Swing (Landry Family 2)

“What do you expect when your parents take off for vacation and never invite you? I mean, I’m shocked they remember to email me,” I snort. “God knows they wouldn’t call me. Or text me.”

“Your parents are assholes.”

“That they are,” I agree weakly. ”But still . . .”

“But still nothing,” she retorts. “They don’t deserve you. They’re two of the most self- obsessed people in the world.”

I don’t respond because there’s nothing to contribute. And the longer this conversation happens, the worse I feel. Macie picks up on it, like she always does.

“Come here for Thanksgiving. Julia and I are cooking a huge ass meal. It’ll be fun.”

“Nah . . .”

“You are welcome here. We’d love to have you,” she says softly.

“I have too much going on here.” My eyes drift to my calendar and the blank slots surrounding Thanksgiving and the emptiness that fills the time around the holidays makes itself apparent. I cringe.

“We’ll chat about this later,” she warns. “But I need to go get back to work. My lunch break is over and I can’t even remember why I called. I’ll call you later if I remember.”

“Sounds good.”

Replacing the receiver on the cradle, I bury my head in my hands. My heart swells, causing the pain buried there to sweep up my throat and to my eyes. I try to blink back the hot, salty tears but one lone, solitary tear drips down my cheek. When I reach for a tissue, my hand stalls over the box. Lincoln is standing in the door, his face washed with some unnamed emotion. He doesn’t ask for permission to come in. He just does. The door latches softly behind him. He also doesn’t ask what’s wrong and he doesn’t wait for me to tell him. He just storms around my desk and nearly lifts me out of my chair and pulls me into the deepest hug I’ve ever felt.

That does it. The tears stream, wetting his white t-shirt. He holds me against him, not saying a word. We stand like that for a long time. I couldn’t pull away if I wanted. He wouldn’t let me.

He reaches behind me and I hear the tissue box being moved. It’s only then he lets me lean back.

“Baby . . .” he says, his eyes full of trepidation. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I take a proffered tissue and turn away, cleaning up my face. “Just a bad day.”

“This isn’t how you do a bad day, Dani. Something’s wrong.”

His hands are on my shoulders, rolling them gently. It feels good to have him here, to have the physical and emotional support so available. I don’t really know what to do with it.

“Please talk to me,” he pleads.

“I’ll sound like a baby,” I laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “This isn’t the Danielle I want you to know. I want you to see the strong, confident Danielle. Not . . . this.”

He whirls me around until I’m facing him. Our eyes are level, his jaw set in defiance. “I want to know every side of you. The confident side, the part of you that’s a little bitchy,” he grins, “the sweet one, and the baby one, if it exists.”

I wrap myself around his waist, needing to feel him. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat. My eyes close and I allow his scent to calm me. Once I’m sure I won’t lose control, I explain. “My parents sent me an email with their holiday plans.”

He stills. “And they are?”

“Their usual—St. Thomas for Thanksgiving, Aspen for Christmas.”

“Are you going?”

“I’d have to have an invitation to go,” I sniffle. “Don’t worry though. Their housekeeper will mail my Christmas present.

”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he barks. “Tell me you’re joking.”

I shrug helplessly. “It’s been this way my whole life. Even in high school, I’d find a friend to stay with for the holidays because they’d leave. It was that or stay home with the help.” My chest tightens as I remember watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve while the microwave counted down the minutes until my hot chocolate would be done. All of my classmates loved the holidays and would come back from break with stories of dinners and vacations and gifts and pranks. I’d spend my break making up the stories I’d tell. No one ever knew I’d really spent two weeks watching re-runs alone.

“I fucking hate them,” Lincoln insists.