9. Smells Like Woodsy Goodness

CHAPTER 9

SMELLS LIKE WOODSY GOODNESS

ABBI

I’m standing outside the building when the shouting starts. I’d been about to answer a phone call from my stepfather. He probably wants to wish me a Merry Christmas.

But I silence my phone instead, and listen as the awful sound of glass breaking pierces the silence.

Uh-oh. Poor Lauren. Poor Weston, too. This is exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. I don’t move from my spot on the inn’s back porch, because the Griggs family doesn’t need one more person gawking at them right now.

But a moment later, Weston’s father emerges out of the back door, too.

I’m so stunned that for a beat I just stare at him, open-mouthed. “How could you?” I whisper.

Oops. I shouldn’t get involved. I know this. But I’m just so mortified for his family. I turn away because I can’t stand to give him any more of the attention he craves.

It’s not like I don’t understand that he’s hurting. It’s just that I know how to suffer in silence, like a grown-up. A skill he obviously never learned.

We ignore each other for a couple of very long seconds. I finger my phone in my pocket, and wonder what I could do to help Weston right now.

Meanwhile, the person who should have been helping Weston is pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting up.

I hate cigarettes. Just like I hate overgrown man-babies.

“Welcome to the family,” Mickey grunts. “Things are pretty hairy with the Griggs clan these days.”

Oh really? You don’t say . But that’s all on him. It must be hard work to maintain this level of animosity for—what did Weston say?—three years?

I should just keep my thoughts to myself , I tell myself.

But Weston is hurting because of this man. The whole family is hurting.

Maybe I can’t let it go. Some people just need a shake.

“It’s hairy because you make it that way,” I point out before I can think better of it. “This whole situation sucks for you. I get that. But you’d better get a grip on yourself already.”

He pulls a cigarette from the pack. “You’re young, honey. Talk to me in thirty years.”

My blood pressure leaps up. God , how I hate men who talk down to women. “First of all, I’m not your honey. And there are worse things in life than divorce.”

“Sure.” He flicks a lighter. “You probably know all about heartbreak and disappointment at the tender age of twenty.”

“Hey!” Now my anger is driving this bus. “I only look young. Three years ago my only parent was driving my dog to the vet, when they both died in a car crash.”

Mr. Griggs jerks backward, like he’s been slapped. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I know. But don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. But for the love of God, stop giving your kids so much drama. You’re not dead .” I grab the cigarette out of his hand and throw it into the snow. “Not yet, anyway. So stop throwing yourself a damn funeral.”

He drops his head. “Shit.”

“Just stop,” I repeat, because I’m on a roll, and some people can’t take a clue until you shove it in their faces. “Get a goddamn hobby. Get a dog. Join Tinder and find some action. But stop wallowing in self-pity. It’s not a good look on you.”

That’s when the slow clap starts. I whirl around and find Weston standing in the snow beyond the circle of light from the porch. His brother is with him, too, and Stevie also starts to clap.

Oh boy. I really didn’t mean to lose my temper like that. My face heats like a flame as the Griggs boys finish their ironic applause.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “It’s none of my business.”

“He did welcome you to the family,” Stevie says darkly. “That would freak out any girl.”

Weston laughs, and the sound is joyous instead of bitter. “It would, right?”

He and his brother look at each other and then laugh so hard that Stevie doubles over.

I edge away from my host—the man I’ve just insulted. And I step off the porch.

Weston reaches for my hand, and squeezes it. “Well done, Abbi girl. It needed to be said.”

Mr. Griggs wouldn’t agree, I bet. He stomps past us and heads for the parking lot.

Weston drives us home, his father stewing in the passenger seat.

I’m such an idiot. Weston invited me home with him because he wanted his dad to lighten up for Christmas. But I wrecked it. Now the man will probably avoid me, which means he’ll avoid his sons too.

Nice going, Abbi . Great work.

It’s deathly quiet in the car until Weston turns on the radio. Naturally there’s nothing but Christmas music playing. Weston turns it up, as if he could drown out his father’s bad humor with a pop star’s rendition of “White Christmas.”

“I like you,” Stevie says suddenly. He uses a low voice, and I don’t think anyone can hear him but me.

“Thanks,” I grunt, wondering whether Stevie is going to be creepy. I don’t get that vibe from him. Still, it’s an odd thing to say .

“I like you for him,” he clarifies quietly. “He needs a feisty one. Not all those easy women he takes to bed.”

This comment I ignore. I don’t want to hear about the women Weston takes to bed. I’m jealous, to be honest.

“If only you were real,” he says.

That gets my attention. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Please,” Stevie whispers. “You’re not really his girlfriend. I’m not stupid. But it’s a shame.”

“Careful,” I say. “Or you’ll get one of my speeches, too.”

Stevie snickers. “See? I’m a big fan.”

“Dude,” Weston says from up front. “Are you seriously giving Abbi a hard time?”

“Nope,” Stevie says, shaking his head. “Just telling her how it is.”

He’s right of course. It’s hard to fault him for speaking the truth.

I do anyway.

An hour later, the awkward moment finally arrives—the lights are off. Weston and I are lying side by side in a double bed. Not a queen size. Not a king. Nope. Just me and the hottest man on campus in a double. Lying on our backs. Staring at the ceiling.

I thought this would be awkward because our charade has trapped us here within smooching distance of each other. I never anticipated it would be awkward for an entirely different reason—that I just told his father off in front of God and everyone.

“Look,” I say. “I just want to apologize for making tonight more uncomfortable for you. I failed at my job.”

“What? No,” Weston insists. “You did fine. Better than fine. You told my dad what he needed to hear. We’ve all tried. But maybe he needed to hear it from an outsider.”

“But my job was to lighten him up for Christmas Eve and Christmas.”

“Nah, my idea was dumb. I thought I could turn back time. My dad used to love Christmas. He used to make waffles on Christmas Eve morning, with all the toppings. He used to get a B?che de No?l from the bakery, and hide little presents on the tree. This year there's not even a Christmas tree in this house. It's like he's given up.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“Don't be. You weren’t wrong about him. You told him how it is.”

“I sure did. Loudly.”

We both chuckle.

Beneath the covers, Weston uses his toe to nudge my toe. “Just so you know, I got my fake girlfriend a Christmas present. It's kind of a joke, though.”

My heart skips a beat. “Just so you know, I got my fake boyfriend a present, too. Also a bit of a joke.”

“What did you get me?” he asks immediately.

“You think I'd just tell my fake boyfriend his gift before Christmas? Think again.”

We laugh, and suddenly this isn't so awkward. Because something unexpected has happened between us—we really became friends. That's how it goes when two people allow each other to see all the dark shadows of their lives. They bond.

And I like it. I need friends. Who doesn’t need friends?

“Goodnight, Abbi,” he says with a yawn.

I relax against the pillow as the awkwardness between us seeps away for good. It’s comfortable here in bed with Weston. He’s warm and cozy and he smells like woodsy goodness. “Goodnight, Westie.”

There’s a soft snort from his side of the bed. And then peace.