Two

Tony

“Merry Christmas!” I call, as the last of the day’s customers climb into their F-150 and prepare to depart. It’s mid-December, which means that, by now, I must have said the same damn thing to at least a thousand other people so far this year. And yet, somehow, I still manage to sound sincere, to smile and wave cheerfully as they head out of the parking lot. Right up until that moment when they take the turn onto the farm-to-market road a little more quickly than they have any business doing, causing gravel to spit out from beneath their tires, and causing the eight-foot Leyland Cypress they’ve just purchased to whiplash across the bed of their truck.

Sonofabitch! And that’s all it takes to get me fuming. I grew that goddamned tree, you know? I raised it from a seedling. And now I can’t help wondering what kind of shape it’ll be in when they finally get it home.

If it’s not intact, I’m sure I’ll hear about it. They’ll probably post pictures online, complaining about how we sold them a defective tree and it ruined their Christmas. You know, like that lady who incinerated her Thanksgiving pie a few years back?  And while I’m sure that most rational people will realize that something like that is not our fault, there will always be those who don’t. All par for the course, I suppose.

Despite what the movies would have you believe, the life of a Christmas tree farmer is not all spiced cider, and colored lights. It’s not romantic, much as you might wish it were. I sell plenty of mistletoe each December, but I can’t even recall the last time I harbored hopes of being kissed beneath a sprig of one.

Here in Central Texas, the chance of our having a white Christmas is about the same as the chance that a handsome city boy will arrive to raise my spirits or fill my heart with holiday cheer. In other words, not too freaking likely.

“Good night, Tony,” my employees call as they troop out to their cars. “See you tomorrow, Tony.”

“You, too,” I reply. “Y’all have a good night. See you in the morning.” And I smile some more and wave after them as they depart. And maybe I have them fooled, too, into thinking I’m as jolly as old St. Nick. But my heart’s not really in it. My heart’s not really into much of anything anymore.

I never asked for this job—that’s part of the problem. The Heartwood Tree Farm is and always was my parents’ dream; not mine. But when your dad—the man who’d sacrificed his whole life for you and your siblings—gets sick, and when your entire family’s future livelihood is depending on someone’s being willing to upend his life, to step in and keep the farm running while your dad’s laid up…well, you do what you have to do.

And when you also find out, in that self-same instant, that the person you thought would always be there to support you in a crisis is a heartless, self-centered, narcissistic prick, you don’t even think twice about leaving his ungrateful ass.

Still, it’s been nearly three years since I closed the door on the life that I thought I wanted and the marriage that was supposed to have been forever. Three years that I’ve been working here without a single break. It’s kind of a lot.

Quiet settles around me as I trudge back to the shop and set about closing everything up for the night; as I count through the cash and close out the drawer, and then walk through the place, turning off the lights and music; making sure the doors are all locked and the security system’s armed. The sense of being alone is like a weighted blanket, lying heavy on my shoulders in a vaguely claustrophobic, not-in-the-least-bit-comforting kind of way.

It’s like being buried in a blizzard. The snow keeps falling—flake, by flake, by flake—’til your hopes grow dim and your heart goes cold. I should be used to it, or getting used to it, by now. I’m so not.

I should also stop whining about how unhappy I’ve become. I should man up and count my blessings. Starting with the fact that it’s a beautiful evening. Golden Hour. That time of day when the setting sun gilds everything in its path. And yes, my allergies are acting up like they do every winter—cedar fever kicking my butt as per usual. But still…I’m home. And for all its faults, the Texas Hill Country is still my favorite place in all the world to be.

And maybe it’s been a tough year—the latest in a string of tough years. But hey, even with a lack of rain and record heat waves, we’re doing okay, you know?

The new programs and events I’ve developed have finally started to pay off. Projections for next year are looking good, better than anything we’ve seen in a while. I’m even starting to think that maybe I do have what it takes to be a farmer after all.

Good thing, too. Because with my father’s neuropathy still flaring up from time to time—like it’s doing right now, for example—he’s not taking the reins back any time soon. If ever. And, speaking of my father, while I hate to see him in pain, I can’t lose sight of the most important thing, which is that his cancer is still in remission.

The rest of the family is also doing well. My mom, my sister, her husband, their kids are all in good health and reasonably happy. And, hallelujah, my little brother will be heading off to college in the fall. Can I get an Amen?

