Jade’s words keep echoing through my head as I drive away.

I’m up to here with Christmas stress…

I can’t handle this…

This isn’t what I signed on for…

Or maybe they’re my mother’s words. Almost verbatim what she said more than a decade ago before hurling my father’s favorite Christmas snow globe at the wall and storming out the door. I honestly can’t tell whose voice is repeating in my brain right now, but I know one thing: Jade King doesn’t need me.

She made that damn clear.

I’ve made it all the way back to Ponderosa Resort before I even realize where I’m headed. Kicking the snow off my boots, I stomp into the lodge and head for the bar. I expect to see Sean there polishing bottles or scribbling recipes. Or maybe Mark measuring lumber for the next batch of tables.

Instead, I spot Bree. She’s standing on a ladder with a light in one hand, aiming a camera down at the hammered copper countertop. She stops clicking and looks up at me as I march behind the bar.

“You’re welcome,” she says from atop the ladder when I don’t say anything. “For setting out all the candles last night? I hope it got you laid.”

“Not in the mood right now, Bree.” I snatch a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter, then hunt for a rocks glass. Where does Sean keep the damn things? Or maybe this is an occasion that calls for swilling straight from the bottle.

I’m still contemplating that when Bree clambers slowly down the ladder. She grabs the bottle from my fist, then uses her free hand to whack the back of my head.

“What the hell is your problem?” she demands.

I make a feeble grab for the bottle, but she’s quicker and feistier than I am.

“None of your business,” I grumble.

I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t seem to stop.

“The hell it’s not my business.” Bree slams the bottle onto the counter, then jams her hands onto her hips and levels me with a death-glare that would make my former drill sergeant’s nuts shrivel. “You come storming in here like someone ran a rake over your testicles, and now you think it’s a good idea to start chugging whiskey? You of all people know that’s the dumbest thing you could do.”

She has me there. I’m being an idiot in more ways than one, and she has every right to call me on it. Defeated, I retreat to the opposite side of the bar and sink emptyhanded onto one of the leather-topped stools.

After a few seconds, Bree walks around the bar and sits down beside me. She stretches an arm over the bar, grabs a bowl of maraschino cherries, and pushes them in front of me.

“Here,” she says. “I was using them in a photo, but you need them more than I do.”

I look up at her. “Maraschino cherries?”

“You loved these as a kid. Remember?”

“I remember.” I’m touched that she would, given how little time we spent together. She used to sneak them out of the wet bar where her father made his manhattans, giggling as we scurried away with cherry juice dribbling down our chins.

I ignore the cherries and glance at my cousin, wondering how much she knows about my upbringing. The fact that she knew about my dad’s drinking tells me it’s more than I realized.

“So,” she says. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.”

“Yes. You do.”

I hate her for being right again, but not as much as I hate myself right now. I hesitate, not sure how much to share. How much to let her in.

“I don’t think things are going to work out with Jade.”

She stares at me. “Tell me you didn’t bone someone else.”

“Of course I didn’t bone someone else,” I bark. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“Not that kind,” she says, her expression coolly smug. “But I wanted to hear you say it.”

“Fuck.” I let out a slow breath and clasp my hands together on the bar, sinking my head down onto them.

A touchy-feely sort of cousin might pat me on the back.

Bree shoves the bowl of cherries against my arm. “Have one. It’ll help.”

I look up as she jostles the bowl again, making the little red orbs wobble like superballs. I grab one and shove it in my mouth, mostly to get her to shut up about the damn cherries.

“Hell,” I mumble as I chew. “You’re right.” Something about a mouthful of obscenely-sweet fruit makes it harder to stay pissed.

“I’m right about telling someone, too,” she says. “You’ll feel better if you talk about what happened.”

“I hate you,” I mutter, the exact opposite of the truth.

“I know,” she says, and I’m pretty sure she does.

So I start at the beginning. Not just what happened with Jade, but my parents’ split. My mixed feelings about Christmas. Hell, I even tell her about the scene with my teammates at the burger joint last week. I don’t know why, but it’s like someone pulled the cork from a wine bottle, and all the sticky, bitter contents have come glugging out.

