The Plight Before Christmas(99)

My chest fills with a surreal warmth as I take in the man version of the boy I fell so crazy in love with so many moons ago. Not even the shit-filled clothes in my hand can put a damper on the strength of the heat and emotions building between us. It’s the noise drifting in from the living room that reminds me that we’re not alone, and this isn’t the time. It can’t be. Even if I want to, I can’t at all act on anything I’m feeling, so I turn and force myself out the door.





Freshly showered and mildly tainted, I wrap a towel around my waist, bracing my hands on the sink as I grapple with the heavy ache taking over me.

It was there. We were there in our place, it was written all over her, and I felt every second of it. It was undeniable—the ache, need, the same longing I felt. It took every bit of strength in me not to act on it, but I promised her I wouldn’t until she asked me to. That act tested me to my limits. We were so close, so damned close.

“Fuck,” I mutter, cursing our current circumstances because, in that moment, there was no way to whisk her away and close the space between us the way her eyes begged me to.

Slipping into the clothes Whitney laid out for me, I turn off the ancient squealing bathroom fan and step out, closing the door.

Turning to head back into the family room, I’m stopped dead in my tracks by the opening of a song and a voice—her voice. Heart tripling in speed, I haul ass down the hallway and stop, stunned by the sight that greets me. Whitney stands on stage, dressed in her designated Christmas pajamas and elf slippers, her angelic hair hanging in waves along her shoulders, microphone in hand as her perfect lips begin pouring out lyrics.

Like me, her family sits unmoving, equally as taken with her as she begins a slow build, her voice both inviting and arresting. Inching back, I stop at the threshold of the living room, with a perfect view of her and only her. Whitney effortlessly hits every note, her gift stunning me as the song picks up pace. She sings of intimacy between lovers, of infatuation, and a memory flits in of us tangled in my bed, tracing each other’s naked skin with new lovers’ eyes.

The weight of what I felt in the bathroom with her is nothing compared to the gravity of what’s overtaking me now as she sings.

It’s a song I’ve heard before, Celine Dion, but the title escapes me. Though it’s a love song that belongs to someone else, she’s effortlessly making it her own.

In our time together, I caught her singing in the shower and once or twice in the car. I always encouraged her to keep going, but she always shied away, a rare blush coating her cheeks as I begged for just a little more. I knew she had a beautiful voice, but this…this…

“Jesus,” I whisper as she holds nothing back, her gorgeous voice bellowing through the speakers and echoing throughout the cabin. My entire body erupts in chills, an unbearable raw ache ripping through my chest and circulating throughout my body. The lyrics strike me like blows as she sings of fear, a fear of the strength of all-consuming love from a woman for a man.

Immobilized, I stop breathing entirely when she lifts her eyes and looks right at me, the most damning fucking thing she could do as she sings of love and devotion.

I only sing for the people I love.

Is she singing for me? To me?

Christ, please let it be the case.

Entranced, I commit every lyric to memory—which sounds more like a prayer coming from her than a personal truth. She bends the melody with expert precision, wringing her voice out the way it was meant to be heard while utterly and completely enchanting me.

If she never sang again, it would be a travesty of the worst kind, but I know without a doubt, I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live.

Memories of us flood me as I choke on emotion, eyes stinging. I allow it all to happen, keeping my expression unguarded. Hot regret slides down my face, and I let her see it. I let her see everything she can draw from me as I re-live it all down to the second she left me.

As the song hits its crescendo, she closes her eyes and blows the roof off the house, taking what little breath I have left in me.

It’s all I can do to keep myself upright at this point, and I sense heads are turning in my direction, straining to see my reaction. I can feel a few gazes reach me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her.

I’m so fucking gone. I can’t think past going straight to her and bringing her back to the place we created before I fucked us up with youth, fear, and indecision.

The girl I fell in love with nearly two decades ago is standing right in front of me, gifting me with a rare glimpse of the part of her heart that’s remained untainted by life, time, by me. A part of her that rings hopeful. A heart that once belonged to me.

Throat burning, I unravel before her.

She’s mine. She has to be because my heart is hers and always has been. It’s never been so clear.

I loved her then, soul-deep.

I love her now, perpetually.

Even with the dire need to act—to go to her—when I confess this to her, I want it to be solely our time without an audience. I want her truths as well, and I might not get the whole of it if I put her on the spot. As she releases the last of the lyrics and the song ends, the living room remains stunned silent until Peyton speaks up. “Oh…my…dawd.”

Laughter and cheers explode from the entirety of the family, and even from feet away, I can physically feel the love and adoration surrounding her. Whitney takes a little bow, a slight blush coating her cheeks as she holds out the microphone. “Who’s next?”