My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

28. Clay

TWENTY-EIGHT

Clay

I’d only come here to run errands, and I ended up getting slapped in the face by Christmas.

I needed to get to the pet store, but the shortest route forced me through the holiday bustle—through the Christmas market that took over downtown Silver Ridge every December. My boots crunched on the snow-covered path, each step taking me deeper into the crowd.

Shit.

This was not what I wanted. Not even a little bit.

“Handmade ornaments! Get your Christmas ornaments here!”

“Fresh, hot cider!”

“Last minute gifts found here!”

That's when I heard a voice I recognized—then I saw her. Sierra Hall stood behind her family's stall, draped in a red scarf that contrasted with the whiteness all around. She was talking to a couple, holding up a delicately painted bauble to the light, her sales pitch smooth and practiced. I’d almost forgotten that her family owned a glass and carpentry business…but the sight brought up a whole bunch of unwanted memories. When her eyes met mine, they widened ever so slightly, and she knew, just as I did, that this wasn't any ordinary encounter.

I could take a second to talk to her.

Because after everything…I had to know.

I lingered at the edge of the tent, watching as she wrapped up another sale, the paper crinkling in her hands as she packaged the ornament. The tourists moved on, laughter trailing behind them, oblivious to the tension.

“Clay,” Sierra said as I approached, her voice steady but her eyes darting away. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

“Wasn't looking for you,” I replied, my tone betraying nothing of the turmoil inside. “But now that we're here...”

She stared at me, the smile faltering on her lips. For a moment, she looked like she might turn away, but then her shoulders squared, and she met my gaze.

“Let's talk.”

A kid seemed to materialize behind her—one of hers, I thought—and she knelt to talk to him.

“Hey, buddy,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Can you watch the stall for me? Just five minutes.”

The kid nodded, his eyes wide as he took in the responsibility. He couldn't be older than ten, but he stood tall, puffing out his chest like he was ready to take on the world.

“Didn't mean to impose,” I told Sierra, my voice gruff with the cold and something else, something heavier. “Just wanted to talk.”

“Yeah,” she replied, her glance brief, her hands clasped together. “Figured that much. Soon enough.”

We moved away from the bright lights and festive sounds, rounding the back of the booth where the shadows gave us a semblance of privacy. The air turned colder here, or maybe it was just the conversation we were about to have.

Sierra's back was stiff, her eyes darted around before finally landing on me. I opened my mouth, ready to ask the question that had been eating at me since I cracked open that photo album last night.

But she beat me to it. “This is about Grace, right?”

I only nodded. “Yeah.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced back toward the booth, where her kid manned the fort, then met my eyes again.

“Clay, I knew you'd come asking,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know I lied.”

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my tone steady though my pulse hammered in my chest.

“Michael's accident messed us all up,” Sierra continued, her gaze fixed on something far away, a memory perhaps. “I was angry after that day at the lake—angry and bitter. I blamed you and Grace, even though I knew...I knew it wasn't your fault. It just didn't seem fair.”

“Sierra, I?—”

“Listen,” she cut in, her eyes locking onto mine. “While we were all grieving, I lied to you. It was wrong.”

I nodded. “We were all hurting. I get it.”

She shook her head. “No, you don't understand. I want something good to come out of this mess. You and Grace...you should try to make things right. It's clear you were meant for each other.”

Her words sank into me, heavy with regret. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to sprint right back home to Grace. Dog food could wait; we could improvise.

I needed to be with her right now.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said, stepping back, ready to leave. “I need to go. I left Grace waiting.”

“Wait,” Sierra called after me. “Your dad, he was looking for you. I saw him at the diner.”

I paused, the unexpected mention of my father stopping me short. “He was?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “He seemed like he needed to talk.”

Well…that was worrying.

Probably drunk again.

Damn it, I didn’t need this today.

I left Sierra behind, her booth now just another part of the Christmas hustle that I had no business with. Her revelation festered, but it was the mention of my old man that put me off balance. We’d barely exchanged more than two words since...hell, since before I enlisted. Avoiding him had become second nature, a reflex I didn't even think about anymore.

