Now we’re strolling down Main Street, checking out the tables of baked goods and crafts at the annual Lakeside Christmas Bazaar—talking about her holidays in San Diego. She glances sideways at me from beneath her red knit hat—the tip of her nose all cute and pink from the cold. Makes me want to bite it.
“Well, it was just me—seemed like a lot of work for one person. I put out a table tree.”
“A table tree?” I’m disgusted. “What a sad little life you had. Thank God you’ve got me now to rescue you from it.”
She rolls her eyes. Then tugs me over to a table of graphic novels based on the classics. She buys The Count of Monte Cristo and a few others for David. I’m taking Callie down to visit him tomorrow—three days before Christmas—at the Jamesburg Home for Boys. She’s talked to him on the phone a few times and he seems like he’s doing okay—sitting tight while his public defender negotiates a plea deal for him.
“Hi, Coach D; hey, Miss Carpenter!”
“Hey, guys.”
“S’up, Coach Daniels! Looking good, Miss Carpenter!”
“Hi, kids.”
It happens every few minutes—we’re spotted and greeted by gaggles of our students as we thread our way through the crowd. It’s an occupational hazard—as is being cornered by an overeager parent and subjected to an impromptu conference.
“Darpenter forever!” a faceless voice calls from behind us. And Callie and I both laugh.
She stops on the sidewalk for a moment, threading her arm through mine, leaning against me, gazing down the street. The wreath-laden street lamps and strings of twinkling white lights make stars in her eyes.
“I forgot about this,” she says softly, watching coat-and hat-covered families—pretty much the whole town—bustling around, talking and laughing, drinking spiked eggnog and hot chocolate. “I forgot how this feels. Being home for Christmas.”
There’s something different, warmer, about Christmas in a small, old town. It makes you feel like Norman Rockwell’s paintings and It’s a Wonderful Life are real—like you’re living inside them.
“It’s magical.” Callie sighs.
And she looks so pretty, I have to fucking kiss her. I press my mouth against hers, tasting winter on her lips. Then I whisper wickedly in her ear, “Come back to my house tonight, and I’ll give magical a whole new meaning.”
She giggles . . . and later, comes back to my house where I make hot, sweaty good on that promise.
~ ~ ~
Over winter break, Callie spends the day with her parents, then switches off with her sister and spends most of her nights with me. The Thursday night before Christmas, we’re at Chubby’s. “Dancing Queen” by ABBA is on the jukebox, and Callie’s leaning over the bar, singing along with Sydney, her old theater friend. They’ve been talking again, rekindling their friendship, and I’m not going to lie—I’m glad. Because there’s been a voice, buzzing around my head for the last few weeks, that says the longer Callie’s here, the more roots she revives . . . the more likely she is to stay.
For now, I shake my head, kicking those thoughts away—focusing on the here and now and what’s in front of me.
And what’s in front of me . . . is Callie’s perfect ass. Round and bitable in snug jeans. The things I can do with that ass—I take a long drag on my beer—can’t wait to get her back to my place tonight.
The ABBA song ends, and “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” by Toby Keith takes its place. Callie comes back to our table, carrying another round for herself and me and Dean. She plants herself on my lap, singing with Dean about California, women, whiskey, and gold. She’s smiling, laughing, and it all feels so damn good.
Until it all goes straight to shit.
And Becca Saber approaches our table, her blue eyes trained right on me. And I swear to Christ she sounds exactly like Maleficent, from that Disney movie I watched with my niece Frankie a couple weeks ago.
“Well, well, well . . . Garrett Daniels . . . it’s been a long time.”
Fuck.
This isn’t gonna be pretty.
Callie stops singing and looks up at Becca—an open, innocent expression on her face.
“And Callie Carpenter. I didn’t know you were back in town. Isn’t this just like old times.”
The last I heard, Becca had married a businessman and was living in North Jersey. I think she’s a mortician or something.
“Hello, Becca,” Callie says.
There’s a wicked gleam in Becca’s narrowed eyes, something sharp and dangerous. “How funny is this?” She hooks her thumb back towards the bar. “My husband’s in real estate; we own the parking lot outside. I was in the area and decided to pick up the rent check from Sydney . . . and I run into you two. Are you guys like . . . back together again?”
Callie smiles, cool, calm, and totally collected. “Yeah, we are.”