37
The sun was dazzling.
The cold air was crisp, but the unexpected sunlight shed its warmth over the crowd gathered in downtown Rapid for the lighting of the Christmas tree. For the zillionth time, I tucked the navy blue fleece blanket around my baby son nestled in his stroller, sucking avidly on his pacifier. Last week snow and subzero temperatures prevailed, but today was almost like spring in comparison, and I couldn’t resist bringing him to the Winter Market to get a whiff of Christmas spirit.
A thirty foot blue spruce decorated with hundreds of light bulbs towered over us. The tree lighting ceremony would begin at five followed by the Festival of Lights Parade at six, but we wouldn’t be sticking around for that. The sun would be gone by then, and real cold would settle in.
Maybe next year.
I was always taking notes in my head of what to do, where to go with my boy. A long, long list of items was already filed under the “maybe next year” heading.
I’d loved Christmas when my grandmother was alive. She was an enthusiastic baker and decorator. Buttery cinnamon sugar toast was the daily breakfast ritual for the two of us. The radio was always tuned to a holiday station, filling the house with an endless round of the same old carols but performed by every artist under the sun from Bing Crosby to Nat King Cole to Elvis, even elevator music versions. She made sure we watched all the children’s holiday television shows together, and she’d take me to our local bookstore where she’d buy me one special illustrated book of my choice. I would help her unwrap her collection of Christmas angels and we’d put them around the house. It was magical.
After she’d passed away, there had been no more bracing anticipation or crisp excitement to those days, no more cinnamon and nutmeg. The magic had evaporated. They’d become ordinary days. Very ordinary just like the ones before and the days that followed. A brightly colored balloon now deflated, thudding along the floor. That’s when I realized that Christmas really was about sharing traditions with special people in your life.
I was going to create new traditions for me and my son. I would bake for him and decorate and shop for him, read the right books to him. I glanced at the gingerbread reindeer, sugar cookie stars, and shortbread covered in mounds of confectioners sugar.
Yes, cinnamon and nutmeg.
I steered the stroller through the booths which showcased handcrafted ornaments, jewelry, and home decor. I bought a big three-dimensional snowflake made out of wood, painted white. Vendors sold jars of their homemade jams, jellies, and salsas all dressed up in pretty holiday ribbons, gorgeous sweet yeasty breads, a dizzying selection of old-fashioned lollipops and candies and cookies.
“Thank you!” a girl with a Santa cap on her head said as I tossed a wrapped gift into the Toys for Tots donation box.
“My pleasure,” I replied.
“Here you go.” She handed me a complimentary cup of hot chocolate.
Santa had made his grand entrance earlier, escorted by a city fire truck. A long line of kids waited to take photos with him, and I pushed the stroller in his direction. I definitely wanted him to see Santa. I didn’t want him to miss out on anything. I wanted him to always have these experiences, these memories. Although I was sure Eric would think I was a nut job for taking him out in the cold today, sun or no.
Rapid City was our home, as well as LA, but Rapid had my heart. I took a final sip of the hot chocolate, bringing the stroller to a stop by the rope barrier on the other side of the long winding line.
I grinned. Definitely next year.
I crouched down next to the stroller, my hand over the blanket under which his legs were kicking and popping against the thick fleece. “Look, honey, it’s Santa. He’s come from the North Pole to meet us. You’re excited, huh? Me too! What’s he going to bring you for Christmas this year? Your first Christmas.” I tickled his tummy, and he scrunched his mouth at me.
It sure felt like my first Christmas. It would be the first of so very many good ones.
I kissed his cheek, pulled down his hat with the bear ears on top, and stood up, pulling the stroller back a little from the extended line of kids and their parents.
“You been naughty or you been nice?” a deep, scratchy voice filled my ear.
My heart stopped. I spun around, my grip tightening on the stroller handles. Finger stood there in his colors, his huge worn leather jacket zipped to the top, a scarf bundled around his neck, a charcoal gray knit cap pulled down over his head. A dark beard covered his jaw.
I blinked. My hands clamped tightly over the curved handles. “Hey.”
He said nothing. He studied me, his one eyebrow arched, the line of his jaw set.
I last saw him in May across the field at a music festival in Colorado. I’d been six months pregnant and shocked as hell to spot him that afternoon. The look on his face when he realized I was pregnant. I’ll never forget it. Not ever.
