Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

13

My gaze zeroes in on Alessia, trying to get a read on her, but her eyes are shuttered in a way I haven’t seen before. This is bad. She’s always been an open book with me, never hiding her disdain or, more recently, her affection.

I need to ensure this doesn’t set us back. That she understands I would never make a move on her sister or anyone else now we’re together. That I’m hers and always will be.

I blink. Whoa, there, buddy. Now is not the time for the admission of big feelings.

Alessia’s eyes drift shut as if she, too, is having big thoughts and attempting to regain control. My stomach sinks. My chest feels like it’s been punched by a giant fist.

“We’ll talk later, okay?” She says, and I can’t tell by her tone whether she means to reassure or accuse. “We have to go now, Paige.”

Paige meets my terror-filled eyes. She mimes taking a deep breath and exhaling using hand motions, then mouths I’ll talk to her. She takes long strides through the door and into the parking lot after Alessia.

I’m lost.

Then I’m disappointed. Beyond frustrated.

Alessia ought to know by now. I’ve proven myself over and over these past weeks.

I never did anything to make her doubt me in the first place. I’m not her father. Not even close.

She’s chosen time and again to view me through a specific lens I never deserved, never earned. It stings.

More than stings. It crushes me.

Breathe.

Clenching my fists against the swift desire to take out my frustration on the nearest hunk of drywall, I instead storm out to my SUV and head to the gym. It’s healthier to pray while working out my feelings than to hit things. First, I head through the drive-thru for tacos. My sisters’ preferred emotional support foods were always brownies or ice cream. Me? I need spicy meat and cheese dripping with grease and sauce from either end of a crunchy corn shell.

Once my belly’s full, my head has sorted itself out again. Lord willing, Alessia will hear me out after Paige tells her side. She’ll know the truth and trust me. I’ll keep showing her she can.

It’s up to her to decide if she’s brave enough to love me.

All I can do is love her either way.

Alessia

“It was my cheek, Les. He didn’t want to, but that lady was a pushy old bird,” Paige says the second her butt hits the passenger seat.

Once she’s buckled, I peel out of the lot as fast as I dare, careful to watch for pedestrians. We are so late.

“I know.”

“You do? Then why are you upset?”

I take a moment to analyze my feelings.

Paige texted to let me know she’d arrived at Valle Encantado, having dropped me at work this morning so she could have my car while I put the finishing touches on the pool house before we had to leave to pick up Dad at the airport. I’d let her know it would be a few minutes while I put away my supplies and locked everything up for the holiday weekend.

As I walked the hall toward the front desk, I bemoaned the addition of several sprigs of mistletoe, but I didn’t have the time or ambition to pull them down anymore. I heard what Mrs. Walker said, and Paige calling Dan her brother. I saw their unspoken conversation.

Intellectually, I know neither one of them wanted any part of Mrs. Walker’s insistence on upholding tradition. Dan was both chivalrous and careful with the placement of his nanosecond lip press.

It was the look that got me—the conversation without words. I don’t know why it stung, but it did. Immediately and without conscious will, my thoughts spiraled into wondering when they’d met, how they’d met, how long had they known one another to have such an intimacy. Silent conversations are for couples who’ve known one another so long they don’t need words, right?

Their protests were unnecessary. I knew neither had been a willing participant. It wasn’t even a real kiss. Dan hadn’t put the moves on my sister, nor vice versa.

My hurt was irrational. I know that too.

Maybe it hit so hard because my nerves were already shot after a poor night’s sleep spent tossing and turning over why Dad would leave his wife in Nashville behind for an impromptu holiday with us. Maybe it’s that I’ve been increasingly aware of my feelings for Dan despite more than a decade and a half of resisting them. For so long, he’s represented my deepest fears stemming from my dad’s infidelity, and now both of those worlds are about to clash.

I’ve often wondered if telling Dad the truth about how his actions affected me would benefit my mental health or if it would simply put him on the defensive. He’s never expressed regret for what he did, at least not to his two oldest daughters.

I can’t speak for the others since I’ve never really known them.

“Les? Please talk to me,” Paige begs. Her tone drips with misery.

I tug my gaze from the interstate ahead and glance at my sister to find her brows slanted downward and lips pinched in worry. I cringe, hating the way I got lost in my head again and left her hanging.