Lord knows, I love that kid to pieces, but we’ve been at each other’s throats since I moved back home. A little time apart can only improve our relationship.

But despite all the good things in my life, I’m still feeling down. And, unfortunately, I know exactly why that is. It’s because it’s Christmas—the darkest, coldest, bitterest time of year. At least for me.

The problem, you see, is that I have this vision in my head of what my perfect Christmas would look like. And every year that misses the mark, leaves me more and more depressed. And the fact that my dream Christmas is based on the actual memory of a real Christmas only makes it that much worse.

I think I’d feel a lot better if I could convince myself that the whole thing never happened, that falling in love that long-ago December was nothing more than a teenage fantasy. Or failing that, a goal for the future, something I could hope for and anticipate, not something I had once and lost.

After finishing up at the shop, I head back across the parking lot toward the rustic white farmhouse where I grew up. But the low, rumbling growl of a powerful engine turning off the highway catches my attention and slows my steps.

“Who the fuck is this?” I mutter as I stop to watch the showy, big-ass motorcycle cruise up Cedar Lane. The fancy paint job—metallic red and creamy white, Santa Claus colors—is right on point for the season. All that’s missing is a wreath between the handlebars. Which, I guess, might be what he’s here for since no one in their right mind would attempt to carry a Christmas tree home on a bike, not even a super-sized, full-dress tourer like this one.

Then again, considering that Biker Santa is wearing a red and white stocking cap in lieu of a helmet, who’s to say that he is in his right mind?

Safety first, my dude. Safety first.

As he gets a little closer, I can see that he’s a ginger. His hair, the little I can see of it poking out beneath the hat, gleams copper in the sunlight. He’s got the kind of tall, rangy build I tend to fall for, a dark, scruffy beard; and my heart leaps at the sight of him. Which it fucking shouldn’t. Because even though I know it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me (like it tends to do every December) I’ll be damned if this jerk-off doesn’t remind me of my ex.

Except for the beard. And the longish hair. Those are totally out of character. And…wait a minute. Is dickhead smoking a cigar? Yes, he sure as fuck is. Which clinches the matter. I’ve never known anyone more dedicated to the preservation of his own health and well-being than my former husband. So, this must be some sort of Christmas-memory induced madness messing with my senses—more gravy than grave, as Scrooge would have it. Because Death-Wish Dude here can’t possibly be Jake.

Except… Holy Guacamole. As he slows to a stop and his eyes meet mine, I realize that this is, in fact, my very own Ghost of Christmas Past. “Jesus fucking Christ. Jake? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Whoa. Nice language,” Jake scolds. “You sing Christmas carols with that mouth?”

“Do I…what?”

“You know: ’Tis the season, deck the halls, fa-la-la? What else are you gonna do with your mouth this time of year?”

“Well, I can think of a few things, actually,” I’m goaded into replying. And then immediately regret it when I catch sight of the twinkle in Jake’s eyes. It’s a very familiar twinkle and it hits me like a punch in the gut.

“Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Fuck. You.”

“That an offer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Also, don’t make me ask you this a third time. Why. Are. You. Here?”

Jake spreads his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “Wasn’t my idea. I’m here because you want me to be, apparently.”

“Except I don’t!”

“Beg to differ. As I understand it, I’m the answer to your prayers.”

“Oh, the fucking hell you are.”

“Okay, could we please not mention the burny place? That’s twice now and it’s making my skin crawl. You asked for a Christmas miracle, right? Well, that’s me.”

“But I just told you— No, don’t. Stop!” I hold up a hand. “Do not get off your bike, Jake. I mean it. You’re not staying.”

Of course, he ignores me. Because I guess some things really never do change. Still flashing me that “try-and-make-me” smile, he swings his leg over the bike, sets the kick stand and then, cigar still in hand, he saunters over to where I’m waiting with my arms crossed, still glaring at him in helpless fury.

“Look,” Jake says. “I don’t make the rules, all right? And I can see that you’re no happier about this than I am. My best guess is that someone up in Heaven has a twisted sense of humor, because when you asked for help, they decided it would be a fun idea to send me.”

“I did not ask for help. Why can’t you get that through your head? And if I had asked, it would never have been from you. I know better’n that by now. Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt and salted the ground beneath the bridge.”

