Christmas With My Ex (Stuck For the Holidays)

4. Nicholas

FOUR

Nicholas

I just want you for my own / More than you could ever know.

The Last Dollar Saloon

100 E Colorado Avenue

2:29 pm

The word is barely out of my mouth before her reaction tells me I should have followed my gut instinct and stayed away. Far, far away. Her expression is a look that could cut through ice.

Her blue eyes narrow just a fraction, and for a second, I seriously wish I could turn around and walk right out of here, never to see her again. She is a master of the resting bitch face.

Damn. So much for letting bygones be bygones and offering an olive branch in consideration of the holiday.

Watching her limp into the bar on crutches, all alone, looking more defeated than I ever imagined she could, something in me couldn’t let it go. It was a moment of weakness I will pay for now. But there is no turning back.

“Nicholas.” Her voice is sharp, not welcoming. The nostalgia of the holiday must have made me forget that side of her. We haven’t seen each other since our last fight five years ago. What did I expect? A warm reunion?

Still, seeing her like this, injured, clearly having a rough time, hits something in me. I couldn’t sit a few feet away knowing she was dealing with an injury alone two days before Christmas.

There’s a long, awkward silence, the kind that makes me wonder if I should just apologize for interrupting and find my way back to the other side of the bar. But instead, I ask idiotically, “Mind if I join you?”

She hesitates. I can see the conflict in her eyes as she weighs whether or not she wants me sitting anywhere near her. For a second, I think she’s going to tell me to get lost, but then, with a tired sigh, she gestures to the seat next to her. “Sure. Why not.”

I take a seat, settling onto the stool beside her. It's not lost on me the way she shifts slightly, keeping her distance. The chilliness between us is on par with the storm outside.

“Did you take a spill?” I ask, nodding toward the crutches beside her. I don't dare tell her I already know about her fall and being stranded halfway up the mountain on the backside.

Knowing her, she will leave out the part about having to be brought down via sled. That might be a secret I'll have to take with me to my grave.

She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Yeah, you could call it that. Face down like this beer, here."

I look at her a little confused, trying to understand the connection.

"The beer. It's called The Face Down."

"Oh, ha! Okay, I see what you did there."

At least she has some levity in her responses. Maybe we can get through this part after all.

"Did it happen here?" I feel guilty lying, but what else can I say?

"Yes, today, just a few hours ago. I hit an ice patch."

"What's the prognosis?"

"Not great. Doc says it’s probably a partial tear in my knee. Could be worse, but my trip is basically shot. So I guess I'll just be sitting right here, drowning my sorrows, spending my last dollar here.”

She takes a sip of her beer and lets out a humorless laugh. “No skiing. No adventure. Just me, crutches, and a lot of sitting around in the snow.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I offer sincerely, though it feels like the words don’t do much. “That’s a tough one.”

She nods, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass in front of her. “Yeah, well, what can you do?” There’s a sharp edge to her tone, the bitterness of disappointment wrapped in the frustration of being sidelined. I can’t blame her. I’d be pissed, too.

There’s another pause, the kind that reminds me just how long it’s been since we’ve spoken. The last time we were face-to-face, we weren’t exactly exchanging pleasantries. Still, sitting here now, it feels different. Awkward, sure, but something else too.

"I didn't know you came out West to ski, especially at Christmas. Are you here with your family?"

Her statement carries a lot of weight. One of our biggest fights was about her wanting to go on a ski trip to Utah and I couldn't get the time off or be away from Nicky.

I remember it was around Thanksgiving, not long after he turned one. God, she was as mad as a hornet. For some reason she couldn’t understand why I wanted to be with my son for Thanksgiving.

And then there was the final one, when I spent Christmas with Bev and Nicky so I could be there with him Christmas morning. He had just started walking and was into everything. I didn't want to miss any of it.

That was the final straw for her. We held on by a string for for a few more weeks, but we were over by the middle of January, 2019.

"Bev has Nicky this Christmas and they are out of town, so I figured I would do something different. Crazy running into you, here. Such a small, random place. Although, I'm not surprised. I know you love this stuff."

"Yeah," is all she says, followed by more uncomfortable nothingness. Is she pondering all the shit we've been through or just wishing I would disappear if she pretends I'm not here?

“You here alone?” I ask, breaking the silence, figuring I’m here, I might as well give it a solid try.

“Just me, myself and I,” she says, her eyes still on her drink. “Was supposed to be here with Bethany, but her flight got delayed and then canceled. She's trying to get another one, but I think that is becoming more remote by the minute. So, it’s just me.”

She waves a hand, like she’s trying to brush off the whole thing, but I can tell it’s bothering her more than she’s letting on.

I nod, understanding that feeling all too well. “Same here. Thought coming to a quintessential Christmas town would take the sting out of not spending Christmas with Nicky.” I take a sip of my beer, letting the words linger.

As soon as I say that, I wish I could take it back. Saying I wish I could spend this time with him is sure to push some buttons.

She glances at me, and for the first time, there’s something softer in her expression. Sympathy, maybe. She knows what Nicky means to me, knows how much I hate being away from him, especially during the holidays.