Bree listens quietly, her eyes steady on me. A few times she nods or shoves the cherries at me again, but mostly she just listens. I’m not sure I’ve ever had anyone pay such rapt attention while I pour my guts out like I’m confessing to a goddamn priest.

She waits until I’m finished before asking a single question. “Do you love her?”

It’s not the question I expected. I consider playing dumb, but there’s no point. I pick at a cherry stem, uncertain how to answer. “I’m not sure I know what love is.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Bree folds her hands on the counter and stares at me. “You’re one of the most loving guys I know. You’ve done more work around this place than any of us, even though we’re not paying you a dime.”

“You’re family.”

“That’s love, dumbass.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m really feeling the love.”

Bree shakes her head. “I’ve watched you with those kids who think you’re Santa. The kindness and patience and sweetness you show them? That’s love, too.”

“That’s a job.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bree elbows me hard in the ribs. “You visit your father day in, day out, even though he has no idea who you are. That’s love, asshole.”

My throat feels thick and raw, and I force myself to swallow before speaking. “I don’t know that I’m capable of the other kind of love,” I tell her. “The kind with Jade.”

“You are.” Her voice has softened, and she gives me such an earnest look that I’m tempted to look away. “But there’s something you should know about loving a woman like Jade.”

“What are you talking about?” I mutter. “You met her, what—once?”

“Let’s just say I recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.” Bree presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s weighing her words carefully. “Girls who spend their formative years being picked on or bullied or beaten down. Girls who grow up vowing they’ll never, ever stand for that shit again.”

I stare at her, taken aback not just by her words, but by the passion in them. The specificity. “You got all that out of a fifteen minute meeting?”

“I got it because I was that girl, too, Brandon,” she says. Her eyes are tearless, but her voice sounds heavy, like she’s talking through wet wool. “I know what it feels like to be picked on for being different. Too short, too tall, too fat, too skinny.” She waves a hand, and the expression she gives me is almost pitying. “I asked around about Jade. Folks in town filled me in.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that kids bullied the shit out of her for being chubby. Or for being different. A farm kid or whatever.”

I stare at her, wondering if this is true. I remember my ex-classmates at the burger joint, how they seemed more familiar with Jade’s past than I was. And I remember what Stacey told Sean. Was it worse than I imagined? Did I miss something that big?

A flash of memory bowls into me like a St. Bernard lunging for a steak. “The pig.”

Bree narrows her eyes at me. “What did you say?”

I love that she’s coiled and ready to jump to Jade’s defense, but I hold up my hands. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

I shake my head, buying myself some time as my memory clouds with visions of a high school hallway filled with garish florescent light. A bunch of second-string linemen—sophomores, maybe juniors—tossing a lumpy clay pig as a girl in plaid flannel runs between them, round cheeks streaked with tears.

I look at Bree as my gut churns. “I do remember Jade.”

Only it’s not the same Jade I know now. Or maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been so stuck in my own head that I’ve failed to see the whole picture of Jade. I saw the heart, but not the hurt. I saw the toughness, but not the things that made her that way.

“Your friends,” Bree says. “Your football buddies or cheerleaders or whatever. Were those the kids who made her life hell?”

I nod, though I’m not totally sure. I remember Matthew Lerten, his smug face sneering down at the girl as he held the pig overhead.

Or as he held the stupid paperwork over her head this morning.

“I’m such an asshole.”

Bree doesn’t argue, but she does pat my hand. “Kids are fucking mean,” she says softly. “They’ll crucify anyone who’s different. I know guys like you don’t always see it. Nice guys at the top of the food chain rarely look down. You’re too busy clinging to your own rungs on the ladder. But girls like me, like Jade—that shit lives with us for a long damn time.”

I fist my hands on the bar as her words sink in. Why didn’t I do more to help? To notice what others were going through. I’m not sure whether to feel more protective of Bree or Jade right now, but I know I want to punch anyone who ever made either of them feel bad about themselves.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. “Were you a bully?”

I shake my head, but the denial does nothing to alleviate my guilt. “I wasn’t, but I could have done more to notice it. To jump in and help if that shit was going on.”

