A Cliché Christmas Read online

  I covered a yawn with my fist. “Great, thank you.”

  She hugged me. “It’s so nice to have you home, Georgia.”

  Home. There was that word again.

  As I parked in front of Weston’s house, adrenaline surged through my veins.

  Unwilling to let my guard down in front of him for a single minute, I reminded myself that this interaction needed to be quick. The less time in Weston’s company, the better. I may not have slept for nearly forty hours, but I could surely keep it together for a few more minutes—sleep deprived or not. I blinked my eyes against the stinging cold and tucked the set list under my arm. I rubbed my hands together to create warmth that wasn’t there.

  Gloves. Why can’t I remember to buy some darn gloves?

  Walking toward the blue house on the corner of Maple and Tenth, I wondered, not for the first time, why he was living in Lenox . . . not building skyscrapers in Boston.

  I knocked, and the door opened.

  He stood there, forearm resting against the doorjamb, his gray T-shirt pulled tight across his chest and biceps. My eyes ignoring the warning bells sounding in my head, I took in his low-slung jeans. Was he for real? I swallowed hard, trying to will moisture back into my mouth.

  “Here.” The word escaped like a glorified croak as I tried to hand him the highlighted set list, but he scowled at it as if I’d just pulled the sheaf of paper from a public toilet.

  “That’s not how I do things.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, shivering.

  “If you want me to build a set for you, you can come inside and talk with me about it—civilly.”

  “No.” I crossed my arms, the papers crinkling.

  He crossed his, too. “Then you better go down to Ernie’s Hardware in the morning and see if he can help you. Oh, and don’t worry, I hear he still has one good eye.”

  Urgh! “You’re impossible.”

  “And you’re as irritating as—”

  I growled and pushed past him. Surprisingly, his house was quite nice inside. I wouldn’t dare compliment him, though. We were not friends anymore. We were simply working on a Christmas play together.

  I still couldn’t quite believe that little twist of irony—which at the moment felt more like a stab wound.

  “You can sit down over there. Want a cup of coffee?”

  I glanced at the clock and did a quick calculation. Thirty-nine and a half hours without sleep. I nodded. Coffee would be necessary for me to make it through even a five-minute conversation. I sat on his leather sofa and took out my phone, texting Nan. Dropping off set info to Weston. Be home soon.

  An immediate reply: Going to bed. Don’t rush back. :)

  Sinking into the couch, I closed my eyes as I took in a big whiff of masculinity: sawdust, leather, and—

  “Georgia?”

  I jolted awake, heart galloping.

  “Were you just drooling on my couch?”

  I wiped my mouth, embarrassed by the moisture left on my hand. “Um . . . I was just admiring your sofa. It’s nice . . . for a bachelor, I mean.” Wait, is he a bachelor?

  He placed the coffee mugs on the side table and sat in the recliner next to me. “You interested in my personal life, Georgia?”

  “No.” The heat creeping up my neck felt like it would set my hair on fire. “Let’s just get this over with.” I picked up the highlighted script and handed it to him. He began reading it immediately.

  “This new?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “This play. Did you just write this?”

  How does he know that?

  I shrugged, unwilling to tell him more than he needed to know.

  “I haven’t seen this one.” He flipped through the pages.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Something sparked to life around us—something I wanted to pound until it begged for mercy and died a slow and painful death, but my curiosity won out.

  “You’ve seen more than one of my movies?”

  “I’ve kept tabs on you, Georgia Cole.” His eyes pierced me through, and I turned my head quickly.

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve done the same for you.”

  “You knew I moved to Boston.”

  “Everyone knew you were headed there after graduation.”

  His smile was bold, unyielding. “You’re hardly ‘everyone.’ ”

  Was he flirting with me? Somehow I didn’t think that was possible.

  “Why are you in Lenox anyway?” I pulled my legs underneath me and anchored my elbow on the arm of the sofa. My head felt like it weighed two hundred pounds, and it was getting heavier by the second.

  I knew I was getting off topic, but the fogginess in my brain made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

  “I moved back after Chad died.”

  Leaning my head toward him, I searched his eyes. Such a simple statement, yet I knew it wasn’t. Chad Hart was Willa’s high school sweetheart. They were newlyweds when I left town for LA. They were also the Barbie and Ken of Lenox—molded to love one another.

  It was all coming back now, like an old dusty memory. Nan had called me years ago while I was in college to tell me that Chad had died of an aneurysm. But did I know Willa was pregnant at the time? No. Somehow I hadn’t realized that the little girl Nan raved about for the last year was Willa and Chad’s daughter.

  “You came home . . . for Willa?” A dull ache radiated in my chest.

  He nodded, his face solemn, not a trace of humor or amusement to be found.

  “And you never went back?”

  “I finished up school in Bend, at Central. I teach shop at the high school.”

  If shock didn’t require so much energy, I would have fallen off the sofa. But as it was, Weston’s head was starting to blur into multiples.

  “You gave up your scholarship? What about architecture?” I asked, yawning. The steam from my coffee cup had stopped billowing minutes ago, and I hadn’t taken one sip.

