That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Three

“Wait.” I guffaw. “Your mom’s The Queen?”

Sara flinches. “It’s just a joke,” she says. “Kind of.”

I press out a laugh, even though my last memory of Katherine Hathaway is anything but funny.

“I was supposed to update her after I’d had a look around yesterday,” Sara says. “She’s been waiting for an eye-witness report, but I got distracted by all the brownie-baking and concussion-inflicting.” Sara crosses the room, and I hand her the phone. She quickly scans the message and groans.

“Uh-oh.” I frown. “What does The Queen have to say?”

Sara proceeds to read the text out loud in a dead-on impression of her mom: “Sara Jane, did you get eaten by bears? You promised to text me, but I haven’t heard from you yet. Not following through on commitments isn’t the Hathaway way. Bear interference is the only logical explanation.”

“Oof.” I offer Sara a grimace of sympathy. “She tossed in some middle-name action there. Not a great start, Sara Jane . But at least she’s kidding around. That’s better than her being straight-up mad at you, right?”

Sara cringes. “Tone is pretty hard to read over text, especially with my mom. So that could be less humor and more passive aggressiveness. Either way, I can’t just message her now. I owe her an explanation over FaceTime.”

Even as Sara says this, I flash back to the last conversation I overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway. That was a decade ago, and a part of me wishes they hadn’t been in the living room with the front window open when I came to pick up Sara that day.

But they were.

“Hold on,” I blurt. “Your parents can’t know you’re here with me.” And now my insides feel like they’re being crushed in a trash compactor.

“Huh?” Sara’s whole face contorts in confusion. “Why do you care?”

Wow.

After all this time, I guess Sara still doesn’t know how her mom and dad really felt about me, or how deeply I was already hurting by the time I hurt her. “I don’t care personally,” I say, adding a nonchalant shrug for extra proof. “But if you tell your mom you’re taking care of me because of the concussion, you’ll have to explain the whole oven debacle. And then your parents?—”

“No, you’re right.” She throws a hand up to cut me off. “I don’t need to relive that particular lapse in competence. And I definitely don’t want my parents questioning my ability to handle things here.” She pauses for a beat, chewing at her lip. “I guess I could just go with the partial truth like you did. I’ll say I forgot to text her because everything here looks so great.” Sara glances at the oven. “I’ll just leave out the part where I had to scrape a full layer of smoke out of the kitchen to get it that way.”

“On that note,” I say, “I should probably go check my messages. I’ve put the pain off long enough. Time to face the I’m-not-going- on-the-cruise-with-you music.”

“Oof.” Sara grimaces. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.” I offer her a crisp salute. “And good luck back to you.”

Her mouth takes on an angle like a ski slope. “Is it weird that I kind of feel like we’re in this thing together now?”

“What thing?”

“The not-quite-telling-the-whole-truth-but-not-lying-either thing.”

“I wouldn’t call it weird,” I say. “I’d call this self-preservation.”

As I head off to the guest room, leaving Sara in the kitchen to FaceTime her mother, my guts begin to twist. Sure, I told Sara not to mention my name so she wouldn’t have to admit her blunder with the oven. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t want her mom to find out I’m here and launch into a series of questions about what a nobody like me is doing with himself these days.

I can imagine Sara’s answer, and Mrs. Hathaway being … unsatisfied.

So you’re saying he’s still lifeguarding and teaching swim lessons after all these years?

That’s hardly the Hathaway way.

I’d be willing to bet Sara’s parents haven’t reversed their negative opinions on my small-town gig life. Who cares if I’m happy in my work? That I’ve found a career I love? No matter what I accomplish in the classroom, my professional trajectory will never score me a penthouse like theirs.

Ten years ago, I had a hard enough time feeling worthy of Sara even before I discovered how the Hathaways truly felt. One whiff of fresh contempt could send me right down the I’m-not-worthy spiral they bought me season tickets to back then. So, yeah. No thank you.

In fact, that’s a big fat nope thanks .

