Page 101 of Best Kind of Trouble
Everyone gives her knowing smiles, but I admire her willingness to see possibilities where others see improbabilities.
I want to hope too.
I slide Liam’s tickets behind our list of rules, telling myself I’ll give them to him later.He’s not gone. He didn’t leave. He’s coming back, and it hasn’t all been ruined.The words feel like a winning lottery ticket, too dear to be hoped for.
My father textsme that night, asking if I’m coming over for Christmas Eve or Christmas dinner, as if I didn’t flee his house on a motorcycle and lose half my dress in the process.
I respond with a simple,No, and he replies:
I look forward to your party, sweetheart. Mom asks if it’s okay to bring outside alcohol.
No, I respond again, my heart beating faster at the defiance.
I spend the next evening at Dottie’s little purple house. It’s tiny, especially given the number of people packed inside and spilling out into the frostbitten yard. But the gathering is warm and full of laughter. Otis and his grandmother come over, and all of Dottie’s grandchildren stop by, including the ones who run Buchanan Brewery. Small children fill the cottage with laughter, especially when Dottie’s partner comes out in a Santa suit.
I still haven’t heard from Liam. Not a word.
It’s his silence that hurts most of all, I decide. I’d started to get lulled into thinking we were rebuilding the brewery together, and this is presumably his way of reminding me that there is no us.
I go home, feeling emotionally drained, and find a poorly wrapped package waiting on the stoop of my building.
My hands tremble as I lift it up. The gift tag is addressed to me in Liam’s sloppy handwriting.
I glance around, worried someone might witness me taking the gift, which is absurd, since it’s for me.
When did he stop by?
The disappointment of having missed him lodges in my throat, but I let myself in and carry the gift to my kitchen table. I’m very aware that his hands touched it, just like they’ve touched me.
Karma hops onto the tabletop, gives me a dubious look, and meows loudly.
“Exactly,” I say.
I tear a corner of the wrapping paper before ripping off the rest. My heart goes gooey in my chest as I study the brand-new boxing gloves.
There’s a sticky note resting on top of them.
Every boxer needs their own gloves. And you, Briar, are a prizefighter. Never forget that.
Dottie probably already told you, but the beer is going to be ready on time.
Merry Christmas,
Liam
I go to sleep with the gloves clutched to my chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BRIAR
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” Nora mutters when she answers the door to her mother’s house the next afternoon. It’s a tidy white Arts and Crafts bungalow with a bright-red door decked out with a fresh evergreen wreath.
Nora tugs me inside the house, which smells like warm spiced wine.
“Cormac is insufferable,” she hisses as she leads me past the beige couch, where her mother and Cormac’s father are cuddled together, whispering in undertones. They don’t seem to notice we exist, let alone that we’re in the same room as them, but I slow my pace. What is the etiquette for greeting someone who looks like they’re about to get ravaged?
“Oh, don’t mind them,” Nora continues as if I’d spoken. “They do that a lot. My mom will come up for air soon. We’re going to make gingerbread cookies before dinner, and Mom gets really into it. But first let’s grab some mulled wine. Everything’s better with mulled wine.”