  He studied my face, and this time I couldn’t break the sleepy trance that washed over me. Or the feeling of calm. My eyelids grew heavy again as my head slid off my hand to rest fully on the padding of my arm.

  I felt my hair being brushed away from my face, and then I heard him whisper, “Some things are more important than ambition, Georgia.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I snuggled deeper into the blanket and rolled over, savoring the last few moments of sleepy bliss. Something sweet and familiar was in the air. I breathed it in, my stomach growling in response. Did Nan bake something special for breakfast?

  And then I heard a hum.

  But it was not a Nan hum.

  My eyes snapped open. Oh my gosh . . . Oh my gosh . . . Oh my gosh.

  The blanket slid to the floor as I assessed my current surroundings, nausea meeting my gut like a head-on collision.

  Weston’s living room.

  Please, oh please, let this be a really bad dream.

  “You’re awake.”

  I wiped under my eyes frantically, trying to remove any trace of raccoon-eye smears before working to right my twisted shirt.

  “What time is it?”

  “You sound like an old man in the morning.”

  “Morning?” I looked out the window. Sure enough, it was dawn. “How could you let me sleep here?”

  A freshly showered Weston sauntered toward me. “Hey, calm down Miss Grinch. It’s a little before seven . . . and because friends don’t let friends drive asleep. But let me tell you, you were doing a lot more than sleeping. You were snoring and—”

  “And you couldn’t have just woken me up like a normal person? What is wrong with you?” I yanked the hair tie off my wrist and gathered my matted mane into a ponytail. “Nan is probably worried sick.”

  �
�I called her. She’s fine.”

  I snorted at his nonchalant response. Typical. Sure, maybe somewhere deep down I could see how this act might seem sweet, or maybe even noble, but not here . . . not with him.

  My cheeks burned as an unwelcome memory washed over me, his face at the center of it all.

  “We’re not friends, Weston.”

  I grabbed my boots, which were propped next to his couch, and as I tugged them on, my body suddenly stiffened. Had he taken my shoes off? How had I slept that hard? I pressed my lips together. I knew better than to be vulnerable with him, and falling asleep on his blasted sofa couldn’t be more vulnerable! I pulled my jacket on and headed toward the door.

  “Georgia, stop.”

  My hand froze on the dead bolt, his voice at my back. I fought against the emotion building in my throat, my heart pounding to the cadence of an old, familiar drum.

  “You and I need to have a conversation. One that should have happened seven years ago.”

  I shook my head adamantly. “No, we don’t.”

  His hand gripped my shoulder. He was so close that his breath tickled my ear. “Then why can’t I forget you, Georgia Cole?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my voice transform into a shaky whisper of doubt. “I don’t know . . . but I forgot you.”

  “Turn around and say that to my face, then.” It was a challenge; one I knew I couldn’t accept.

  My breath stopped as he slid his hand down the length of my arm, causing my traitorous body to melt under his touch.

  But the voice inside my head prevailed.

  Don’t give in.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Nothing.” You. “Please, just let me leave.”

  He withdrew his hand and took a step back. I pulled open the door and charged down the front steps two at a time, putting as much distance between us as I possibly could.

  “I knew the real you once, Georgia . . . and I’m willing to bet I still do. No matter what you believe, I have always been your friend.”

  As I shut myself inside my car, his words splintered into my soul one after another.

  I had spent years convincing myself the opposite was true.

  That he hadn’t accepted me.

  That he hadn’t understood me.

  That he hadn’t cared for me.

  Because if Weston James had truly known me, then he had intended to crush me that December night long ago.

  I hear the crowd: the coughs, the laughs, the murmurs. And I feel a momentary buzz of panic wash over me. But I push it down. This is my passion. My dream. My purpose.

  I spent the last twelve years making good grades, acing tests, winning awards, all to prove that I could be intelligent and imaginative at the same time. And here I am: the lead in the Christmas play. Me, the girl who played “pretend family” in the park by my house. Me, the girl who read books for fun because mom said having friends would get me in trouble. Me, the girl Weston James walked home yesterday after rehearsal.

  My stomach spasms when I remember his words, despite the prompting inside me to guard my heart.

  “These last three months have changed something for me, Georgia. I see you . . . differently, or maybe I just finally see what’s always been there. I don’t know . . . but I don’t want to go back to how things were before.”

  “Five minutes to curtain,” someone calls, breaking my trance.

  I glance at Weston across the open chasm of stage. He’s talking to our drama teacher, Mr. Daniels.

  “Georgia,” Sydney Parker, my new understudy, says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Daniels told me to ask you about a scene change at the end of Act Two. He wants to add the kiss back in to that last scene—it’s the way it was originally written, you know.”

  My eyes widen to the size of grapefruits. “Wh—what are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Daniels thought it would add a bit more excitement. He’s talking to Weston about it right now, and he asked me to relay the message, see if you’re up for it.”

  Kiss Weston James? The popular, charming, funny, and pursued-by-every-teenage-girl-within-a-hundred-mile-radius Weston James?