“So not how any of that goes,” Jake mutters then adds, “Fine. So, you didn’t ask for help. But you still wished for it, right?”

“Could you stop? I didn’t do that either. I didn’t wish for you, hope for you, pray for you—or any other way you want to phrase it. In fact, I can’t even recall the last time you so much as crossed my mind.” A total lie, but he doesn’t have to know that. “And the only thing I want is for you to leave. Now. Before anyone else catches sight of you.”

“No can do. Well, except for that last part. Apparently, that won’t be a problem.”

“What won’t?”

“No one’s can see me unless I want them to. Personally, I think it’ll be easier for both of us if they could, but it’s not entirely necessary. I’ll just make myself invisible to everyone else. You’ll be the only one who can see me.”

“All right, that’s it,” I say as I reach into my pocket for my phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re talking nonsense.”

“That supposed to be a crime now?”

“No, but I’m sick of it. Also, we’re closed for the day, which means that, technically, you’re trespassing. So, either you get back on that bike and get the fuck out of here, or I’ll have you arrested. Your choice.”

“You’re not thinking this through. Didn’t you just tell me to make myself scarce? How’re the cops aren’t gonna arrest someone they can’t see? They might take you in, however, for observation, but they ain’t gonna bother with me. I’ll be just fine.” Then he paused and said, “Well, not actually fine. But as fine as I can be, given the circumstances.”

“Look, Jake. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I tell him, glancing from him to his bike and back again. “Because it’s not a compliment. But no one could possibly miss seeing you or your flashy-ass bike. If you’re still hanging around when the cops get here, they will arrest you.”

“I wouldn’t bet the farm on it, if I were you. Watch. Y’see this?” He lifts one hand, drawing my attention to the cigar he’s holding.

“Your dog rocket? Sure. I can smell it too; it stinks.”

“Dog rocket,” Jakes scoffs. “Shows how much you know. This just happens to be one of the finest cigars ever made—if I do say so myself.”

“Why? Are you secretly a Cuban tobacco farmer now? What’s it to do with you?”

“Never mind. It’s complicated.”

“Which is your middle name, if I recall correctly.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question, wiseass. Do you see it or not?”

“Of course, I see it!”

“No. Ya don’t.” He twists his hand in a quick, little flourish and the cigar disappears. “Ta-da!”

I cover my surprise with a sneer, but I have to admit he’s impressed me. Even the smell is gone. “Cool trick. So, what’re you, a magician now?”

“It’s not a trick. This isn’t magic.” He stops and wags his head considering. “Well. I guess it might be a kind of magic. See, the thing is…Oh. Fuck.” A change comes over his expression. His eyes grow wide, his voice trails off, his lips roll in.  If I didn’t know it to be impossible, I might even think he was actually concerned about me when he suggests, “Wow. You know what? I uh…I think maybe you should be sitting down for this next part.”

I fold my arms and meet his gaze with an implacable stare. “No.”

“Really. This…it’s kind of a thing. It’s pretty big. It might be a lot to take in.”

“You’re forgetting how well I know you. There’s nothing you could possibly say that would surprise me to that extent, so no.”

“Stubborn.” He sighs. “Huh. I don’t remember that about you.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.” Mostly because I’d always let him walk all over me, before.

“Okay look, I really didn’t want to blurt it out like this, but…well, I guess there’s just no easy way to say it. The thing is, honey, I’m dead.”

I flinch a little at the endearment, but still manage to keep the sneer. “Dead. Like, ‘it turns out that one of your asshole client’s was a mobster and you lost his money and when he catches up with you, he’s going to kill you’ dead? Color me surprised. But I guess that would explain the lame attempt to disguise yourself.”

Jake shakes his head. “I also don’t recall your being so mean. Babe, I’m not wearing a disguise.”

“Well then, what is it? You’re dead tired? Dead broke? Dead drunk? All three? For the record, given how you’re acting, my bet’s on drunk Which’ll mean a DUI rap on top of the trespassing.”

“Keep telling you, son. Ain’t gonna happen.”

“We’ll see. But, if I were you, I really would consider leaving. Because I’ve got zero-tolerance where you’re concerned, and I will make that call. You’ve got maybe thirty more seconds before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

“Dead,” Jake repeats, fixing me with a solemn gaze. “As in no longer among the living.”