My baby was four months old now.
Was he keeping track of me?
A choir of cheery voices swelled in the distance, “...with boughs of holly...”
His guarded eyes went to my baby, then back to me. “Boy?”
My breath shorted. “Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Beck.”
“Beck?”
“...Fa la la la la la la la la...”
“Beck,” he repeated.
My heart thudded in my chest.
“Is Beck mine?”
My skin heated, my stomach cramped. “Finger—”
“Is he mine?”
“No. I was already pregnant when I saw you in LA.”
On a hiss of air, he averted his gaze with a sharp movement, his head swinging away from me, his shoulders rigid. Had he been clinging to a sliver of hope about the baby? The what-might-have-been flared between us like the slicing blast of a police siren.
He leaned into me, eyes blazing. “You were pregnant with another man’s kid and you let me touch you? Why?” I didn’t see disgust in his face nor hear hatred in his voice, only that harsh demand for the truth and an eerie curiosity.
“Excuse me, sorry—could we get through?” A mom holding two twin girls by the hands bumped into me, pushing me closer to Finger. My face brushed his chest. The scent of leather and tobacco, cinnamon gum, and him.
Another life, another world.
Worlds collide.
“Answer me.”
“I’m selfish,” I replied.
His iron eyes widened, his chin lifted. A sound rumbled in the back of this throat as his lips tipped up. He liked that answer. “So am I.” The lick of pleasure in his tone was almost sinister.
He leaned down, studying Beck who kicked at his blanket under Finger’s stare. “Goodbye, Beck. Hope Santa brings you everything you want.”
He turned and stalked off into the crowd. Away. No final glance at me. No meaningful look. No cold squint.
My eyes flooded with water. I put a mittened hand to my mouth to keep the wail that rose up my throat locked inside. The crowd swirled around me, children laughed, shouted, mothers talked loudly, the choir continued with fucking Jingle Bells.
I wiped at my eyes and maneuvered the stroller away from the Santa display and back up on the sidewalk. My insides twisted as I scanned the crowd, greedily looking for him, a last taste of the brownie batter on the spatula before tossing it in the sink. One last look. Anything. Something. That tall body, that rigid line of neck and broad shoulders, those fierce dark eyes, those scars, that long and steady gait.
But there was no trace of him.
My head spun, my heart thudded off beat. I was off beat, defeated, small.
Beck fussed, letting out a whiny cry. “Okay, honey. Okay. We’re going.”
Through blurry vision, I guided the stroller back to my car.
After we first met, Eric and I had started sleeping together right away. We’d been careless once, and I hadn’t cared. We were careless a second time, and he’d freaked out. Not me, though. In fact, I’d dared destiny, flipping it the bird to prove my track record of being on the receiving end of lousy trick or treat candy wrong.
And destiny had given me a gift.
I was glad and relieved, because I knew a baby with another man would separate me from Finger and my past forever, a cement barrier on that perilous road that was us. It would force both of us to move forward and move apart. When I’d told Eric I was pregnant, he’d freaked out, lapsing into speechlessness. I told him it was cool, that I wanted to keep the baby on my own. Then he’d taken me in his arms and said, “Marry me.”
And I did.
When Finger had surprised me in LA, when he’d touched me, I couldn’t stop it, I hadn’t wanted to. Hell, I’d wanted him badly the moment I’d heard his voice, saw his reflection in the mirror. Then he’d kissed me. Breathed me in. And something volatile erupted inside me. Would that ever change?
And then I’d seen Finger at that concert and knew what was going on in his head. “Is that my baby?” Pulling the signal on him had upset me, the look on his face shattering. But he had to know. There was no going back, no second chances.
I sniffed in the icy air, gripping the stroller handles tighter. The glitter of the lights, the joy in people’s singing in the distance and the red and green decorations had all lost their sparkle and promise. Everything was flat, dull. Artificial.
I unlocked my car, got Beck in his car seat and buckled him in. He tugged on a lock of my hair, his pudgy legs kicking up at me under the blanket I tucked around him. “Going home now, Beck. Okay?”
“Gook.” He mashed his lips together, watching me intently.
Yes, home. A home I’d created. A home I was responsible for. Me.
This was for the best.
Then why did it burn so much?