“I’m okay. Promise. I trust you and, shockingly, I trust Dan.”

Feels right to say so aloud, and it’s true. I do trust him. More than I knew even an hour ago. Dan would never willingly hurt me. I don’t know how I know, I just do, and that fills me with peace enough to put aside the twinge of anxiety and hurt I felt when I saw their shared look under the mistletoe.

“Then help me understand what’s going on in your head.”

I shrug and toss her a grimace. “I’ve got issues. Dad’s betrayal really messed me up, you know?”

She nods. “Same.”

If anyone understands, it’s her.

I was twelve when my world imploded at the revelation of her existence. She was seven. Quiet, observant, and too mature for her age. We forged a tenuous relationship once I got over my resentment toward her, which didn’t last as long as you might expect, considering the impact the situation itself still has on me. I’d always wanted a sibling, and she treated me with such hero worship I couldn’t shield my heart from her if I tried. The circumstances of her birth weren’t her fault—they were Dad’s.

Once I retargeted my anger to the party truly responsible, forging a long-distance sisterhood was easy. Dad arranged with both our moms to overlap our visitation schedules and holidays. We grew closer as she entered high school, the same time I began distancing myself from Mom in college. Paige graduated high school and did her undergrad here in Albuquerque. As roommates our relationship grew from sisterhood to friendship, and it felt as though a part of me was amputated when she moved to California for law school.

Paige knows me better than anyone, so it shouldn’t surprise me when she pokes me in the arm and says, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“N—” There’s no point denying I have feelings, but love? I still haven’t decided for sure. “Maybe?”

Paige laughs. “Gotcha. Word of advice? Figure it out and tell him sooner rather than later. He looked pretty shaken up when you stormed out.”

“I didn’t storm out.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Groaning, I take the exit toward the arrivals level at the Sunport for the second time this week. Paige gets a text from Dad letting us know where he’s waiting, and it’s time to push thoughts of Danger Stevens and my feelings for him aside.

I’m going to need all my emotional resources to deal with whatever prompted Dad to drop everything and fly to Albuquerque for Christmas.

“Does my heart good to see you girls together,” Dad says with a happy smile as we enjoy our Christmas Eve dinner of Dino’s pepperoni and green chile pizza in my living room.

I say happy, but there are shadows behind his eyes I study with growing concern. He’s trying hard to act like nothing’s wrong, so I’ll give him a pass until after dinner.

He reaches across my coffee table for another slice. “I’ve missed this.”

“The pizza?” Paige snickers around a mouthful.

“That too, but I mean the three of us enjoying a meal like old times. Pizza straight from the box in the living room, good music in the background. Though, your house is way nicer than some of the places I lived then.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I accept the compliment without reading anything into it.

Dad always made enough money to avoid the starving artist stereotype, though some years not by much. Now that I’m older and more cynical, I wonder how much of his income went into supporting his assorted offspring.

As far as I know, Paige and I are the only two kids he has much of a relationship with. Paige has tried harder to get to know our other half-siblings than I have, which I suppose is logical since Dad and her mom’s affair only lasted a couple of years. Paige never really had a nuclear family with two married parents the way I did, so she didn’t need therapy to process her world upending as mine had.

By the time we learned there were more kids out there, I was in high school. Life was contentious enough with Dad by then, so I avoided him unless Paige was around. Not much has changed.

Dad and Paige are on their feet clearing the dinner detritus when I realize I’ve been in my head again. Paige won’t think anything of it, but if I know Dad, he’ll have some remark about my rudeness or how closed off I am.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t say a word, but as the evening fades with the setting sun, Dad’s mood follows.

Paige and I shoot each other concerned looks. She hasn’t missed his weird vibes either. His calling to ask us to spend Christmas with him in Nashville was weird enough, but showing up with twenty-four hours’ notice and no explanation is so far out of character for him, we’re more than a little concerned.

“Is everything okay, Dad?”

I breathe a grateful sigh Paige was brave enough to broach the subject first.

Dad’s fingers tap a beat on his knee as his heel bounces a counterrhythm.

“Please, Dad,” I urge, twisting my fingers in my lap. “Paige is worried you’re sick or something. If it’s bad news, please tell us.”