“Oh, riiiight,” I drawl, doing my best to hide the pain he’s just inflicted on me, the sudden, gaping hole that’s sprung open in my chest at the thought that… Shit. I have never been a violent man, but right now… God, I really just want to punch him.

I mean, just because I haven’t missed him in the past three years and I don’t want to see him now; that doesn’t mean that my heart doesn’t ache at the reminder that the day will come after which I won’t ever be able to see him again.

Love’s complicated like that.

And no matter how long it’s been, no matter how many times the floodwaters have taken out that bridge that once stood between us, that doesn’t change the fact that I did love him once. But not enough to put up with shit like this. “Well, I gotta say, you’re looking pretty lively for a corpse.”

“I’m serious, Tone. It’s not a joke.”

“Yeah well, I’m having a little trouble accepting that, Jake. Because here you are.”

He nods sadly. “I mean…technically, you’re not wrong. But things aren’t always what they seem, you know?”

“No. How’s that?”

He pauses to scratch his beard—the beard he’d never grow for me, no matter how many times I might’ve hinted at it. “All right.” he says sounding thoughtful and oddly hesitant. “Let’s try something a little more advanced. You probably feel like punching me, am I right?”

My jaw clenches. Is he psychic now, too? “Good guess. So what?”

“So, go ahead.”

“What? No. I’m not gonna punch you.”

“C’mon, I want you to. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

If it’s not gonna hurt him, then what’s even the point? I shake my head no. Then logic kicks in. “Oh, I get it. You’re thinking that when the police arrive and find you bruised, you can attempt to have me charged with assault? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Aw, whaddaya talking about? You know I’d never do something like that.”

“No, I don’t know that. The Jake I knew wouldn’t have played stupid pranks like this, either.”

“I wish it were just a prank.”

“Uh-huh.”

“C’mon,” he urges again, moving closer. “You know you want to. Hit me. Right here. Do it now.”

“No!” I fall back a step. “Fuck’s sake! What’s wrong with you?”

“Hit me,” he says again, crowding even closer. “Don’t think, just act. Do it.”

“No.” I straight arm him in the chest, shoving him away as hard as I can. Except that’s not what happens at all! My hands pass right through his body. Shock and momentum carry me forward and I stumble over my own feet wondering what in the fuck just happened.

“Whoa. You all right?” Jake asks solicitously, his hand closing around my elbow with a firm, steadying touch.

“Of course, I’m not all right!” My heart is racing as I stare in disbelief at his hand on my arm, gradually registering the press of his fingers, the living warmth of him radiating through the flannel and the Henley I’m wearing. Gradually, my pulse slows. Relief sluices through me. Of course, he’s not dead. Of course, he isn’t! What the hell was I thinking? But then comes the anger, burning through my restraint. It’s a trick. Stupid. Cruel. How could he? My hands form fists and before I know it, I’m taking that swing he’s been goading me into, aiming straight for his face.

A wave of nausea washes over me as I once again fail to connect with anything solid. The world starts to spin. My blood runs cold. Next thing I know, I’m half-sitting, half-leaning against the bike, head between my knees, hyperventilating for all I’m worth, while Jake urges me to, “Breathe. Just breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But I’m not and it’s not and Lord knows he can’t be either—not if any of what he just said is true. But it can’t be true. It can’t be true. Can it?

“So, what are you saying?” I ask.  “Are you— Are you a ghost now?”

“Heck no. Me? I’m an angel.”

“An angel?” I gape at him in disbelief too surprised to be frightened. You?”

“It’s provisional,” he replies looking offended. “But yes, me. You don’t have to sound that surprised.”

“Provisional. What’s that even mean? What’s a provisional angel?”

“Oh, you know. Sorta like, probationary. It means I haven’t got my wings yet, or my all-access pass into Heaven. But I will. You’ll see. Just as soon as I finish up here.”

“That’s…a lot to process.”

Jake nods. “I know, right? Imagine how I felt.”

My brain balks at that. I’m still in denial; I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t want to believe that any of this is true. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not! “How…? When…?” Hell, I can’t even form the words.

“How’d I die?” Jake asks, correctly intuiting my meaning.

I nod mutely, staring back at him.

“Yeah…I don’t really know. It’s a transitional thing.”

