Because It's You (Carolina Rebels 2)

“No, stay and work on your cake.” He must see the dip of my lips because he hooks an arm around my shoulders and walks me to the bedroom. “Or, you can ride with me. Whatever you want. Either way, I need my shirt back.”

We begin to change, and I ask, “How was the road trip?” even though I know the answer.

“Fine. How did it go with Stella and Stephanie?”

Ah, yes. When he asked, I refused to tell him because I wanted to tease him in person. I smile as I face him and shimmy into my jeans now that my top half is clothed. “I think I’ve found the way to Stella’s heart.”

His eyes widen and his mouth parts. “What? Tell me.”

“She loves sweets and went nuts when I told her we were baking a cake. She didn’t care for the decorating part, but she babbled to me almost as much as Stephanie once we started mixing the ingredients together.”

“Next time I see her, I’ll make sure to bring her a cookie. Maybe then, she’ll finally warm up to me.”

“Maybe,” I agree, deciding to leave out that she’s picky about her cookies. If he brings her the wrong kind, she won’t like him any more than she does now.

A few minutes later, we’re in his truck after I placed an order at Bagels and Butts with the address in his GPS because I really do suck at giving directions. I’ve been hoping he wouldn’t bring up the looming holiday, but he does.

“What are you planning to do for Christmas?”

“Nothing. You?”

“Nothing?” he parrots in disbelief. “Aren’t you going to see Scotty and Sylvia and the girls? Do something with them?”

I look out the window. “No,” I answer quietly. If I all of a sudden started showing up and bringing the girls their gifts myself, they would probably wonder why. They’re used to the routine I’ve imposed on them, and why should we change that now? Marc reaches over, unbuckles my seatbelt, and grabs my thigh to pull me over to the middle seat. He hooks his arm around my neck. Why’d we have to have this conversation anyway?

“Why not?” His question is hesitant. Curious. But close to being inaudible as if he knows I’m too close to turning myself off.

“I haven’t spent Christmas with anyone since he died. Can we please not get into this?”

He glances down at me. Whatever he sees must make him think that we can get into this. “But you’re learning how to move forward, right? Why can’t that extend to this? You can’t tell me they wouldn’t love to spend the holiday with you.”

What Marc doesn’t understand is that it’s completely different. There’s baby steps in learning how to move forward, in letting a man distract me enough that I seem to be doing it a little at a time without really realizing it, and in taking active steps in repairing what damage has been done and reversing the choices I made after his death and continue to make. Does he want to freak me out again? God, just when I think I’m doing okay and have a handle on this, I realize I don’t. Everything is out of control despite how much I’m trying to control it all.

All those choices? They haven’t disappeared! They aren’t going away! Some of them are irreparable for better or for worse! I’m going to continue making some of them!

Pissed off and wound tight with too many emotions, I ignore what he said completely and ask him a question instead. “What are you doing? Is your dad coming to see you?”

Marc tenses next to me. “No.”

“Are you going to see him?”

“No.”

“Why not? Maybe you should see him. You can’t tell me he wouldn’t love to spend the holiday with you,” I spit his words back at him.

Marc removes his arm from around my neck. “You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about, Elizabeth.”

“No, I wouldn’t because you want me to spill everything about my horrible life to you when I know nothing about you!” The truth comes out of my mouth in a shout before I can think twice about it. “You want me to fix my broken life when you obviously have issues, too!”

We’re in the parking lot of the restaurant now. Marc throws his truck in park and gets out without saying a word. The headlights of his truck illuminate a rigid back. He’s definitely uncomfortable when it comes to his father. Something obviously happened for him to be at odds with the man who raised him.

He can’t expect that we’re only going to discuss my issues. Yeah, they might be able to link around the earth once or twice, but that doesn’t mean he’s free from sharing, either. Oh god. What if I’ve become some sort of project he wants to fix?

No, that doesn’t seem right.

But why wouldn’t he want to talk about himself?

I don’t know any actual details about him. I know he’s Canadian. His father raised him. He’s hot. He’s good in bed. He knows how to cheer a person up. He can swoop in and calm me down, bring me down to earth, and lift the weight of my guilt and grief. He likes to smile. He plays hockey. He loves kids. He likes for everyone to think he’s always fine.