“I’m healthy as far as I know. I—” He shoves his fingers into his hair, still naturally dark and barely graying along his temples. “I just didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

His admission has Paige and I consulting each other in silence over the top of his bent head.

“What about Cherise?”

“Chelsea,” Paige corrects under her breath.

Whoops.

“Sorry. Chelsea. It’s your first Christmas.”

“She kicked me out.”

My mind’s whirling, none of the thoughts helpful or beneficial.

“What happened, Dad?”

Thank God for Paige.

“She’s been having an affair from the start,” he says after several long moments. “I’d just signed on with White Hellebore when we met. Knew we’d be on the road; said she was okay with it. Our love was strong enough, absence makes the heart grow fonder, blah blah blah. Same”—curse—“I used to tell women when I wanted to keep them on the hook. But I was such a fool in love I didn’t see her using my own tactics.”

Wow. Didn’t see that one coming. They looked so happy at their wedding in January. Admittedly, I didn’t exactly spend much time getting to know the woman, but she looked at him with stars in her eyes and he as if she hung the moon. All the clichés.

“I found out in August. I was wrecked, but not ready to throw in the towel. Begged her to do counseling, agreed to an open marriage, whatever she needed.”

“Dad, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not healthy, okay?” he says, in a voice so broken I’m fighting compassionate tears I never imagined having for this man. “But I love her.”

Paige scoots closer to Dad on the couch and puts her arm around him. She’s always been so much better at handling emotions. He starts crying, and it guts me so hard I’m ready to join him. Men’s tears always get to me, and I’ve never seen my dad cry.

There’s not much room on the other side of Dad, but I squeeze into the spot. He and Paige shift to create space, and the three of us sit there a long time as Dad explains how she kicked him out the same day the band let him go to reinstate their original guitarist. I want to find the fair-weathered opportunistic gold-digger he married and rip her hair out.

At the same time, a tiny piece of me buried way deep-down murmurs, “what goes around, comes around.” Am I a horrible person? I don’t want to hear those words, and I’m working toward silencing them.

Forgiveness is an ongoing process, I hear.

Dad stares at his crisscrossed hands resting on spread knees. “How many people have I hurt?” I cringe as he misuses the Lord’s name. “I’m so sorry I hurt you both. You two are the best parts of me. I’ve spent my whole—” cursing “—life being an—” ugly word. “No more. You deserve better.”

The rest of the night is surreal. Once Dad finishes pouring his heart out under Paige’s patient consolation, he gets up as though nothing happened. Not in a way that suggests he’s disingenuous, more like how I separate my feelings sometimes into buckets to better focus and not let any single emotion take over. It’s weird to observe the behavior in someone else, but knowing we share genes, it’s comforting in a way to recognize a similarity between me and my dad. I’ve never really looked for any, aside from physical attributes.

The three of us end up having a wonderful Christmas Eve. Dad and Paige sing carols, their voices harmonizing beautifully. I have mercy on them, mouthing the words instead of subjecting them to my goose honk. We follow the city’s luminaria tour through the country club area, and though we’re stuck in slow moving, bumper to bumper traffic the entire time, it gives us plenty of opportunities to catch Dad up on our lives. For the first time, I think he’s truly listening… and possibly cares more than I’ve given him credit for.

I crawl into bed late, my heart and head full to the brim. It’s been quite the day, and I’m going to be up for hours processing everything.

One thing can’t wait, though.

I call Dan to clear the air. He doesn’t answer, so I send him a brief text, hoping if he’s already asleep he’ll see it in the morning.

I’m sorry. I do trust you. Please call me.

When fifteen minutes pass without a response, I send one more message in case he’s not asleep. I shouldn’t. I ought to give it to God and trust Dan will reply tomorrow, but I can’t. I type three simple words that convey the churning feelings I’m wrestling with instead of sleeping.

Are we okay?

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake in the morning, my text shows as read.

No reply.

What have I done?

Dan

Christmas Day dawns early and far too loud.

After last night’s much-needed Christmas Eve service, Rick, Scout, and the kids slept over as is our tradition, and judging by the scuffle I hear, the munchkins are already awake. Scout shushes them, but they’ll only be able to contain the beasts so long.

I get out of bed, yawning and stretching, and plod to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom I’ve shared with Tory since childhood. Mom doesn’t care about my perfectly nice house across the street with a real bed instead of a futon in the corner of Mave’s new nursery. The whole family wakes up on Christmas morning under the same roof. End of story.