I stand corrected. Maybe time has finally put all of that animosity away. I can only hope the mention of my son isn't such a sore subject anymore.

“How is Helena?" she asks sincerely. She and my sister were very tight while we dated, but because Helena and I were so close, once things ended so badly, so, too, did their friendship.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Rives must not know. She hasn’t been part of my life for years. How would she?

“She was my rock,” I say, my voice quiet. “But we lost her. December of 2020.”

Her eyes widen in sympathy. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Nick. Was it Covid?”

I shake my head, the memory flooding back like it always does. “No. Car accident. Right after Christmas. Helena and Bobby had just gotten back in town and she and their son, Sammy, ran out to grab something when it happened.”

Rives’ hand stills on her drink. “Sammy?”

“Yeah. They had a fourteen month old at the time.” I pause, feeling the ache that never fully leaves. “He was in the car with her.”

“Shit,” she whispers. “I didn’t know they had a child. Helena always wanted kids so much. I remember how hard they were trying even back in 2018 when we were spending a lot of time together.”

“They finally did have one,” I say, managing a small smile. “They adopted. Sammy is such a great kid.”

Her eyes soften, and I can see the memories flicker across her face. She cared about Helena. I know that. And maybe this is hitting her harder than I might have guessed it would.

“You would love this kid. He is an adventure-seeker like you,” I continue, trying to break the heaviness of the moment. “Nicky and Sammy are only two years apart, so they’re growing up more like brothers than cousins. I help Bobby a lot since his family all lives in Florida. Sammy’s with me and Nicky a lot. He’s like a second son.”

Rives lets out a breath, the emotion still hanging between us, but there’s something else there now—understanding. Empathy. “He's lucky to have y'all like that,” she says, more a statement than a question. "Gosh, that is just terrible. I'm so very sorry, Nicholas."

“Yeah. I’ve worked hard to make sure Sammy knows who his mom was, even though he was too young to remember her. I remind him every day how much she loved him.”

She turns back to her beer, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. But it doesn’t feel as tense as it did before. Maybe this is okay. Maybe this is enough.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, searching for something to keep the conversation going.

The awkwardness seems to have waned, but we are both holding back, like we’re both trying to avoid stepping on old wounds.

Then it hits me—work. It’s always been the thing we could talk about easily. Maybe now it’s the way to bridge this awkward gap.

“So, how’s work going? Still a respiratory therapist, right?”

She looks up, surprised, but nods. “Yeah, still doing that. Moved out of the hospital, though—working more in outpatient now, which I really like. I get to know my patients and see them progress.”

“Outpatient, huh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Bet that’s a different kind of challenge.”

She takes a sip of her beer, nodding. “It is. Quieter, less of the life-or-death adrenaline rush. But I like it because it's more focused on long-term care. Patients stick around long enough for me to actually see them improve.”

I chuckle. “That’s the opposite of what I get in the ER. We patch people up and send them on their way. It’s rare I see the same person twice.”

She smirks. “Yeah, you’re the front line. I get them after the storm.”

The conversation flows easier now, the tension slowly fading as we talk shop—patients, tough cases, and the parts of the job that keep us up at night. It’s familiar, comforting in a way. We’ve always been able to talk about this stuff. Maybe it’s why we connected in the first place.

“Ever miss the adrenaline?” I ask, leaning back a little.

“You know I love that in every aspect of my life. Funny enough, work is the place I like calm, predictable, routine,” she admits. “But it’s a different kind of reward now. Getting to see someone actually get better, long-term, feels good. You?”

Very interesting that a little age is showing her that the things we fought about, my desire for more routine, less craziness, is something she actually craves now. Of course, I would never say that, but hearing her say that feels almost like a little bit of victory.

“I'm the opposite, I like the craziness at work to off-set the routine and quiet in my life,” I say, smiling a little. “But I get it. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to actually have a quiet, predictable day at the office.”

She tilts her head, her expression softening just a bit. “You? Slow down on the floor? I can’t picture it. You thrive in that environment”

I laugh. “Yeah, neither can I.”

The silence that follows isn’t as painful now. We’ve found a groove, something that feels quasi-normal. And as I glance at her again, I realize I don’t want this conversation to end. Not yet.

“You know,” I say, testing the waters, “if you’re not in a rush to leave, I was thinking… we’re both solo travelers here. What do you say we grab some dinner? I mean, we’re both alone, and it is the holidays, after all. Might as well make the most of it.”

She hesitates, and I can see the gears turning in her head. It’s not like we’re best friends picking up where we left off, but something about the idea seems to sit right with her.

“Dinner?” she repeats, looking at me like she’s still deciding if this is a good idea. “It’s still lunchtime in most cultures!”

“Okay, let’s call it lunner, then.”

She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. Boom. I broke her down.

“Yeah, okay. Why not? I mean, it is always more fun to enjoy somewhere together, even if I do hate you a little bit.”

“Touché. I got you. Bringing the same sharp tongue, I like it.”

While I don't think she is being entirely untrue with that sentiment, her ability to address the elephant in the room is admirable. Hopefully her disdain for me doesn't quite reach the level of hate. Hey, she agreed to extend our time together, so she can't hate me that bad.