“What?”

“I can’t remember yet.”

I lick my lips and try again. “Was it…recent? I mean, how come I’m only finding out about it now?” is what eventually comes out. “Why didn’t anyone contact me?”

But even as the words are leaving my mouth, I feel myself tense as I brace for his answer. I can already guess what it’s going to be. Something along the lines of: See what happens when you divorce someone? You wanted me out of your life? Well, congrats. This is exactly what you asked for. 

It’s like a scene from that movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, only backwards.

To my surprise, however, Jake doesn’t rise to the bait, saying instead, “Hey, you know something? That’s a real good question. As my medical proxy, you should have been notified right away. I wonder why you weren’t?”

“As your…what?”

“Medical proxy. You know, the person who’s supposed to make healthcare decisions for me if I can’t?”

“Yes, Jake, I know what it is. But we’re divorced!”

“Believe me, I am aware. There were forms to fill out, and hoops to jump through. I did not enjoy any of it.”

“So why do it then? Why me?”

“Because who else was I s’posed to pick? I couldn’t just do nothing, or it would have been left up to one or the other of my parents. And you know how I feel about letting them make decisions for me.”

I don’t actually; given that he’d been estranged from his family when we met. “I guess. But back up a step. What do you mean you don’t know how you…well, you know. How it happened.”

“How I died?”

“Yes. That. How can you not know?”

“Apparently, it’s not that uncommon. There’s some stuff I can’t remember, that’s all. Gaps in my memory.”

“Significant gaps in your memory seems like a pretty big deal, to me.”

“And yet.”

“You don’t care?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“How can you not care?”

“Because I’m dead, Tony. I’ve got a little thing called priorities now. Besides, I’ve been this way ever since I woke up in Limbo. So, for all I know, it goes with the territory.”

“You…woke up…where?”

Jake huffs an exasperated breath. “You must really feel like busting my balls today, huh? It’s semantics, okay? Woke up. Rebooted. Came back online. My software got an update. I don’t know how to describe it. My mind wasn’t processing thoughts in a normal sort of way and I wasn’t really aware of anything that was going on around me. And then it was, and I was me again. For the most part.”

“So, you don’t remember…anything…about how you… About what happened to you?”

“Didn’t I just say that? ’Cause I feel like I did.”

Okay fine. He had. “But…we should figure this out, don’t you think? Limbo—that’s a starting point. How long were you there?”

“Dunno. Time doesn’t exist there, so I haven’t a clue. Also, like I said, I don’t care. I don’t need to know the how or why or when. That’s all in the past. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. But it doesn’t help me at all right now, so…”

“Well, maybe I need to know!” I find myself shouting. “Have you thought at all about that? Maybe that’s the kind of information that I need.” For closure, or…or something. “How long did it feel like you were there—long time? Short time?

“It felt like eternity, if you must know. One of many reasons why I don’t want to go back. So, if we could just keep our eyes on the prize, and focus on what’s important, that’s be great.”

“Important? That would be what, exactly?”

“That’s what I’m asking. We need to figure out how to restore your Christmas spirit, I guess. Or solve your big problem. Or whatever else you need.”

“I already told you. I don’t need or want anything. I have no problems that I need you to solve. My Christmas spirit is fine.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Fine and dandy, right? Like the song? You still understand sarcasm though, right?”

“Fuck you,” I growl. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to convince myself that he’s here and he’s real, and he’s not dead. That I haven’t dreamt up this whole thing. But the fear of my hand passing through him again, of not being able to actually make contact, holds me back.

“Well, no point in tryna kill the messenger—especially not in this case. But you’d better think of something that I can do for you. Because I think we’re stuck with each other until you do. And I don’t think either one of us wants that.”

“What are you saying? You’re just gonna hang around here indefinitely?”

“If that’s what it takes. I mean, what else can I do? No places to go, no people to do. Welcome to the afterlife. Fun ain’t it?”

“That…having you here…that’s not gonna work for me.”

“Yeah, I got that. And it’s not my first choice either. But here we are.”

I’m not sure how I’m feeling about this—other than confused. I want him to go away, so that I can grieve my loss in private, so that I can figure out how I feel about him being gone. Except that he’s not gone, which means that nothing that I feel about it is real, or is making any sense.

