“I uh, I have to go.” I make up some bullshit about an idea of how to fix the fucked up connection, like I have any idea about connections. Klaus almost looks proud at the fact I’m skipping dinner to work.
I can’t stop replaying the look on Nick’s face as he turned me down. I just throw on my work boots, grab a jacket and stomp out into the snow.
“Kris?” Nick’s voice sounds almost broken from the porch.
I turn back to him. “It’s all good. I’m glad we got this over with now and not later.” I try to disguise the pain in my voice, feigning indifference. But by the drop in his shoulders and the pity in his gaze, he knows.
“Kris, please.” He continues to speak, but I can’t hear him through the snowstorm that pulses through my ears as I make my way back to the workshop, not stopping till I’m safely locked inside.
Chapter eightNick
December 23rd
Kris didn’t end up coming back home last night. The perfectly made bed sits mockingly in his empty room. I had waited in my room till the early hours of the morning, hoping to hear any sound that signaled his return, but I ended up crashing out from sheer exhaustion into a sleep that was anything but restful.
The look on his face when he thought I was turning him down had haunted my dreams.
I needed to explain better, to articulate how my thoughts had transformed into an endless carousel revolving solely around him. That he wasn’t alone.
Why didn’t I kiss him?
Why hadn’t I said anything to reassure him he wasn’t alone in his feelings. That I was right there, drowning alongside him.
Instead, I let him walk out and spent the rest of the night silently hating myself over meatloaf and apple pie, listening to my father spout off weather reports and patterns for the big day.
There is just so much on my plate right now, at that moment I couldn’t think of adding one more thing to my ever-growing pile.
But Kris isn’t just one more thing.
The kitchen is empty when I finally drag myself downstairs. Grateful my father and Carol are already off doing one of the hundred jobs that need to be completed by tomorrow, so I could take a few minutes to sit and wallow in my stupid decisions over a hot cup of coffee.
The looming amount of expectations on me was becoming too much. I need to get through Christmas. Christmas had to be my priority.
I couldn’t let millions of children down because I had fallen for a guy. Fuck, not just a guy.
Kris.
My stepbrother.
The guy I have secretly pined over for almost half of my life was finally in my hands and I have already messed it all up.
I groan, my head falling with a thud onto the breakfast bar as the back door opens. I shoot up, turning to the door.
“Kris? … Carol, hi.” Carol gently smiles at me as she enters, arms full of freshly picked mistletoe. I spin back around, trying to hide my disappointment as I sink back onto my stool.
“Nick, are you alright?” Her smile drops as she takes in the wrinkled suit I wore yesterday. After Kris blew out of here like a hurricane, I ate dinner silently before excusing myself and collapsing onto my bed. Not having the heart to do anything else, even though my to do list seems to be ever growing.
Dropping the flowers on the table, she strokes my unshaven face, lips twisting in concern, before taking a mug from the shelf. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she perches herself on the stool across from me.
Her Christmas sweater jingles as she takes in a mouthful. The knitted version of our festive village sprawled across it, a twinkling backdrop to the large Christmas tree that stands in the foreground. Decorated with small bells where ornaments would normally hang. She waits, hands wrapped around the mug, steam billowing from the cup.
When the silence becomes uncomfortable, my skin begins to itch and I can’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“I’m in love with Kris.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, but she keeps herself composed as she inhales slowly before standing.
Oh fuck. What did I just do?
She walks out through the kitchen doors and into the dining room and I sigh, leaning my head into my hands as I wait to hear the front door slamming. I imagine the look of devastation on my father’s face as Carol tells him how fucked up his son is.
The sound of footsteps draws my head back up and Carol walks towards me, a bottle of my father’s top shelf scotch in her hand.
“I feel like this conversation needs something a little stronger than just coffee.” A small smile graces her perfectly done up face and a small part of me relaxes at the gesture.
“It’s only nine a.m.?” I question, checking my watch. She only shrugs, the response so like Kris my heart twinges.
Bringing my mug to my lips, I drink down the remaining liquid in one mouthful and hold out the mug for her to pour.
She pours a generous amount into my mug before adding the same amount to her steaming coffee, leaving the bottle between us.
“Now, I believe you were in the middle of telling me you had feelings for my son?” Her voice holds no hint of anger or disgust like I had expected, though concern pinches her brow. That is the only sign she shows of discomfort.
“Yes.” I take a large mouthful of the amber liquid, warmth running down my throat and filling my stomach as it goes. “I think I’ve loved him for a while.”
“I know.” Her voice sounds small, like a delicate whisper floating in the air. My mouth gapes at her response.
“You know?”