“Pity is the worst thing you can offer up now,” she says. “Respect. That’s what we want. What we need.”

I stare at my hands, replaying this morning’s interaction with Jade. The way she stood up to Matthew, to me. How long did it take her to get strong enough to do that?

“There’s no one I respect more than Jade,” I murmur. “She’s smart and kind and clever and strong and beautiful and—”

“So tell her all that,” Bree says. “Tell her now, before she finds another Santa.” She lifts her chin as she reaches across me to grab a cherry. “Or another man to warm her bed.”

Those words make my chest ache so badly I can’t breathe. God. The thought of Jade with anyone else is like an icicle slipped between my ribs. Bree’s right. I have to talk to Jade. I have to make this right.

I snatch my phone and dial her number, surprised to discover my hands are shaking. It rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail.

“This is Jade King at Jinglebell Reindeer Ranch—”

“The reindeer calf,” I say, hitting the button to end the call. “She’s taking him to the vet.”

Bree frowns. “Which vet?”

“I don’t know.” I set my phone on the bar. My heart is racing as my brain reels with different scenarios. Different ways to win her back, to say I’m sorry.

None of them play quite right in the exam room of a veterinary clinic.

A decade.

Maybe more.

That’s how long Jade has carried this burden. How long she’s felt the sting of hurtful words and held the knowledge of how shitty people can be to each other.

How long have I done the same thing?

I swallow hard, and look at my cousin. Bree’s eyes are clear and calm, and I know she’d approve of what I’m going to do next. What I need to do, before I can make things right with Jade.

“I need to see my dad.”

The smell of antiseptic and tapioca pudding rush me like linebackers as I push through the doors of the Central Oregon Dementia Care Unit. The comingled scent is as familiar as the ugly green and white tiles on the floor, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady as I head toward my father’s room.

Making my way down the hall, I shift the duffel bag I’m carrying from one hand to the other. I’m greeted by two nurses whose names I’ve forgotten, but whose faces are vaguely familiar. I’m pretty sure I dated at least one of them in high school, though never more than twice.

I hope I wasn’t an asshole. I hope I was kinder to them than other guys were to Jade or Bree.

“Hi, uh—Jean,” I try when a third nurse gives me a flirty little finger wave.

“It’s Jen,” she says. “But nice try. Your dad’s awake; you can go on in.”

“Thanks. And, uh—sorry.”

She hesitates, but doesn’t ask what for. “Don’t mention it.” Her eyes are filled with more kindness than I deserve, and I make a mental note to pick up Christmas cookies for the staff.

I move through the doorframe of my dad’s room, feeling gangly and awkward in my own skin. He’s sitting in the corner by the window like always, staring out into the dull afternoon light. There’s something in his hand, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the Santa hat.

“Hey,” I say softly.

He doesn’t look up, which is normal. But I notice his fingers working the white fur on the edge of the hat, stroking and petting like it’s an animal he’s soothing.

I step into the room and pull a chair up beside him. Setting my duffel bag at my feet, I sit down next to him and hesitate a moment before putting a hand on his knee. “Pop?”

Again, he doesn’t look. But his hands go still on the red velvet edge of the Santa hat.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” I say. “Something I should have said a long time ago.”

Silence. Outside, a flutter of snowflakes swirl in a wind gust.

“I know it’s too late now, but I want you to know I don’t blame you,” I say softly. “That it wasn’t your fault Mom left.”

His palm moves again, stroking the length of red velvet all the way to the white fur trim. He doesn’t look at me, and his eyes are cloudy as he stares out over the snow-crusted lawn.

“Anyway, I wanted you to know that,” I say. “I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame Mom, and I don’t even blame—” my throat clogs again, and I fight to swallow back the lump. “I don’t blame Christmas.”

This time, his eyes flicker. I’m sure of it. Slowly, so very, very slowly, he turns to face me. His eyes are rheumy, but they lock with mine and hold for a few breathless seconds. He blinks once—acknowledgement of something, or just a biological function?