I’m also going to need to figure out how to tell my folks…or even if I should tell them. Maybe this is something else I can keep from them? They’ve always loved Jake. This is going to devastate them.

You know that Ingrid Andress breakup song? That could have been written about my family. When Jake and I broke up, more hearts than mine were shattered.

Or would have been, if I’d’ve told them about our divorce. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to add to their burdens, didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes. And to be honest, I didn’t really want to face up to it either.

On the other hand, if this is real, if this is the last time I’ll ever see Jake or speak to him…then no, I don’t want him to go. I’m not ready for that, either.

“Why are you really here, Jake?” I ask, at last. “What’s this all about? The truth this time.”

“Lord have mercy,” he groans, rubbing his face with his hands. “When did you get so fucking cynical?”

I open my mouth to answer that. Then think better of it and simply shrug.

“There’re only so many ways I can think to say this. I need into Heaven. For that to happen, I need to earn my wings. And for that to happen, you need to get your act together. I need to mark this assignment done and cross it off the agenda.”

“I guess that’s the part I’m still not clear on. What exactly is this assignment? I mean, specifically. What is it you’re here to do?”

“You, Tony. The assignment is you.”

“But…no, it can’t be. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“How many times do I gotta say this? Because I’m here on borrowed time. I need to figure out a way to fix whatever problem you’re having. To get you back on track so that we don’t both end up in Limbo.

“Which, by the way, is just about the only thing that would make that place worse. So, let’s do it. Let’s get ’er done. Then we can both go our separate ways. Which, if I’m remembering correctly, is everything you ever wanted in the first place!”

“Oh, now we’re getting to it!” I surge to my feet as furious with Jake as I’ve ever been. “You need my help. How interesting. How’s it feel when the shoe’s on the other foot?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But do you think you can save the dramatics for later? Or, at least, wrap it up soon? I only have so much energy to expend on this, and time’s a wasting.”

“Admit it, Jake. you’re not doing this for my benefit, at all. You’re doing it for you. Which is just so…typical. Wow. I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out.”

Jake scowls at me. “What I can’t figure out is why I’m having to fight you on this. It’s a win-win proposition. How do you not see that?”

“Bullshit. What this looks like to me is classic gaslighting. You need something, but instead of lowering yourself to ask for it, you’re trying to turn it around. You claim you’re here to do me a favor, but—”

“I am doing you a favor! Are you fucking kidding me? You have no idea what it’s like there, what I’ve been going through, what—”

“Tony?” My mother’s voice—worried, and far too close—cuts through the yelling. “What’s going on out here? Who are you talking to?”

“Now look what you’ve done!” I hiss as I dig frantically in my pocket for my phone. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can convince my mom that I’ve been taking a call, that I haven’t been standing here for the past half-hour arguing with myself. But Jake misses the glare that I shoot in his direction. He’s staring at my mother with an expression of grief, pain, longing. And she’s staring right back.

“Why, is that… Is that Jake?” Mama asks eyes widening in a way that would almost be comical—if there were anything remotely funny about this situation. “Oh, my Lord!” A huge smile breaks over her face. Tears shimmer in her eyes as she moves in for a classic mom-hug.

“Wait. She can see you?” I whisper-shout in outrage. Wasn’t he supposed to be invisible to everyone but me? Isn’t that what he promised?

“Hi Connie,” Jake murmurs, sounding bashful as a boy as he returns my mom’s embrace. He glances shamefaced at me over her shoulder and mouths, “Sorry! I forgot!”

Sure, he did, I think grumpily, almost missing for an instant the fact that she can touch him. What. The. Fuck?

“Isn’t this wonderful?” my mother asks, turning to beam at us both. “It’s everything I’ve been praying for.”

“You…what?” Jake asks as he and I share a startled look.

“Mama? Did you say that you prayed for Jake to come here?”

“Well, of course, I did!” She looks at me in surprise. “To have all my kids home for Christmas, the whole family together again? I pray for that every year.” Her blue eyes look guileless, but I know my mother. And I can guess what else she might have prayed for.

And if I’m right, then Jake is never going to earn those wings. Because when it comes to Jake and me, what Connie DiCecco wants most in the world is something that Jake has no chance of giving her. Apologies to T Swift for appropriating her lyrics, but Jake and I are never, ever, ever getting back together.