A Jingle Bell Mingle (Christmas Notch Book 3)

by Julie Murphy

“Bernice was something of a celebrity around here. Folks couldn’t decide if it was scandalous or romantic. Of course, it was a little bit of both, which all the best love stories are, and over the years, the edges of it got . . . softened, I suppose.

“Well, that and the rumors of a torrid affair before her first husband died.”

“You have to know that both Ronald and Bernice had a reputation for being . . . well, a bit fast.

He had only a few days for their honeymoon, which is probably why it raised some eyebrows when his best friend came and stayed with them in a small place they’d rented up the mountain.

James and Ronald had been attached at the hip since they were boys, and that didn’t change after Ronald and Bernice started dating.

James is hired by the post office. Bernice gets a job at the local shop.

And poor James gets stranded on his route, and starts burning mail inside his truck to stay warm.

He tucks the letter in his coat, bundles himself up, and braves the storm to make it to safety.

Affairs are about lying and betrayal, and James and Bernice weren’t betraying Ronald.

If the war hadn’t happened, I have no doubt that they would have been here together at Lucky Duck Acres, holding hands and quibbling until the very end.”

“Bernice and James both said that Christmas Eve was their last night with Ronald. That even though he would have been dead by that point, they still felt him there with them like he was alive.”

For all of my bitching about Charlie earlier, maybe I understood a little bit why he wanted to put Mom and Dad in a box called legacy and be done with it.

And I suddenly understood Isaac so much better, suddenly understood the temptation to freeze time, to wallow and brood. Because the opposite—relentlessly barreling forward like Charlie had or chasing after every dopamine hit like I’d done—maybe wasn’t much better in the end either.

It didn’t mean that they loved Ronald any less because they forged ahead without him; in fact, maybe it meant they loved him more.

“How is it that fucking snow is so pretty and so brutal at the same time?”

“If I ever spend winter here again, I’m buying a real coat. One of those big puffy ugly ones that’s harder to penetrate than a chastity belt.”

It was Christmas if Christmas were designed by a handful of Scottish great-aunts. It was Christmas if Christmas were designed by a generative AI whose only inputs were the art on Christmas popcorn tins and the last season of The Tudors.

It was reassuring to see something not made of poinsettias or antler bone in here.

I’d been with plenty of partners, all of them special in their own way—or at the very least memorable. But somehow, there had always been a disconnect between how they made my body feel and how they made my heart feel.

Staying meant endings, because staying meant time, and time meant endings, and sure, not every ending was a fatal car crash after Christmas, but they all felt like that in the end.

For over the last decade, I’d had the freedom of being tetherless. I could be anyone. I could be with anyone. I could go anywhere I wanted, except home.

And all the good and fuzzy feelings that had come with that word were changing, were growing prickles and burrs and scratching at me until I felt restless and a little desperate.

And besides, this whole “date other people” thing made me sad, and sadness really cohered with my brand. People were always saying how important brand was.

Through the large windows of the former storefront, I saw trestle tables, open shelves, and faux-industrial lights. A sign above the door announced the restaurant was called Say Cheese.

Punny

I would never regret meeting Brooklyn when I did, but shit, finding your soul mate as a teenager really left you without a playbook for adult dating sometimes.

I’d heard him compared to a more sartorially adventurous Ken Doll, and I had to agree, although I thought even Ken would draw the line at giving Barbie’s dog, Taffy, water straight from his glass, which was what Jack was doing with Miss Crumpets right now.

Actually, my charcuterie guy in LA makes a fabulous pre-sex board, the No Farty Charty, and—”

“I wish someone would have said, This is going to suck and no one can fix this for you, because then I wouldn’t have felt so useless and broken after. I would’ve known it was normal to feel so fucked up.”

She doesn’t find it charming enough to want to be my muse.” “You know the muse thing is bullshit, right?”

It was time to give up the muse search. It wasn’t fair to people like Jack, and it wasn’t fair to me, and it wasn’t fair to Sunny. I would tell her that I was done looking for a muse, and that she didn’t have to be my muse either, and that I’d realized it was silly to put the entire burden of my creative life on one person.

Mr. Tumnus curled up in my lap, as I sniffled my way through the ending of The Wedding Singer.

“Mr. Tumnus has opened my eyes to the evils of poinsettias too.”

“Who doesn’t have chemistry with me? And the first few minutes of our date were delightful.

“I’m all for an open relationship or various other arrangements, but I refuse to come in second.”

I can barely handle mine and Mr. Tumnus’s emotional stability. Isaac needs—he needs . . .”

I’d cheered on my own friends and loved ones so enthusiastically—and happily so—for the last few years that I’d forgotten how deeply fulfilling it felt for someone to be proud of and cheer for me.

It was a word I’d used so often, because I hated the thought of love being like fine china and reserved only for special occasions.

It’d been all too easy to feel so good in this life with Isaac, but until this moment, I could never imagine Isaac—or anyone else—counting on me when I could never let myself feel safe enough to count on them.

And for someone who had spent the last fifteen years constantly moving in an effort to stay two steps ahead of the grief that followed her, that was terrifying.

My ADHD brain probably could have benefited from a little list of bullet points, but fuck it.

“If I had a housewarming party, or celebrated a career win, or God, got married, and none of them were there, that would mean that I really did have to move on.

I’m fucking terrified, because I want to be the person you go to when you’re happy or sad or creatively stuck or hungry for eggs at two in the morning. And I want you to be that person for me too.”

I felt myself nodding. I wanted to just download everything in his brain to mine so we could be done with the talking and make out.

I had done the brave thing. I had been vulnerable and I’d said the hard words and now I was being punished for it.

“People do change their minds. All the time. That’s what I was trying to tell you. That I thought I knew what I wanted, and I was wrong. I don’t know how much more clearly I need to spell it out.”

You don’t even want to try to be anything different? Just damaged goods on the shelf for the rest of your life?”

“And you think right now that I think that you’re choosing your memories of Brooklyn over me, but I know better. You’re choosing the version of yourself that feels the safest over the both of us.”

How could she make it sound like everything I’d done—everything I was as a person—was wrapped in some kind of myopic narcissism?

Cuz it looks like it is.

I can’t love again any more than I can make the rain stop or sun shine. I can’t.” “You won’t,” she said, like she was correcting me.

And I know what everyone thinks of me—that I’m so bouncy and happy and laid-back and resilient and cool and all of these other words that basically add up to Sunny will be fine no matter what. But I’m not always fine! I’m not always happy and resilient, and I’m tired of having to pretend to be.