Tory barges in the second I finish essential ablutions—no one’s allowed to shower or dress either—and grumbles about renting a place in Rio Rancho. It’s an empty threat. We both know moving twenty minutes away isn’t going to get her out of sharing a bathroom with me on Christmas morning.

I chuckle as I close myself into my former bedroom to change my underwear and put on a T-shirt. Mom can force us to wear our pajamas, but I haven’t slept in a shirt since I was a kid, and I refuse to spend half the day in yesterday’s briefs. Before heading downstairs, I take my phone off the charger and reread Alessia’s messages from last night.

She called in the middle of the candlelight service, but by the time we returned home it was too late to call her back. Much as I wanted to reply to her texts, I didn’t know what to say. I’m relieved she texted me, but she left me wondering the entire day.

If she cares about me, why would she do that?

I’ve been ready to go all-in from the beginning, and I know she needs to process longer than most and often gets stuck in her own head, but man. Sometimes I’m left wondering if she and I are in the same book, let alone on the same page. I’m in a holiday romance while she’s over in a psychology journal.

My head is pounding. I need coffee before anything else.

Grams is in the kitchen when I walk in, pulling out a tray of her once-a-year cinnamon buns. They’re not quite as good as the craft fair lady’s, but they’re still delicious.

“Smells amazing, Grams.”

“Thanks, Danny. Bacon or sausage?” Grams points her spatula to the cast iron skillet on the stove.

“Both. Coffee?” I yawn, scratching my stomach.

“Pot’s on. There’s plain vanilla or Tory’s fancy peppermint creamer in the fridge.”

Peppermint reminds me of Alessia. I choose the vanilla.

I need to reply to her texts, but I’m tied between wanting to show up at her place and obligation to my family. I wish we could’ve figured everything out yesterday and then spent Christmas Eve together, side by side in the worship service before heading to my house to argue over another sappy Christmas movie. With Paige in town, that was never going to happen, but a guy can dream.

The rest of the clan traipses in and out of the kitchen, filling plates with food, glasses with juice, or mugs with coffee, then taking seats around the long dining room table we use when everyone’s here and it’s too cold to eat al fresco. Normally, I relish the kids’ antics, my sisters and their husbands’ teasing, and the sheer volume of noise we create. Husband this year. Brian’s loss is written in the shadows of everyone’s expressions.

My gaze assesses Mave, a habit I’ve developed over these past months. She appears to be doing all right, but I worry about her. I can only imagine the grief of losing a spouse, so I have no way to gauge what’s normal and what isn’t. She cried last night during the service, and I heard the soft murmurs of her and Tory’s voices late into the night on the other side of the bathroom door, so I know she’s letting herself feel what she needs to feel. That’s good.

But I worry she’s putting on a brave face for the rest of us this morning.

After breakfast, Rick and I clear the table—another of Mom’s rules is men clean up if the women cook and vice versa. By fifteen, I learned to cook simply to get out of seven days a week of dish duty.

We exchange gifts, laughing and teasing as always, and I’d almost believe it were a normal year and Brian’s simply out of town if it weren’t for Scout’s big mouth.

From the guilt in her downturned expression, she didn’t mean to say his name, an unspoken rule we’d been abiding by, but it’s enough to change the atmosphere and break Mave. Scout races to Mave’s side, wrapping her into a hug, as Mave’s gasping sobs bring us to the verge of adding our own tears to the mix.

“I’m so sorry,” Scout croons over and over as they rock together.

“No, I’m glad you said his name,” Mave sniffles as they break apart. “To be honest, I was afraid to because I could tell you guys were trying so hard. I miss him so much, and I knew this first Christmas without him would be awful. But I’m not going to break if we talk about him.”

Mave’s gaze circles the silent room, watery but smiling. “I love you all. Thank you for surrounding me with love and family the past six months. I couldn’t have faced it without any of you.” She sniffs. “But do me a favor and quit treating me like I’ll fall apart if you bring him up. He was my husband, he’s gone, and I’m sad. But we had six wonderful years together,” she pauses to run a hand lovingly over the enormous swell of her ready-to-pop belly. “And I want our baby to know everything about his or her daddy. Which means you’ll need to tell him or her as many stories as I do.”