  I stare across the stage skeptically and see both Weston and Mr. Daniels nodding and smiling in my direction. And when Weston gives me the wink—the one I’ve seen since our days on the playground, the one that says, “I’m in if you are”—my doubt melts.

  And so does the last protective layer surrounding my heart.

  I look to Sydney once again. “Okay, tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

  And she does. In detail.

  The blocking. The leap. The passionate lip-lock that is to take place.

  But when I run toward him, he doesn’t look at me with longing and desire. He doesn’t grab me around the waist. And he certainly doesn’t kiss me with fervent zeal. Instead, he takes a step back, causing me to crash to the floor, rip my dress, and roll off the stage with a painful thud.

  I lie in shock, the laughs blurring together as I wallow in my shameful foolishness. But there is one voice I hear clearly through the crowd when the director demands an explanation for the halted show. Sydney Parker’s.

  She’s cozied up to Weston onstage, smiling. “Weston, if you wanted a girl to throw herself at your feet, you should have just asked!”

  It’s then I realize I’ve been the butt of Weston’s best practical joke yet.

  I jump to my feet as the crowd continues to laugh, and I run from the auditorium.

  As I weep alone in the same park that at one time housed my imaginary parents, siblings, and friends, I break. Fragments of memories pull at my subconscious and bring the only resolve I can muster: I can’t face Weston again. I can’t see his eyes, or hear his voice, or continue to believe that our childhood friendship had meant something to him—at least the way it had to me. Whatever game he was playing, I couldn’t play it anymore. I had loved him for as long as I could remember, wishing that one day he might return my sentiments.

  I’d been a fool.

  And I realize with painful clarity that my mom’s advice is the only way to mend my broken heart.

  The first chance I get, I leave town.

  I leave my memories.

  And I leave Weston James.

  It was just after seven when I pulled up to Nan’s. The puff of the chimney told me she was awake. Awesome. The walk of shame in front of my grandmother. This day was rapidly going downhill, and I had been awake for less than an hour.

  “Good morning!” Nan sang out the second I opened the door. She stood near the kitchen table, drinking her morning cup of coffee, swaying gently in her ratty bathrobe.

  I grimaced. “Hi, Nan. I promise you, it’s not how it looks. I didn’t sleep the night before because I was up writing, and I must have passed out from exhaustion on his couch, and then he didn’t—”

  “Good grief, girl. You’re going to pass out if you keep talking without pausing to breathe. I don’t think it looks any which way.” She smiled over the top of her mug as I exhaled. “That said, you probably shouldn’t go making a habit of falling asleep on every good-looking man’s couch.”

  Something about seeing her calmed me. My Nan. My ever-dependable, loving Nan.

  “Sit with me, darlin’.”

  I did as I was told, pulling out a chair at the dining room table and plunking myself into it with a thud. And a sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” She leaned her elbows on the tabletop.

  I started to shake my head, but she covered my hand with hers. It was impossible for me to deny the truth. Who needed a lie detector when the world had Nan?

  “I feel like I just took a giant step back in time by coming here. Being in Lenox makes me feel like a stupid high school girl again.”

  “You are a lot of thing
s, Georgia. But stupid has never been one of them.”

  I shrugged. “That’s debatable.”

  She chuckled, spinning the mug in her hands. “You and Weston were always the talk of the town. How many times did I have to pick you up from the office after some silly prank? Even as a young boy, he could ruffle your feathers quicker than anyone else.”

  “Yeah, I know.” This was not news to me.

  “Don’t you ever wonder why?”

  I stared at her. “I know why, he’s just so . . .” What is he, exactly?

  She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  I couldn’t possibly sum him up in one word.

  Nan laughed hard. “Sweetheart, I think you might be trying to define the wrong thing.”

  I laid my head on the table in silent surrender.

  “I can’t be around him, Nan. I just can’t.” I heard his words in my head again, and my eyes stung. “I knew the real you once . . . and I’m willing to bet I still do.”

  “Georgia, can’t is a four-letter word in this house. Nothing’s ever stopped you before. You’re a strong, independent, fearless woman. Whatever happened between you two was seven years ago. Don’t you think it’s time to move forward? Just because this town may look the same doesn’t mean there aren’t surprises waiting around every corner. I’ve lived here all my life, and I uncover something new every single day. Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was referencing Lenox or Weston, but in true Nan style, she let me mull it over without further explanation.

  “So . . . you’ve moved up the ladder to director now? Geesh, who knew visiting Nowheresville, Oregon, could have career benefits?” Cara’s playful tone made me smile.

  I switched my phone to my right ear as I pulled on my Uggs and jacket. The sun was shining today, but it was still crisp. Regardless of the temperature, I needed the fresh air and the stroll. Cara could keep me company on my way to the high school. When Misty, my new assistant director, had called me earlier that morning with a few blocking ideas, I decided I’d better head to town and get the theater key from the school secretary—the same secretary who had both unlocked and relocked the door for us last night after auditions. Apparently, there was only one key, and Mrs. Harper was its guardian, even though it was technically owned by a real estate broker. I had a feeling I was going to have to sign my life—and future generations’ lives—away in order to get it, too.