nick’s door is open, and he flings himself out into the cold evening air. I hurry after him, positive he’s about to dump my tree in the snow and leave me with the task of dragging its singed ass inside, but Oxley’s hand on my thigh stops me. “I don’t know what you did to that asshole,” he mutters. “But you need to fix it. I haven’t seen him this worked up since he got that suspension for beating the shit out of Jarrod Sanderson.”
I cringe. “I remember that.”
Oxley nods. “Then you know just how serious this is.”
Fuck.
“I can try, but you know how he is,” I say. “Neither of us is in a place where we’re capable of having any kind of civilized conversation. Those two hours stuck on the side of the road were filled with endless screaming back and forth. We—”
“Are you fucking coming?” Nick calls out to Oxley, cutting me off as he unstraps my tree.
Oxley fixes me with a hard stare. “I don’t care how you do it,” he says, opening his door and glancing back at me. “But you’re fixing it. I’ve got too much going on to have to worry about him too.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” I whisper-yell at his back, watching as he climbs out of his truck. “In case you haven’t noticed, the guy is impossible.”
Oxley whips back around, giving me a stupid grin before reaching into the cab and grabbing his coat. “Sounds like ayouproblem,” he says before bailing and leaving to help Nick with the tree.
I roll my eyes as I scootch out of the truck, and realizing that the boys aren’t stopping to dump the tree on the ground, I hurry up ahead of them, leaving footprints in the light smatter of snow coating my driveway. My hand dives deep into my bag, searching for the key, and after way too long, I finally curl my fingers around it.
“Sure, take your time,” Nick says impatiently from behind me. “We’re only carrying a fucking tree.”
I resist turning around and sack-whacking him while his hands are occupied. Instead, I focus on unlocking the door. Screw the Naughty List. I need a fucking drinking list if I’m going to survive being in Blushing for the next few weeks.
Getting the door open, I move out of the way, making space for Nick and Oxley to file through the door with my half-burned tree balanced over their shoulders. They get it situated in the living room, right where Nana always used to put her tree, and I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. Maybe Nick was onto something about feeling the essence of someone within your memories.
The boys are silent as they get the tree secured so it won’t fall over and crush me, and as I gaze at the burned remains of the tree, I start to feel that Christmas magic I was searching for. Maybe I was onto something by decorating my home.
Nick stands back and surveys his handiwork before reaching through to the trunk of the tree and rotating it just enough so that the majority of the charred tree is at the back with the luscious green pine needles dazzling at the front. Then just when I expect him to take off, he mutters something to Oxley about starting my fireplace, and before I can tell him that I can figure it out myself, he takes off down the hall.
“Uhhhhh . . . where the hell do you think you’re going?” I demand, calling after him as he disappears into my old bedroom.
