Page 16 of Snowed In with My Best Friend's Dad
When Lindsay's dad left the kitchen, I blew out a breath and sagged against the counter. This emotional confusion was wreaking havoc inside my body.
My initial impression of him last night when we bumped into each other was that he was a curt, brooding, domineering man. Even after going to the hotel with him, that impression stayed with me. It was solidified tonight when we met alongside the road and returned to the cabin with the shock that he was Lindsay's father. So, seeing this kindness from him was a little bit unsettling. Unsettling because it made me feel all sorts of things I shouldn't be feeling.
Why was he going to continue to decorate and have his holiday traditions with me? I'd be a liar if I didn’t admit that a part of me wanted to think it could be a prelude to seduction, but that was a stupid thought. The truth was more likely that he was just being nice to his daughter's friend. Hadn't he said at dinner that we were to act like nothing ever happened? Last night was in the past. Going forward, Lindsay was my friend and roommate, and he was Lindsay's father. That's how he was treating me. Like the friend of his daughter.
He probably took pity on me since I told him we didn't have much of a Christmas at my house. In some ways, that made my desire for him all the more unsettling since that meant he was treating me like a daughter. I shook the image of that out of my head.
I loaded up the dishwasher, finding detergent and starting its run. I washed the pots by hand and put them away if I could find their home. I left a few on the counter.
I’d just finished when Brett returned. "The fire is roaring if you’d like to go warm up. I'll make hot chocolate now."
I thought about telling him that he didn't need to go through all this trouble, but I couldn't find the words. The truth was, I wanted this evening. I wanted to see what it was like to celebrate the holidays with cheer and decorations. So I exited the kitchen, going into the large, open living area. The fireplace was huge, and the fire nearly consumed the entire space. It was the type of fire on Christmas cards or in holiday children's books.
I peeked into the box to see individually wrapped ornaments. It surprised me because it seemed like a very feminine thing to do. My dad just tossed all our stuff into a single box.
I wasn't comfortable starting the decorating process, so I took a seat on the large, comfortable couch and stared into the embers of the fire. A strange feeling came into my chest and slowly radiated out.
It took me a moment to realize what it was. It was a sense of comfort and safety.
The stress of my life involving finances and grades and caring for my father, and even worrying about having slept with my friend’s father, melted away in the cozy warmth. I settled into it, remembering Lindsay's words about having a respite. I couldn't imagine that it was possible, and yet here I was, feeling like I was a world away from my world, where I didn't have to be responsible for anything. I determined that I would relish this feeling, this moment. Who knew when I'd ever have a chance to experience it again?
Brett returned from the kitchen carrying a tray that had two giant red mugs with white trim on them. Each had a candy cane sticking out of it. He set the tray on the table. “Hot chocolate with marshmallows, a little peppermint liqueur, and a candy cane to stir it with."
I couldn't help the happy little laugh that escaped. I suppose it was technically a giggle, but I never giggled. Giggling was what silly girls did.
"This is wonderful." I took the mug he offered me and settled back into the couch, taking a sip. Chocolate and peppermint burst in my mouth, and I closed my eyes to savor it as I knew Lindsay would. That was what this moment offered, I realized. I could be like Lindsay and be open to savoring everything. Well, maybe not everything. Brett took a seat at the other end of the couch, and while it was wrong, there was no stopping my appreciating that he was sexy as hell.
"Where would you like to start? We can do the tree first. Or we could decorate the rest of the room. I've got stockings somewhere around here that we can hang on the mantel."
"Let's start with the tree." But first, I took another sip of the hot cocoa, letting it warm me up from the inside out as the fire and the atmosphere warmed me from the outside in. I set my mug on the tray and went with Brett to the box to decorate the tree.
Many of the ornaments had clearly been made by Lindsay when she was a child, and they brought back bittersweet memories of similar ornaments I had made in school or crafting with my mother. Those ornaments were long gone. Once Loretta married my father, Christmas trees looked like they came out of a magazine with color themes and no room for sentimental child-made ornaments. It was sweet that Brett still had Lindsay’s creations and put them on the tree.
A part of me wanted to ask what it was like being a single father and raising Lindsay, but I didn't. As much as I wanted to know about this man, bringing up Lindsay was only a reminder of what we did and what we couldn't do again. I didn't want that reminder now, not in this moment outside of my real life.
I was grateful that he didn't ask me anything more about my own Christmases or my friendship with Lindsay. I wondered if that was on purpose? Could he possibly be feeling similar to the way I was? I shook my head because it was unlikely he was feeling the attraction. More likely, he was avoiding those topics because he didn't want to be reminded about last night. He wanted to see me as Lindsay’s friend.
Now and then, I would stop and take a sip of my hot cocoa and then continue decorating. When we finished the tree, we moved on to the rest of the room. There was a little manger scene that he let me set up on a table near the window.
I finished the last of my hot cocoa just as we set up the last decoration. I studied our accomplishment, noting how lovely and warm the room felt. It was quickly followed by sadness that it likely meant the end of the night.
Brett drank his hot cocoa, pulling his cup away and looking down into it. Then he looked up at me. "I'm out. How about you? Do you want another one?"
"Yes, please." I said it a little too eagerly. Like a kid on Christmas Eve. So much for appearing mature.
He took the cups and headed back into the kitchen. I took another look around the room, studying our handiwork. My eyes settled on a book facing outward on the bookshelf. I picked it up, realizing it was a photo album. I knew I should put it back, but instead, I opened it up and saw that it was a scrapbook of Christmases. I wondered if Brett had made it. Or maybe Lindsay had. I decided it was probably Lindsay because she was always doing artistic things with photos that she would hang in her room or put in little frames. Even on Instagram, her photos had added little flourishes beyond the filters.
I took the book and sat on the couch as I went through it, seeing pictures of Lindsay as a baby and then a toddler. By the time Brett returned, the pictures showed Lindsay in elementary school. Each year was filled with love and joy and celebration that made my heart squeeze tight with envy.
"Where'd you find that old thing?" he asked as he handed me a mug of hot cocoa.
"I hope you don't mind. It was on the shelf over there."
"Not at all." He sat next to me, so close our shoulders were touching as he looked into the book. "That was the year I taught Lindsay how to ski."
It took a minute for my hormones to stop frizzing out my brain to study the picture. Sure enough, there was Lindsay bundled up in outdoor gear with two little skis and a huge toothless grin.
“How old was she here?"