Plucking my phone from the charger, I drop onto the bed and settle back against the headboard to wait for my phone to power up. The apple pops onto the black screen first, then I’m prompted to enter my passcode. When my home screen opens, the first thing I see is my green messages app with red notifications in double digits.

All righty then. I’m about to see what chaos I’ve missed.

On the cousins text thread, I’ve received sympathetic and/or humorous messages from almost everyone. They’ve offered to order extra drinks for me (Brady), sing an extra karaoke song for me (Lettie), share extra TikTok videos with me (Olivia), meet extra women for me (Ford), eat extra dessert for me (Tess), win an extra round of trivia for me (Darby), take extra notes on the tour of the USS Arizona for me (Kasey) and book another cruise for everyone for next year (Mac).

Of course, the Original Fuller House thread has a flurry of confused texts from all three of my family members.

Then there are the voicemails. I swallow hard before I listen. And my throat only gets more clogged as I go.

From Smella : “Freebie, I must’ve fallen asleep on the red-eye, and now I’m having a nightmare you’re not in the window seat next to me. When I wake up in California, I know you’ll be there wearing your signature grin, and we’ll go stuff our faces at the ship’s all-you-can-eat buffet together. This is the only outcome I will accept under the circumstances, or else I might cry a little. And I know you don’t want me to cry.”

From Dad : “Son, your mother and I are very sorry to hear about your accident. We both noticed you didn’t share any details about what happened, and the fact that you’re staying somewhere we wouldn’t be able to find you is … well, that’s strange. But it sounds like you’re following medical advice, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, so I told your mother you’ll be all right. Since you’re still in town, maybe you could check that the pipes aren’t freezing over at our place. I’ve never left ho me this time of year. Feels kinda strange to be away, not gonna lie.”

From Mom : “Bradford Fuller, you do NOT get to leave a cryptic text message about being mysteriously injured, then tell us to have the best time ever on this cruise. I expect a phone call, an email, or follow-up text immediately. In fact, I’d like all of the above. And I don’t give a fig about bad Wi-Fi. If NASA can send astronauts to the moon, this cruise line can get a message to your mother. Do NOT make me charter a jet or hire a private investigator to track you down before Christmas.”

I grit my teeth and check the time. Everyone should be aboard the ship by now, so I might as well get my responses over with. I must’ve been pretty out of it yesterday to think I could get away with zero contact between me and my family for the next two weeks. So I try placing a call to my mom, but the connection fails. Next, I compose a text telling her I’m trying to get a call through to her, and that I promise to send an update soon.

The text doesn’t go through.

Tossing the phone on the bed, I rake my hands through my hair, but just end up angering the bump on my forehead. “Man, I hate this,” I mutter under my breath. Nothing about being stuck here with Sara Hathaway can come to any good. Forget Christmas. Forget a replacement cruise next year.

This entire situation sucks.

I’ve got to get out of this house. I need fresh air. An escape. I want to forget for just a moment that I’m a prisoner of this concussion. So I tug on a pair of cargo pants, my North Face jacket, a beanie, and some gloves. Then I head out of the guest room. Sara’s still in the kitchen, and she’s clearly talking to her mom.

Great.

At least one of us is.

“Believe me,” Sara says on the tail end of a sigh. “I want all this over with as much as you do, Mom.”

Whoa. I freeze at the edge of the hallway.

“No. Absolutely not,” she protests. “You have no idea how much I wish I were home already.”

A rope of frustration snakes around my gut, tightening itself until I can barely breathe. But I shouldn’t be surprised Sara can’t wait to leave Abieville. After our last summer together, her parents have had a full decade to get into her head. To change the woman I loved. She’ll never want someone like me. She’s been indoctrinated.

The Hathaway way.

Hot regret courses through my veins. I’ve gotta get out of here before I overhear even worse. Creeping toward the front door, I pass the open archway where I might be visible, so I crane my neck peeking into the kitchen hoping I won’t get caught. Then, since I’m not looking where I’m going, I plow right into the console in the entryway.

Crap.