You Had Me At Christmas: A Holiday Anthology(145)

“True,” Mom said. “But he’s not a child anymore, is he?”

“You know I’m sitting right here,” Dean said. “I can hear you.”

“Then hear this,” Mom said. “Your father is just a man, like any other. And the only power he has is the power you give him.”

“That might work in your marriage, Marion,” Trina said. “But Eugene is Dean’s father. For years, he had all the power.”

Mom sat back against the pillows, staring at Trina like she’d never heard her language before.

“Would you like some ginger ale?” Trina asked him. “Or Coke? That’s all they had except for that gross vending machine coffee.”

Dean felt a little bit like he had slipped down a rabbit hole. “Do you have anything stronger?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Spiked hot chocolate is your forte.”

She was smiling, slightly. A careful smile. A tentative one.

Remember? her smile said. Remember how close we used to be? Remember that awful night when we trusted each other more than anyone else on earth?

The reminder was unnecessary and bitter.

“Don’t,” he said, and the smile dropped from her face. Last year, he could smile and pretend. This year, in his mother’s hospital room, he didn’t make nice.

Mom was watching them, her shrewd eyes taking in all the things he didn’t quite have the power to hide tonight.

“Trina? Can I see you outside?” Without waiting for an answer, he got up and walked into the hallway.

There was a limit. And he’d just hit his.


It wasn’t like she didn’t know what was waiting for her out in that hallway. Dean was mad. Furious. And frankly, he had every right to be. And she’d had this stupid plan, which of course had gone wrong. Because really what she should have done was call him. Months ago.

But she’d wanted to get rid of some of the stuff between them. Some of her stuff.

“Just tell him, honey,” Marion said.

Trina patted the woman’s hand and followed Dean outside. Her feet were nearly numb from the cold floor, but anything was better than the devil shoes she’d been wearing most of the night.

She found him in the little waiting room at the end of the hallway, pacing between walls covered in watercolors of cowboys and dogs.

“What the hell is going on?” He spun on her when she stepped into the room.

“I didn’t think your mother should be alone.”

“That’s great, but when did you get to be honey?”

She blinked. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d been expecting.

“She’s been really good to me. Always has been.”

He pulled off his hat and tossed it on the chair. His hair was all clumpy and sticking to his forehead. If she’d done things right, if she hadn’t been so angry and scared and dumb, she would have had the right to unstick his hair from his head. She could ruffle it and feather it back.

She could touch him the way she wanted.

Because he would be hers.

“Your mom’s been helping me since I left your dad’s company. I’m still fighting the pipeline. I’m just doing it away from your brother, who, I might add, is worse than your father could ever dream of being.”

“How is my mother helping you?”

“Money. Logistics. Making introductions to the right people. You’d be surprised by how politically connected your mother is.”

“Nothing about my mother surprises me.” His voice was cold. Hard. Don’t tell me about my mother, it said.

“Of course,” she said, uncomfortable and awkward. “She’s your mother.”

This was not how this all was supposed to go. There had been a plan. A dress. A fancy hairdo. She’d anticipated champagne. Olives. Not Cheetos fingers.

It was actually kind of amazing how awful she was at this. How every step she took was wrong.

“Those things…you said in there. About me.” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“No. Of course it matters.” She took a deep breath. “You matter, Dean. You’ve always mattered.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

But please, please say something.

Only he took her at her word and turned away from her, to stare, silent and broody, out a dark window to the parking lot below. She twisted her fingers together and took a step closer to him. In the window she could see the reflection of his face.

He was watching her.

But from a distance. Or an angle.

It was just another way for both of them to hide. And she didn’t want that. He might reject her. He might laugh in her face and tell her she’d missed her chance, but she wanted to look him in the eyes when she told him.

She’d spent enough time hiding from him. Hiding from her feelings.

“Could you please turn around?” she asked, wishing her voice was stronger.

He did what she asked, his hands in his jeans pockets. His thick wool sweater pulled taut over his shoulders and chest. He had always been so big and so able to hold her up, take on her weight and her problems. She’d wanted to do the same for him. Just a little.

“I asked your mom for an invitation to the party because I wanted to see you.”