My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

14. Grace

FOURTEEN

Grace

I watched Clay's back as he approached his dad, the man more grizzled and unkempt than I remembered. Years had taken their toll, each one etching deeper lines of defeat into the crags of his face.

“Hey, Dad,” Clay said, voice flat as the pavement we stood on. “You doing alright?”

The old man grunted, a dismissive sound that spoke volumes. I knew the history there, the way grief could twist love into something unrecognizable. After Michael died, it was like watching a building implode—slowly at first, then all at once. Mr. Hawthorne hadn't been steady on his feet before the loss, but afterward, he became a shell of anger and sorrow, pelting Clay with the wreckage.

“Fine, until now,” his father snapped. The words were a punch to the gut, even for me.

Clay's posture stiffened, an invisible armor clamping down over him. I knew the signs; his hands clenched into fists, the line of his jaw going rigid. It was the same defense mechanism from back in high school when life threw its worst at him.

“Look,” Clay started, his voice low and steady, “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

“Mind your damn business, Clay,” his father grunted, waving a hand as if swatting at an insect. His voice was laced with a bitterness that seemed to drip from every syllable. “Should've figured you'd be here. Can't even have a nice time without you showing up and ruining it.”

Clay's stance shifted, his broad frame tensed as though bracing against a blow. I could tell he was trying to keep whatever was boiling inside him from spilling out, right there in front of everyone.

“Clay,” I said, my voice low, reaching for his arm. “Walk away from this.”

He didn't shake me off, but he didn't budge either, his gaze locked on the man who'd raised him—the man who'd broken him.

“Grace,” Sierra Hall's voice cut through the tension as she approached. Her hand landed softly on Clay's other arm, a mirror to my own gesture. I shot her a surprised glance, not used to having backup.

“Hey, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said, my voice all sugar and no spice for once. “It's been way too long.”

The old man's scowl softened around the edges as he turned to me, eyes squinting like he couldn't quite place me in the light. Or maybe he just couldn't believe I'd stepped into this mess.

“Grace Gibson,” he finally grunted, his tone less bite than bark now. “You always did have a way of showing up when least expected.”

Sierra, bless her heart, edged in closer, her hand still on Clay's arm like she was grounding him. “Mr. Hawthorne, how about I drive you home? It's what Michael would've wanted.”

“Michael,” he spat the name out like it tasted bad, but the fight had left him. He slumped, suddenly looking every bit his age and then some.

“Sure, Sierra. Guess that'd be okay,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Clay stood there, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him. The son of the town drunk—might as well have been stamped on his forehead.

“Thanks, Sierra,” he said, and it was damn near a whisper, but everyone heard. His blue eyes met mine, a silent nod passing between us. We both knew what it cost him to stand here, laid bare in front of the town's prying eyes.

I watched Sierra lead Clay's dad out the door, her grip firm but not unkind. They both disappeared into the night, leaving behind a silence that filled the space.

“Grace, I...” Clay started, his voice trailing off as if he knew words wouldn't fix any part of this mess.

“Shh,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him mid-sentence. “Nobody thinks what you're worried they're thinking.” I wasn't sure if that was entirely true, but it felt right to offer some kind of reassurance.

He ran a hand through his reddish-brown hair, looking as if he wanted to argue, but the fight had left him along with his father. The evening's cheer was gone, replaced by an awkward stillness between us.

“Was actually having a nice time before all...this,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on some point over my shoulder.

“Me too,” I said, managing a half-smile. “Would've been nicer if we'd won the contest, though.”

“Hey now,” he shot back, a glint of his old self surfacing briefly, “you know you never stood a chance with me on your team.”

“Guess I'm just a glutton for punishment,” I teased back, crossing my arms.

It was easier to slip into this banter than to acknowledge the elephant in the room—the history that hung between us. I knew we had more to talk about, but I could see Mariah lingering by the edge of the room, and she was my ride home.

“Goodnight, Clay,” I said, stepping back, ready to disappear into the night and leave him to whatever ghosts haunted him here.

“Wait,” he called out, his hand catching mine, warm and firm. “I want to see you again soon.”

I hesitated, feeling the pull of those three words tugging at old scars. His grip was gentle, but it might as well have been a vise around my heart. I looked up at him, trying to read the map of lines by his eyes, the ones that hadn't been there before.

Was there a roadmap in them that led to trust? Or just another detour down a road best left untraveled?

So as I stared up at him, I gave him the only answer I could. “We’ll see.”