Fitz’s cocky, lazy grin wilts, only to be replaced with an eye roll. “Very romantic. Why do you think I invited Molly?” I have no idea what to make of the challenge in his voice. He leans toward me, his lips a breath from my ear.
My heart stops in my throat.
“We have an audience,” he whispers, sending electric shivers across my skin.
My eyes dart to the main room and heat floods my cheeks. Whit and the baby are lying on their stomachs on the plush white rug near the Christmas tree, openly staring at us while Gray drives toy trucks up and down Mr. Wilding’s leg. “Maybe wait until the kids are asleep before getting cozy under the mistletoe,” Whit jokes as he suggestively wiggles his eyebrows. The baby girl next to him whines and shoves all her fingers in her mouth. “No crying at Christmas, Sienna!” Whit says as he picks her up and bounces her in his arms.
“There will be no ‘under the mistletoe’ for Paige and me,” Fitz says.
I told him to say it, but it hurts as if I didn’t.
“Don’t underestimate the power of ‘Santa Baby.’ That one always puts me in the mood. Right, honey?” Whit calls to Meg, who’s preparing dinner in the kitchen with her mom. She smiles and slowly shakes her head, but doesn’t deny it.
I stifle a laugh while Fitz clutches his stomach and pretends to gag. Then he holds my gaze but projects his voice out to Whit. “Don’t worry about us. Paige has absolutely no romantic interest in me. Isn’t that right, Paige?” My face gets so hot, it feels like I stuck my head in the fire. “And anyway, in five months she’s leaving Gilbert and is going to conquer the world as a travel writer, so it’s a moot point.” Fitz finally breaks eye contact. I hold on to the stair rail, feeling dizzy.
“Since when have any of your relationships lasted five months?” Whit asks.
“Molly was seven months,” Fitz fires back.
“Be nice!” Meg throws a dinner roll at Whit’s head from the kitchen.
He catches it and tears off a bite with his teeth. “Thanks, love!”
Fitz looks at me. “Was that everything?”
“You didn’t have to make it so awkward,” I whisper as his family grows bored with our strange tension and returns to their respective activities.
“I’m sorry, but explaining to my family that you’ll never be interested in me is inherently awkward.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Sure it is. It’s like explaining that you don’t like ice cream. But I did it. For you. You’re welcome.” He smirks.
“Wow,” I say slowly, drawing out the word. “The ego on you is astounding.” I shove him in the shoulder and move from the stairwell to one of the leather couches. “And what does my travel writing have to do with anything? It’s embarrassing to talk about.” I fiddle with the frayed edges of a large plaid blanket.
“No, it’s not. You’re gonna be amazing out there in the real world. And anyway, I was warning my family not to get too attached to you,” he says quietly. Between his nephew playing loudly on the floor and the commotion in the kitchen, no one can hear us now.
“Right.” I roll my eyes. Fitz’s speech left me feeling flustered, confused, and annoyed. I grasp on to annoyance, sinking my heels into the feeling. If I can convince myself I’m annoyed at Fitz, maybe I can forget everything else that’s happened since I got here.
I mean, it’s not likely. Especially not with SIM and his near-constant stream of intrusive, terrible thoughts, most of which focus on that stupid missing letter. But a girl’s got to try.
“Uncle Fitz!” Gray jumps onto Fitz’s back, wrapping his little arms around Fitz’s neck and nearly strangling him. Fitz laughs and swings Gray around while he tickles his stomach. They stop wrestling and settle into a game of driving cars up and down Mr. Wilding’s leg. He startles awake, sees the boys playing, and sinks back into sleep.
When Fitz and I first became friends, waiting to be picked up on that school curb, I was fascinated by the curly-haired sister who rolled up late every day with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview and empty Polar Pop cups littering the back seat. Sometimes in my head I’d pretend she was mine, that I had someone other than my parents who was responsible for me. One day Jane took pity on me and brought me home to eat dinner with their family. I kept my eye on their digital picture frame during the meal, transfixed by Fitz’s gorgeous, grown-up sisters and his parents, who were way older than mine. According to Fitz, his parents were told they’d never have biological children, and so they happily adopted three girls over the space of several years. When his mom did get pregnant with him much later, it was a total shock to everyone.
“Where are your other sisters?” I ask.
“Jane’s at work. She goes to school in Flagstaff and works here at the train depot during the holidays. We’ll see her later tonight. And Darcy—”
“Hope you don’t mind an early dinner,” Mrs. Wilding calls from the kitchen. “We want to finish in time for the kids to catch the train.”
“What train?”
“The Polar Express train. You’ll see.” Fitz smiles at me as he stages an elaborate car crash for Gray. I wander into the kitchen and offer to help. Meg hands me a stack of dishes and silverware and directs me to the large farmhouse table with bench seats.
“Have either of you seen a letter with Fitz’s name on it?” I ask, and this time, I manage to sound casual.
“Where was it?” Mrs. Wilding asks as she chops tomatoes for the salad.
“I’m not sure. He thinks he left it on the counter. It’s part of my Christmas present to him.” Is that even a little bit believable? I’ve repeated that excuse so many times that it’s lost all meaning.
“I bet it was tucked away with the rest of the presents,” Meg says.
“Where are the presents?”
“At the North Pole,” she says seriously.
“Um—”
She points to Gray and then covers her mouth with a finger.
“Right. Of course.” I move closer and lower my voice to a whisper. “But seriously, where are they?
“In Mom and Dad’s closet, safe from Gray’s cute but destructive little hands.”
I turn to Fitz’s mom. “Can I look in the closet?”
“We’ll bring the presents out on Christmas Eve, after all you kids are in bed.” Her words are a decree, an explanation of The Way Things Are Done. It doesn’t feel like my place to argue with her.
I try a different tactic. “Great! I’d love to help play Santa.”
Meg laughs. “Good luck with that. Mom won’t even let me see the presents early.”
“But, um—” My mind blanks. What’s a valid excuse for needing that letter back, like right this second? I glance at Fitz, wondering if I could convince him to sneak into the closet and find it.
“Don’t even think about it,” Meg says, guessing my plan. “That place is more secure than Fort Knox.”
Well then. “I guess I’ll wait until Christmas.”
Mrs. Wilding smiles as she tosses the salad, but my stomach squirms in desperation. It’s only two more days … but how am I going to survive two more days of this torture?