CHAPTER 23
Vaughn
One night, years ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d turned on the television and flipped channels, just looking for something soothing and mindless that might lull me. I didn’t know what movie I’d stopped on, just that when I came in, a character was sitting on a bench in Central Park, in the snow, staring moodily at the twinkling lights in the distance, and commenting that Christmas felt ten times more depressing than other days if you had to spend it alone. I’d snorted at the screen and changed the channel, because as someone who was often alone on Christmas, or at an impersonal but obligatory party, I didn’t find Christmas to be depressing at all. It was just another day.
Now I knew better. I knew that if you were alone on Christmas when you’d hoped to spend it with the person you loved—with the person you were in love with and had disgusted—then it was true. Christmas truly was horribly depressing.
Ever since William had ejected me from his family Thanksgiving, I’d felt the kind of reeling dislocation I’d only ever felt after my parents died. Untethered, freewheeling, vertiginous.
I’d made my way back to D.C. in a daze and I’d called and texted William more times than I could count, needing to believe that it had just been a fight; that after a cooling-off period, he’d forgive me. At first he hadn’t answered. Then, when he’d told me he needed time to think, the cold had set in. He didn’t tell me how much time he needed, or what my chances were of having my sentence commuted. All I knew was that in the span of one day, I’d gone from making love to William in his childhood bed to worrying that I might never see him again.
So I had done what any man possessed of a fortune, a broken heart, and a lack of familial obligations would do: I ran away and hid in my Jackson Hole chalet for Christmas. And I took the cat.
Ordinarily, when I spent time at the property I had a housekeeper, to have food on hand, prepare the rooms, cook for my guests, and do light cleaning. I’d never been there by myself before, and the last thing I wanted was for my misery to be observed, or—far worse—to have to speak to anyone. I had never had the slightest problem exchanging pleasantries, and I’d never had much by way of misery to hide. But now, I felt like…well, like William, grumbling about how he’d used a self-checkout machine to avoid a social interaction. Only worse. Much, much worse.
No, I’d simply placed an order from the grocery store (and one from the liquor store) to be waiting for me when I arrived, and instructed the property manager to stock up on firewood, make up one of the bedrooms, and turn the heat on. Then I’d gotten on a plane, cat carrier in hand, and done what I had been raised to do: smooth the road of pain by paying for every possible discomfort to be removed. I’d arrived three days ago. Four days before Christmas. Which meant that Christmas was now tomorrow, and I had done nothing for the past seventy-two hours besides drink hot toddies, eat the prepared food I’d found in the refrigerator, stare into the fire, and watch the Home and Garden channel—it soothed me, slightly.
Audrey had prowled around, meowing at the snow and exploring her new surroundings our first night here, and then, as if she’d sensed my mood, had eaten her tins of expensive food, and curled up on whatever piece of furniture I’d been sulking on, suffering herself to be petted whenever I needed soothing.
Today though, walking through the empty rooms of the chalet, I was suddenly angry. Angry not at William, who, I’d admitted to myself, had every right to be hurt by what I’d done. Angry at myself for not doing better risk assessment. For not realizing before it was too late that Will, for better or for worse, saw the world a certain way. And that it was part of what I loved about him.
I’d wanted to make work a place where he could be safe, be himself, be happy. But I had interceded with the powers that ran his world, and no matter what the reason, no matter what my intentions, that was what struck him to his core. I had taken away his ability to trust the thing in his life he most needed to trust. And I’d done it, frankly, with about as much thought as swatting a fly.
And there was fuck-all I could do about it until William decided he was ready to talk. So, here I was. Alone with our cat. At Christmas. In Wyoming. Looking out the window at the snow falling softly on one of the most beautiful views I’d ever seen. And I couldn’t appreciate it at all.
I sighed, shut the blinds on the beauty of the sunset over the mountains, and slumped on the couch with the last of the prepared ravioli, which I didn’t bother to heat up. I would just sit here, and eat, and drink whiskey, and pet Audrey, and watch the Home and Garden channel Christmas specials, and feel exceedingly sorry for myself until I fell asleep.
I was two whiskeys down and had finished the cold ravioli when I heard the unlikely hum of a car on the long, winding driveway from the main road. Audrey’s ears perked up. Whatever wrong turn these holidaymakers had taken, I prayed they were just using the drive to turn around and I wasn’t about to end up playing host to a woman going into surprise labor in the snow outside my front door. Of course, perhaps I’d get lucky and it would be a murderer, intent on putting me out of my misery.
But then Audrey bounded to the front door. Trusting her instincts more than my own, I dragged myself upright enough to peer out the window. The car was a white Nissan, totally nondescript, nearly invisible in the snow, and it was… Jesus, it was parking in front of the house. Not quite subtle enough for a robbery. Believe me, I knew. A murder, however…well, I couldn’t say.
But the man who emerged from the driver’s side door? He had already as good as killed me.
It was William.
My heart started pounding so violently that I had the brief, irritated thought that I was far too young for a heart attack. This was followed by the petty thought that surely, if William were to watch me drop dead of a heart attack through the window, he would regret our fight.
Oh, Vaughn, you are not in a good place.
Will dithered between the car and the stoop, turning to look at the mountains rising behind him, then at the sharp crescent of moon cutting through the starry sky. I could almost feel his reaction to the natural beauty around him, and I wished so badly that I had simply brought him here, for Christmas, to enjoy the snow.
Audrey went up on her hind legs, scrabbling at the windowpane excitedly with her front claws. I didn’t have her certainty of reception.
Finally, William took a deep breath and walked to the door. He stomped snow off his boots before he rang the bell. Such a good, midwestern boy. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. I had never felt uncertain with William before, and I disliked it immensely.
But the moment I opened the door and saw him looking at me, all uncertainty evaporated in the face of conviction. I would make this right again. I would have Christmas here with the man I loved. I would fix this, no matter what I had to do.
“Umm. Hi,” Will said. He was wearing jeans and boots and a heavy winter coat, but carried only a backpack. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp, taking in everything.
“Come inside, love,” I said.
Will swallowed hard and stepped over the threshold. Audrey immediately twined around his ankles, rubbing her face on his jeans, then jumping backward when she got snow on her nose.
“Hi, baby,” he cooed to Audrey, crouching to scratch under her chin the way she liked. “Hi, cat. I missed you.” She purred loudly.
I’d never been so jealous in my life.
“I—Natalie told Charlie you were here,” William blurted.
“I shall have to have a word with Natalie about the propriety of divulging my whereabouts.”
“They’re dating. Natalie and Charlie. So I guess that’s why.”
“I’m very happy for them. But I do take my privacy quite seriously.” Will stood and I took his backpack from his hand and put it on the side table. “Not that I’ve ever wanted privacy from you.”
He slumped. “We need to talk.” My shoulders tightened. “But not now, okay? I’m exhausted and you’re…” He regarded me. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?” He sounded surprised at that.
I did feel rather at loose ends, but I’d thought I had hidden it fairly well.
“You messed me up,” I confessed, but confessional wasn’t a genre I did very well, and it sounded ironic, quippy, and William glared at me.
“We can talk in the morning,” he said.
“Only one bedroom is made up,” I told him. I was shooting for flirtatious, but apparently all my calibrations were off tonight.
“I know how to make a bed, Amory,” Will said shortly.
But. He had called me Amory, and I saw the moment his words caught up with him and he realized it.
I tried not to feel betrayed and resentful when Audrey slept with William. I failed.