His big hand covered mine on the notebook. “What’s inside?”
I wet my lips. “I write…poems. I have for years. Just little stanzas. Silly records of my life. They’re laughably terrible,” I warned. “I’ve never shown anyone. Ever.”
“And you’re trusting me with them?”
“I’m trusting you with everything.”
I really had. I’d given him every piece of me, and he hadn’t thrown them back in my face or laughed or judged.
He blew out a breath. “I wish I didn’t have to get on a fucking plane.”
“Me too.” But what was alternative? Me leaving my family and friends to move to LA until our relationship inevitably ran its course? Him giving up his life on the West Coast and moving to Hershey, Pennsylvania, and doing what? Making chocolate?
We didn’t make sense.
The clock on the microwave caught my eye. “You’d better go,” I said.
He swore under his breath.
“This isn’t goodbye, Brooke,” he insisted.
But that’s exactly what it was.
“Let’s not pretend this is something it isn’t. We had a night. A great night. A night that will ruin all other Christmas Eves forever.”
He didn’t laugh like I wanted him to.
I squeezed his hand. “I’ll never forget last night for the rest of my life. And I want you to know that no matter what you decide to do with your retirement, I’ll be here cheering for you. You deserve to be happy, Vonn. Tommy would want you to find your way there.”
He said nothing for a beat, then let out a long sigh. “Never forget you, gorgeous.”
Then he fisted his hand in my shirt, yanked me toward him, and kissed me goodbye.
Fifteen minutes after I waved Vonn off from my driveway and dried my tears, Betty bolted for the door. The signal that someone was here.
I threw the blanket off my lap and vaulted off the couch. I was halfway to the door, heart singing, when it opened and in tumbled my kids.
Disappointment crashed over me like a wave at the beach.
Dutifully, I shoved it aside, reminding myself that it was Christmas morning and two humans that I had birthed had chosen to surprise me rather than spend a leisurely morning with their father and stepmom.
“What are you two doing here?” I demanded, hands on hips, trying to remember how to look like a mother and not a wanton groupie with no regrets.
Addy’s cheeks were pink. She was dressed like she was ready for an Instagram photoshoot, wearing a vest, leggings, and one of those wool hats with the puffball on top. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders in a styled loose wave. Shane was still in his pajama pants and an ancient Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. He looked half asleep with his blondish-brown hair standing up at adorably odd angles.
“You didn’t think we were going to let you spend Christmas morning alone, did you?” Addy said bossily. She got that from me.
Shane abruptly ended his full body rubdown of the delighted dog and hugged me. “Addy’s worried you have a concussion, and I missed your peanut butter-chocolate chip pancakes,” he whispered.
I felt a warm glow in my chest buoyed by the rush of relief that my kids hadn’t decided to “surprise” me earlier.
“I’m fine, guys,” I promised.
“I bet you’re better than fine. And I’ll forgive you for not telling me all about it last night if you spill it now,” Addy said, taking her turn to hug me.
“Spill what?” I hedged like a guilty teenager.
The kids shared a can you believe Mom look.