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

Chapter 53

Chapter Fifty-Three

Sara

“So you’re saying he overheard our entire conversation?” My mother darts a glance from me over to my father.

It’s Christmas morning, and they’re seated on the Chesterfield sofa. I’m slouched in the wingback armchair closest to the tree. This might not have been the optimal time to share everything about Three, but I owe them all the facts: the good, the bad, and the concussion.

“He didn’t intend to, but the window was open when he came to pick me up, so …” I pause to take a sip of eggnog from my Cindy-Lou Who mug. My mom’s clutching a mug featuring Max, from the part of the movie when the poor dog’s stuck wearing homemade antlers. My dad’s got the Grinch mug, but he hasn’t touched a drop since I started spilling my guts about the past few days.

“And now you think we’re to blame for what happened between you two?” My mother’s hand flies to her throat.

“No. That’s not what I meant at all.”

My dad pulls down his brow. “I don’t suppose the boy has any actual proof of the alleged interaction.” His frown means business, but it’s hard to take him seriously when we’re all dressed in pajamas covered in cartoon reindeers.

Kind of like the kitchen linens I burned.

Talk about extra.

But our holiday traditions—even our silly matching pajamas—are just more proof of my parents’ love for me. That’s been a burden sometimes, and also a blessing. The hard part’s being honest about both sides of the coin.

“Can you please switch off the lawyer talk, Dad?” A bundle of nerves continues to fizz behind my ribs. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“I should hope not.” He leans forward and sets his mug on the glass-topped coffee table. “I can’t be expected to remember the details about something I may or may not have said more than a decade ago.”

“I wasn’t asking for specifics, Dad. I’m just curious.” I swallow hard. This is the part that might get a little sticky. “Is Three right? Were you really that worried he might hold me back? Did you think my whole future was at risk?”

“Yes.” My dad shifts his jaw. “Yes, and yes.”

“Wow.” Okay, then. At least he’s not shying away from the truth. “That’s awfully direct.”

“I’m a direct man,” he says. “And an honest one.” He settles back against the couch, and crosses his slippered feet. “I may not remember my exact words, but I haven’t forgotten how distracted you were back then. Far too distracted. It got worse every summer. Your mother and I weren’t about to let you throw away years of prep school and private tutors—all those exclusive interviews at top universities—over some infatuation with a boy you barely knew.”

I take a beat, slowly processing my father’s admission. I have to give my dad credit for owning his part in this, not trying to deflect.

Still, he is wrong on one important count. “ I knew him, Dad.”

“Even so.” He folds his arms across his chest. “The lake house was just a vacation spot for our family. A place to escape from reality, not build a future. You had concrete, hard-to-reach goals, and Abieville wasn’t in the blueprints.”

“It’s true,” my mother chimes in. “So when you and Three broke up, your father and I thought …” She adjusts the collar of her pajama top. “That just seemed like the right thing happening at the right time.”

“It was.” My father grunts. “And for the record, you’ve built the exact life you always wanted. Every dream you’ve ever worked for is finally coming true.”

I nod in partial agreement even as a belt of tension tightens around my chest. This all makes sense, and I can’t fault my parents’ logic. But there’s something else I have to ask before I can move on.

“Did you ever think …” I look down at my lap. “Did you feel like the Fullers weren’t good enough for the Hathaways?”

“Not good enough?”

I lift my gaze to meet his.

“Absolutely not,” he insists. “And I’m a little insulted by the question.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, because I truly am. Three admitted this could’ve been a conclusion he drew from his own insecurities. And I owe my parents the same benefit of the doubt I’m giving him.

“To be fair,” my mother says, “we didn’t really know the Fullers back then. Or now, for that matter.”

“Either way,” my father adds, “we don’t judge people by their last names.”

“Although I do like a good search on an ancestry site,” my mother chimes in. “Family trees are fascinating. And I can’t help it if the Hathaways have a particularly rich history.”

“Before you ask,” my father says, “she’s not talking about wealth, Sara. Your mother and I value a man’s contributions to the world, not his wallet.” He takes a beat and shoots a glance at my mom. “Or her wallet. Women contribute just as much as men.”