But today, of all days, he wanted to see me?

The diner's windows glowed with warm light, mocking the chill in my bones. I pushed through the door and scanned the familiar place until I spotted him. Dad slumped in a booth, his head bowed in that way that made him look smaller than life. He looked pitiful, and it twisted something in my chest.

“Clay,” he said as I slid into the seat across from him. His voice sounded rough, like gravel and broken glass.

“Didn't think this would ever happen,” I said. My tone stayed flat, careful not to give anything away. “Heard you were looking for me.”

He nodded, unwilling to meet my eyes. “I was.”

The waitress came by, her movements brisk and efficient. She poured coffee into the two mugs on the table, steam rising up between us. I wrapped my hands around the warmth, welcoming the simple comfort it offered.

Thank goodness Betty wasn’t here, or I would be drowning in gossip within an hour.

I stared at my father, the steam from the coffee blurring his features for a moment. “What are you even doing here?” I asked. “Are you drunk?”

“No…no, I’m three days sober,” he said, then scoffed. “As if that’s some kind of accomplishment.”

I just stared at him, keeping my distance. I didn’t trust this. Not one bit. “So what do you want?” I muttered. “I have places to be.”

He shifted in his seat, and I could see the years weighing on him. “I had a dream,” he said, his voice low. “About Michael.”

The name hung in the air. Michael. My twin brother. The one we lost too early, the one whose absence shaped our lives like a river cutting through rock.

I hadn't heard Dad say that name in so long, and it hit me hard, right in the chest.

“Michael,” I repeated, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

Dad didn’t say anything.

I couldn't sit there, not with the weight of all those unspoken words between us. So I started to slide out of the booth, suddenly anxious to get the hell out.

But Dad's hand landed on my wrist. His grip was firm.

“Sit down,” he said, and his voice held a note of something I hadn't heard in years.

Desperation.

I hesitated, looking at him. The lines on his face seemed to have deepened since the last time I really looked at him. With a sigh, I dropped back into the booth across from him. He let go of my wrist and leaned back, eyes on the table.

“In my dream, Michael was angry with me,” Dad began, his words slow and heavy. “He was mad about how I've treated you.”

My head spun. Anger from Michael? That's not what I expected him to say. I stared at him, trying to process this turn.

“Destroyed me inside, losing him,” he continued, his voice cracking a bit. “It's the worst thing I've ever gone through…even worse than your mom.”

I just sat there, watching him come undone. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. Dad never talked about emotions, especially not about Michael. And yet here he was, doing just that. I watched my father's hands tremble on the table. He clutched his coffee cup like it was a lifeline, and I could see the veins on the back of his hands standing out stark against his weathered skin.

“I should have said no, should’ve been stricter with you boys,” he muttered. “I hated myself for letting you two go to the lake.”

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of his guilt bore down on them with an unseen force. I didn’t say anything— couldn’t say anything.

“Everyone looked at me with pity after that,” he said, his voice lower. “I could see it in their eyes. ‘First his wife, now this.’ I knew what they were thinking. I couldn’t stand it.”

He paused, took a deep breath that did nothing to steady him.

“Each morning, I woke up thinking he was still here.” His voice broke, just a little. “For a few seconds, everything would be okay. Then reality would crash back, and it...it crippled me, Clay. And I took it out on you, and that…that wasn’t fair. Not one bit.”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable, not knowing how to deal with this raw display of emotion from the man who'd always been hard as steel.

“Your mom asked me to protect you kids, to protect her sons,” he continued, eyes distant. “And I failed her. I failed Michael.”

That’s when it came to me—what I needed to say.

“Hey,” I said, reaching across the table. I grasped his hand, his weathered skin rough against my palm. My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I repeated the thing a million people had said to me. “It wasn't your fault. It was just an accident.”

He looked up then, meeting my gaze for what felt like the first time in years. His eyes were tired, haunted by memories we both wished we could forget.

“It wasn’t your fault either, Clay.”

That sentence, simple and stark, cracked something inside me. All these years, I carried the blame, and here he was washing it away with one sentence.

“Say it again,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes held mine, steady and true. “It wasn't your fault, son.”