A Cliché Christmas(17)

As we painfully limped to the end of the script, I heard the snap of Weston’s measuring tape several times. I managed to sneak a few glances at him while he was busy scribbling on his tablet.

When we called it a wrap, the daunting amount of work left to do hit me like a punch to the gut. It was going to take a lot more than a few simple pointers. There was still music, blocking, lighting, props, costumes—

Savannah. Remember Savannah.

“Don’t stress about it. It will all come together. It’s Christmastime. No one expects perfection. People just want somewhere to spend an evening with family and friends and have the opportunity to help out a great cause,” Misty said.

Why doesn’t that feel like enough for me?

Misty gave me a quick hug and told me she would be back tomorrow night, same time, same place.

Pulling my jacket on, I heard the lobby doors to the theater bang closed. I glanced around.

I was alone.

Weston must have left with the cast. Without saying good-bye. Good. It’s better that way.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat, I walked toward the stage, staring it down like the Goliath it had become. For being an inanimate object, it had a surprisingly intense impact on me. And just like viewing an old movie, the vivid details of my humiliation played out for me again.

Right here, on this very spot, Weston James had set me up for the last time. He’d done permanent and irrevocable damage to my heart. And I’d allowed it. I’d allowed myself to be blinded by his alluring glances, his sexy dimples, and his sultry smiles.

But it was a ruse. Just like our secret friendship had been.

Adored for his magnetic charisma, Weston had always had it easy—family, friends, girlfriends, sports, talents, you name it. He charmed the world.

But I wouldn’t give in to that charm of his. Not this time.

What did I care about a missed good-bye tonight—or any other night for that matter? After all, we hadn’t spoken in seven years! Hadn’t I already proven to myself that I didn’t need him?

I shoved my hands inside my coat pockets and turned away from the stage, fixing my gaze on a giant red-and-green wreath hanging on the back wall.

A second punch to the gut in only a few seconds.

Christmas.

Repressing the hurts that ensnared my heart around the holiday season wasn’t always possible, but whatever memories I couldn’t bury completely, I’d found another way to conquer.

On paper.

And thus, my career was born.

Within the limitless boundaries of my imagination, every perfect cliché of Christmas hovered on the tips of my fingers. The joy, the cheer, the happiness—all of it could be real: families gathering for traditional meals, and parents doting on their grateful children while gifting them treasures purchased with care and thought and . . . love.

Nothing could taint the Christmases I created in my mind.

No matter how my past had failed me.

And no matter who had failed me.

I may have lacked firsthand experience in the magic of Christmas, but my ambition to rise above my shortcomings proved stronger. Like it always had.

Nan was right: can’t was simply not an option.



I locked the theater door with the sacred key and turned to face the dark, empty parking lot.

Shoot! I forgot I walked here.

I was so not in LA anymore. There wasn’t a single light anywhere on the street. And it was only nine.

I started walking, cursing the wind gusts that seemed to blow directly from the Arctic, and calculated how quickly a girl without gloves and a hat could last in thirty-degree weather. My hands were turning a strange shade of red, and my face had gone completely numb—again.

I heard a loud rumble behind me. “Hey, is your name Candy? As in Candy Cane? Want a ride?”

Despite my near hypothermia, I ignored the obnoxious but familiar voice shouting through the open window of the truck rolling up beside me.

Though I could imagine the feel of the heater vent blowing across my frostbitten skin, my willpower held out.

“Come on, stop being so stubborn. I got halfway home and realized I didn’t see your car in the parking lot. You must be freezing. Get in, Georgia.”

“N-n-no. I’m f-f-fine.”

He laughed but continued to match my pace. “Get in, Georgia.”

“W-w-e aren’t-t f-friend-ds, West-ton-n.”

“Fine. Whatever you say. Now, get in this truck before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He stopped the truck the very millisecond I stopped walking. When I tried to grip the door handle, it snapped away from my hand, twice. My fingers were now beet purple, and my hands were frozen into arthritic claws. As I climbed into the seat, he turned all the heater vents toward me. I wasn’t about to complain. If blood could freeze inside a living body, I was almost positive it was happening inside mine right now.

“You should remember how cold the winter nights get. You did grow up here, you know.”

I didn’t respond, but only because my jaw needed to defrost before I could open my mouth.

“And where are your gloves?”

I balled my hands in front of the vent and shrugged.

After a few moments, he sighed. “You’ll get it, you know. Those kids on stage—you can make them great. You just need to show them you believe in them. Learn who they are. If you do that, they will give you what you want. I promise.”