“They do,” I agree, and the belt of tightness around my chest loosens a notch. “And for the record, Three Fuller contributes more to the people in his life than just about anyone I’ve ever known.” I let a hint of a smile curve my lips. “But he also sent a donation with me for Children’s Village. You can confirm that later if you want. The check is from Bradford Fuller.”

“We believe you, Sara,” my mother says.

My father rubs at his chin. “The question is, do you believe us ?”

“I want to believe you,” I say, aiming for total honesty.

“Hmm.” My dad lifts an eyebrow. “Way to hedge your bets, counselor.”

“Thanks.” I tip my chin. “I learned from the best.”

My mother takes a sip of her eggnog, then sets her mug down. “You know, your father and I only ever wanted you to be happy, Sara.”

“I know that, and I’m so grateful.” I release a long sigh, thinking it would be easy to stop right here, but I’m determined to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth right now. “What if the things that make me happy don’t align with yours anymore?”

My father clears his throat. “I suppose that depends.” There’s an edge to his voice, like a serrated knife slicing through an agenda. “We’re still your parents. And you’re still our only child. So your mother and I are always going to have opinions.”

“Opinions are great,” I say. “ If I ask for them. But what I could really do without from now on is all the … pressure.”

“Pressure?” My mom’s brow lifts. “Us?”

I stifle a guffaw. They can be so clueless sometimes.

Then again, can’t we all?

“Sara.” My dad steeples his fingers in his lap. “What you call pressure, your mother and I call support.”

“Encouragement,” she adds.

“Inspiration,” he says.

“And I don’t disagree with you.” I tilt my head. “But I grew up with this sort of … unspoken assumption that I’d be a carbon copy of Dad. So I never slowed down to ask myself what I wanted.” I pause for a beat, my fingernails digging into my palms. “I applied to the same schools. Went after the same scholarships. Won the same awards.” I meet my mom’s gaze. “I soaked up all your positive reinforcement too. I got so caught up in the high of pleasing you, I convinced everyone I wanted to be you. Even myself.”

“Well.” My mother throws her hands in the air like she’s giving up. “I had absolutely no idea you felt like this.”

“I didn’t either.” My eyes soften. “I think we were all just operating with the evidence presented to us.”

My father clears his throat. “The partners at Hathaway Cooke are about to extend you an offer tomorrow.” He grips his knees. “Are you saying you don’t want to accept it?”

I slide off my chair, moving around the table to kneel in front of him. “I’m saying nothing you and Mom taught me has gone to waste. Not a single lesson. But the most important one might be happening right now.”

He exhales. “And what lesson is that?”

I hitch my shoulders. “Letting go of expectations.”

A small yelp slips out of my mom, and she fumbles for my hand. Then she reaches for my father, so we’re all holding hands like a little triangle of people in reindeer pajamas.

“You know, the key to all this really is better communication,” she says. “That’s what Doctor Hahn always says. We just need to CO. MMU. NI. CATE.”

My father shoots me a look, then he smiles at my mom. “That’s quite the revolutionary conclusion, Kate. How much does Doctor Hahn charge per session?”

I bite back a laugh. “I know this has been a lot to take in. Just, please.” I squeeze my parents’ hands. “Try to keep an open mind, okay? ”

Even as I say this, I realize I need to give them at least as much grace and patience as I’m asking for Three and me. Still, in time, I hope they’ll understand why I fell for him.

Twice.

Over breakfast, I tell them all the ways Three and I have taken care of each other these past few days. How he treats his family and friends, not to mention all the people of Abieville. As I go on, a wave of warmth crests in me—a fresh swell of love for Three Fuller. A man as wonderful as he is thinks I’m worthy. He makes me feel precious just as I am. Protected. And cherished.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

More than anything, I want to rush to his side and spill out every emotion crowding my heart. I want to tell him my future won’t be complete without him. That I love him with my whole soul. But he’s hours away, and I’m with my mom and dad asking them to trust me. So for now, I say all this to my parents.

The ones who loved me first.