His fingers stroke the fur trim again, petting and pulling at it. I point to the hat.

“You want to wear it?” I ask. “Would you like me to put it on you?”

No response, not verbal anyway. But his hands go still again.

“I have one just like it,” I tell him. “A beard, too. Want to see?”

I don’t wait for a response this time. I just slide my hand into the black duffel bag at my feet. I sit up and fix the snowy-white facial hair to my chin, then don the hat.

When I meet my dad’s eyes again, one corner of his mouth is tilted up. It’s faint, but it’s there. I wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly, but it’s the closest I’ve seen years.

“Here.” I slide the Santa hat off his lap, ready to stop if he grabs hold of it or seems upset. But he doesn’t.

Carefully, I arrange the hat on his head. It’s lopsided and the tassel bops against his forehead, so I straighten it out before sitting back to admire the effect. He stares at me. I stare back, my chest tight and sore.

“You look great, Pop.” My voice is gravelly, and my eyes are stinging.

The edge of his mouth tugs again, even closer to a smile. Then he gives an almost infinitesimal nod.

He’s the first to break eye contact. His gaze skids sideways, and for a moment I think I’ve lost him. That he’s gone back to staring sightlessly at the frosty garden outside.

But, no, he’s staring at a book. It’s sitting on the edge of his dresser, so I reach out and pick it up. As I study the tattered cover, recognition washes over me like a salty wave.

“How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” I read before glancing at my father. His expression is neutral, but my heart is pounding in my chest. “Where did you get this?”

No response, but I’m used to that by now.

“I had this when I was a kid,” I say. “I recognize the cover. And this little dent on the corner from when I dropped it on the floor. You used to read this to me.”

My father’s hands twitch in his lap as he stares back. There’s something in his eyes—a question? A request?

“You want me to read it to you?” I ask softly.

His head barely moves, but I swear it’s a nod. Even if it’s not, I know what to do. I reach out and squeeze his hand. We sit there for a few silent moments like that. Just two broken guys in Santa hats, doing our best to put the past behind us.

Then I draw my hand back, open the book, and begin the story.

It’s growing dark by the time I finally drive back to Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch. The sky has the purplish cast of a bruise, and stars are just starting to prick through the ink.

I’m not sure yet what I’ll say to Jade, but I’m hoping the words come to me. I know one of them will be “sorry.” Another might be “love,” though I’m not sure she’ll want to hear it. She may well hate me for all I know.

I cut my lights as I pull into the parking area, but not before a dark shape catches my eye. At first, I think it’s a reindeer. One of the bigger ones like Donner or Cupid, whose real names I can never keep straight.

It is a reindeer, I realize as I step out of the truck.

But it’s more than that.

I grab my Maglite from the truck and flick it on, then start up the path toward the barn. The image gets clearer as I approach, and I train my beam on the two figures up against the barn.

One of them is Tammy, whose name I recall is Dasher. She’s facing the side of the barn, her massive, branchlike antlers pressed against the building like toppled coatracks.

Pinned between them is a man. A man holding a gas can, looking helplessly toward me as I approach.

I quicken my pace, though it’s clear the guy isn’t going anywhere. Tammy is making damn sure of that. Her eyes roll to glance at me, but she doesn’t move her head. I stare at the man for a moment, taking it all in.

“Evening,” I say at last.

His throat moves as he swallows. “It’s not what it looks li—”

“Shut up.”

I pull out my phone and snap two photos. Then I dial Jade’s number. It rings once, twice, three times, and I’m afraid it will go to voicemail again.

When she picks up, her voice is calm, but breathless. “Yes?”

“Jade,” I say.

Saying her name feels wonderful, so I say it again, nearly forgetting why I’ve called. It’s so good to hear her voice. “Jade, there’s something you need to see.”

She pauses, and I wonder if I’ve caught her in the middle of something. Watching Christmas specials or stringing popcorn garland or, hell, interviewing a replacement Santa.

The thought makes my gut churn, or maybe that’s the scene in front of me. I still can’t fucking believe what I’m looking at.

“Brandon, I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”

“Come outside,” I tell her. “Please. And bring Amber.”