“I want you to think about me,” he said firmly.
As if I had a choice.
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” I assured him.
“I want you to remember that there’s someone out there who knows your secrets and has your back.”
This was one hell of a one-night stand. An abbreviated romance that I knew I would look back on fondly for the rest of my life.
“There’s actually one more secret.” I pulled the journal out of my pocket and slid it across the counter to him. “Don’t open it now, or I’ll die of embarrassment.”
His big hand covered mine on the notebook. “What’s inside?”
I wet my lips. “I write…poems. I have for years. Just little stanzas. Silly records of my life. They’re laughably terrible,” I warned. “I’ve never shown anyone. Ever.”
“And you’re trusting me with them?”
“I’m trusting you with everything.”
I really had. I’d given him every piece of me, and he hadn’t thrown them back in my face or laughed or judged.
He blew out a breath. “I wish I didn’t have to get on a fucking plane.”
“Me too.” But what was alternative? Me leaving my family and friends to move to LA until our relationship inevitably ran its course? Him giving up his life on the West Coast and moving to Hershey, Pennsylvania, and doing what? Making chocolate?
We didn’t make sense.
The clock on the microwave caught my eye. “You’d better go,” I said.
He swore under his breath.
“This isn’t goodbye, Brooke,” he insisted.
But that’s exactly what it was.
“Let’s not pretend this is something it isn’t. We had a night. A great night. A night that will ruin all other Christmas Eves forever.”
He didn’t laugh like I wanted him to.
I squeezed his hand. “I’ll never forget last night for the rest of my life. And I want you to know that no matter what you decide to do with your retirement, I’ll be here cheering for you. You deserve to be happy, Vonn. Tommy would want you to find your way there.”
He said nothing for a beat, then let out a long sigh. “Never forget you, gorgeous.”
Then he fisted his hand in my shirt, yanked me toward him, and kissed me goodbye.
Fifteen minutes after I waved Vonn off from my driveway and dried my tears, Betty bolted for the door. The signal that someone was here.
I threw the blanket off my lap and vaulted off the couch. I was halfway to the door, heart singing, when it opened and in tumbled my kids.
Disappointment crashed over me like a wave at the beach.
Dutifully, I shoved it aside, reminding myself that it was Christmas morning and two humans that I had birthed had chosen to surprise me rather than spend a leisurely morning with their father and stepmom.
“What are you two doing here?” I demanded, hands on hips, trying to remember how to look like a mother and not a wanton groupie with no regrets.
Addy’s cheeks were pink. She was dressed like she was ready for an Instagram photoshoot, wearing a vest, leggings, and one of those wool hats with the puffball on top. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders in a styled loose wave. Shane was still in his pajama pants and an ancient Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. He looked half asleep with his blondish-brown hair standing up at adorably odd angles.
“You didn’t think we were going to let you spend Christmas morning alone, did you?” Addy said bossily. She got that from me.
Shane abruptly ended his full body rubdown of the delighted dog and hugged me. “Addy’s worried you have a concussion, and I missed your peanut butter-chocolate chip pancakes,” he whispered.
I felt a warm glow in my chest buoyed by the rush of relief that my kids hadn’t decided to “surprise” me earlier.
“I’m fine, guys,” I promised.
“I bet you’re better than fine. And I’ll forgive you for not telling me all about it last night if you spill it now,” Addy said, taking her turn to hug me.
“Spill what?” I hedged like a guilty teenager.
The kids shared a can you believe Mom look.
“She’s talking about Vonn Barlowe, Mom,” Shane said.
Uh-oh.
I’d texted Michelle back, swearing her to secrecy with a promise to tell her everything—well, not everything—the following day. But no one else actually knew Vonn had spent the night.
“What about him?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. My children and I had someone traded places. Now it was me worried about evidence of misdeeds like condom wrappers.
“It’s all over Twitter,” Addy said, shoving her phone in my face.
It was a grainy video from the concert last night.
“I can’t believe Vonn freaking Barlowe jumped offstage, punched two guys in the face, and carried my mom backstage,” Shane said. He managed to sound only moderately ill when he said the part about me being his mother.
I snatched the phone from my daughter and pushed Play. There I was, at the bottom of the screen getting snatched into the mosh pit. What I hadn’t seen in real life, being distracted by trying not to get trampled to death, was Vonn shrugging off his guitar and vaulting off the stage after me.
The crowd went wild with him in their midst, wading toward me with security on his heels.
The camera panned over just in time to see Vonn’s fist connect with Drunk Guy #1. The guy went down hard. It was hard to tell what happened next, but I saw tattooed arm pull back and fly straight. Then there I was, cradled in Vonn’s arms as security closed around us.
I decided I was going to watch this video every day for the rest of my life.
“Where the hell was Mark?” Shane demanded. “I thought you were going with him. We’d never have let you go alone.”
“He had a work emergency,” I said lamely.
“I never liked that guy,” Addy told us over her shoulder as she marched into the kitchen.
The doorbell rang, mercifully saving me from having to answer. “I’d better get that.”
“Don’t think this is getting you out of telling us what happened backstage, young lady,” Addy called.
“It’s probably Dad and Val,” Shane said. “They wanted to make sure you were okay. They were a couple of minutes behind us.”
Christmas morning with my ex and his new—admittedly perfect—wife? I guessed the holiday couldn’t get much weirder than it already was.
I escaped to the front door and yanked it open.
Instead of Ryan and Val, I came face-to-face with a huge floral arrangement.
“Uhh…”
“Brooke Aucker?” the person behind the flowers said. I could just make out a florist van in my driveway behind Shane’s ancient Ford Escape.
“That’s me.” Or at least it had been me before I’d gotten married and taken Ryan’s name.
“Here you go. Merry Christmas.” The delivery man shifted the arrangement into my arms.
“You’re delivering on Christmas?” I said stupidly.
He grinned, then winked. “Honey, for a thousand-dollar delivery bonus I got no problem opening the shop for an hour.”
“Thanks,” I stuttered.