A Cliché Christmas(50)

I didn’t care that it was freezing outside. I layered myself with Nan’s scarf and hat, and the warm black gloves Weston had bought me nearly four weeks before.

The streets were silent, but lights glowed in every house. It was Christmas Eve after all. Who wasn’t home celebrating with family, reading “The Night Before Christmas,” and drinking hot chocolate?

Me.

I tugged my coat tighter and tromped up the frosty knoll toward the park. If there was one place I could imagine allowing myself to get frostbite, it was that park. After all, it was part of the majority of my childhood memories. The town’s big blinking Christmas tree was smack-dab in the middle of the open field, but that wasn’t the best part of the park this time of year. The Nativity scene, which was displayed a couple hundred feet away, was even more striking. The ground crunched beneath my feet as I made my way toward it.

It was the typical setup: the stable, the manger, the wise men, the shepherds, and, of course, Mary and Joseph. But this time, as I stood staring, it no longer felt typical. I had retold the Christmas story dozens of times—profiting greatly from its themes—yet tonight, it felt . . .

I knelt down in the hay, my heart beating hard and fast.

As I stared into the manger where some child’s baby doll lay, I heard Violet’s voice sigh through my mind.

“Fear is love’s greatest opposition . . . so what are you afraid of?”

“What am I afraid of?” I whispered.

As soon as I asked the question, I heard another voice . . . a stronger voice.

“I’m not trading you in, Georgia. I’m not giving you up.”

As my head fell forward, the walls inside me collapsed one by one.

And then my tears came.

Not for the woman I had become, but for the girl I had lost along the way.

For all the years I tried to make up for my mother’s regrets with awards, scholarships, and contracts—I never truly believed she would love me without them. Yet someone had.

For twenty-five years Nan had showered me with love and affection, but I’d been too focused on the gaping void my mother left behind, too absorbed with the crater of insecurity she’d created . . . that I didn’t see what was right in front of me.

And maybe I’d done the same with Weston.

And with God.

Believing the voice of my fear—both past and present—had not kept me safe from rejection. It had held me hostage.

Lifting my eyes to the manger, I let a sob break loose from my chest. Swaddled inside that wooden crib lay the purest form of Unconditional Love I would ever know.

And if I couldn’t accept God’s perfect love for me, His sacrifice for my salvation, His divine plan for my life and future, then I would never truly be free.

Neither to receive love nor to give it away in full.





CHAPTER TWENTY

Halfway to Weston’s house, I realized whatever romantic notion I had of professing my undying love to him on Christmas Eve may not have been my brightest idea to date. My feet were bricks of ice, and my nose was colder than Frosty’s frozen carrot stick. Even with Nan’s scarf double-wrapped around my face, every pore tingled.

One more block.

In reality, Weston’s house was only a mile from the park, but in near-freezing temperatures that mile felt like ten. Most of the Christmas lights were turned off for the night. Surely, all the children were safely tucked into their beds waiting for Santa Claus to arrive.

As I neared his house, disappointment slowed my steps.

No car.

No lights.

No Weston.

I collapsed onto his front-porch steps and hugged my knees to my chest. Of course, he wasn’t home! He had a family . . . He was probably stuffing stockings and eating gingerbread right now, or reading to Savannah before he tucked her into bed for the night.

As I stared at the tip of my boots, I saw it: a snowflake. The complex detail of it melted as soon as it made contact with my shoe. My heart lifted at the sight. There were so many amazing and intricate mysteries in the world; I just needed to open my eyes to see them.

Lifting my sappy, tear-filled eyes to the sky above, I stared in wonder as the snow fell. Holding out my gloved hand, I caught snowflake after snowflake in my palm. Suddenly, headlights nearly blinded me. I shielded my eyes with my arm.

“Georgia?” Weston slammed his door and jogged around his truck, slowing as his eyes took me in.

I blinked him into focus, and his expression hardened.

“Um . . . hi.”

“What are you doing, Georgia?” Weston’s face held a mix of concern and confusion. “It’s almost midnight—on Christmas Eve.”

I stood, the snow drifting around us. Biting my numb bottom lip, I tried to stop the quivering of my chin, but it was a lost cause.

“I . . . wanted to say . . . some things.”

His gaze roamed my face. “You look terrible.”

Of all the things I’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

He glanced down the street and back, shuffling closer. “Tell me you seriously didn’t walk here.”

“I was . . . already out.”

He took my hand and pulled me toward his door, unlocking it with his free hand and pushing it open for me.

So far my romantic stunt was not quite going as planned. I’d pictured running and laughing and kissing and—