Mom strides across the room and sits on the other side of Mave, folding her in a hug and patting Scout’s shoulder at the same time.

Mave laughs a wet chuckle, wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue from the box I offer. “Now, thank you, but can we get back to our regularly scheduled Christmas gift exchange? I think somebody here is in a hurry to go see his sweetheart.”

All eyes follow the direction of her gaze. Mine go wide at her pointed look. There’s no hiding anything from this houseful of women too insightful for their own good, so I nod.

“Yes, where is she?” Mom asks.

“Would’ve thought you’d invite her.” Grams adds.

My sisters wear knowing smirks, so I rise to my feet.

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. I’ll go remedy the situation right now.” My glare dares them to challenge me.

“But Unca Dan, I want my last pwesent!” cries Zack, clutching a wrapped rectangular package.

The rest of the family laughs as he stomps his foot, putting both hands on his hips and frowning.

“Don’t yaugh at me!”

Obediently, I press my lips together and screw my face into a serious expression as I resume my seat. “Apologies, little man. Proceed.”

He wastes no time tearing into the box and crying out with delight at the Lego Duplo set. I can’t wait till he’s old enough to build with the regular sized ones. I’m going to have so much fun with them building my old Lego sets up in Grams’s attic.

I leave Rick to present his final gift to Scout, a trip to Scotland I already know about, and sneak toward the front door. I catch Mom’s raised eyebrow and mouth Alessia. She nods, giving permission for me to leave. Grabbing my keys, wallet, and phone from the bowl on the table at the foot of the stairs, I jog across the street, wincing at the cold seeping through my socked feet.

If I change quickly, I should be at her house in twenty minutes tops. Except when I look up, there’s a car in my driveway. Hers.

It’s off but still warm. A glance toward my front porch reveals Alessia bundled inside a heavy coat, hat, gloves, and boots as if we lived four hundred miles farther north instead of the Southwest desert. The sight of her sitting on the heavy oak bench Silas left behind flips my stomach. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her, not knowing whether we’re going to get past her issues or not.

“Hey,” I say. Her being here is a good sign, right?

She gives me a smile I can’t quite read. “Hi. I wasn’t sure what to do when you weren’t home.”

I thumb toward Mom and Grams’s house. Alessia nods.

Making quick work of the front deadbolt, I usher her into the warmth of my living room.

“Tea?” I offer, knowing how she hates coffee.

“Yes, please.”

She lags a few steps behind, I’m guessing to shed her bulky outerwear, as I stride into the kitchen to fill a mug with water. I place it in the microwave to heat up and dig through the cabinet for the box of assorted herbal teas I bought purely for her. She selects one, and when the microwave beeps, retrieves the steaming mug, and drops the bag inside.

I enjoy the silence with Alessia as we return to the living room and take our seats on opposing ends of the couch same as we did on Blue Hawaii night. I’ve learned from countless conversations with my sisters to respect the time a woman needs to gather her thoughts.

She sips from her mug, stealing glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. I pretend to examine my bookcases, keeping her in my periphery. Waiting.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, setting her empty mug on the end table beside her. “Paige insists I stormed out yesterday, that you probably think I freaked out about the mistletoe kiss.”

I say nothing but dip my head.

“I was laser focused on leaving to pick up my dad from the airport. Plus,” Alessia sucks in a breath before continuing, her words spewing with increasing speed. “I found mistletoe everywhere and I didn’t have time to take it down, and whoever keeps putting it up is driving me insane! Then I walk in and see my beautiful sister being kissed by the man I l–like—”

Her chest heaves after that episode of verbal vomit.

“I didn’t—” She cuts me off with a hand raise.

“I know, Dan.” She knows how much I love the way she says my name. Her gaze connects with mine, soft and open as she reaches her hand across the middle cushion. A silent invitation to meet halfway. “I didn’t doubt you for a second. You are not the man I used to accuse you of being. I haven’t believed that for a while. I know you. I know Paige. More importantly, I trust you.”

“Then why did you sound so annoyed? The way you glared at us and said, ‘Really?’ gave me chills.” I shudder to prove my point.

She laughs softly through her nose. “Can I be honest? For a second there, I thought you or Paige were my mistletoe culprits. Silly, right?”