I went inside, inhaling the homey scent of fresh-baked cookies mingling with the Balsam fir Christmas tree, trying desperately to relax. Cheyenne was good at reading my face, and I didn’t want her to ask me what was wrong tonight. I was too exhausted to be convincing.

“Daddy!” Mariah yelled when I entered the kitchen. She wore a red apron that was way too big for her, which she’d obviously wiped her hands on many times. “Want to help us decorate?”

I yawned. “How about I just watch?”

“Tired?” Cheyenne asked.

“A little.”

“Want a cup of coffee?”

“That sounds great.”

“Hello, dear,” Darlene called from the sink, where she was washing out a mixing bowl.

“Hi, Mrs. Dempsey.”

I sat at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and watched Mariah and Cheyenne frost and sprinkle their cookies. They laughed and teased each other, trading funny looks and making inside jokes that should have made me trust in good things.

But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Over Cheyenne’s shoulder, there was a clock on the wall. I could hear it ticking.

Twenty-Eight

Cheyenne

Christmas Eve, I was getting ready to head over to the Mitchells’ house when my mother popped her head into my room. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, holding up two different earrings and checking the mirror to see which one I liked better with the high-necked black lace top I had on. “Which one do you think?”

My mother sat on the bed behind me and looked at my reflection. “Hmmm, I like the smaller ones.”

“Okay.” I set the dangly one down and put on the little hoops. “What’s up?”

“I just wondered if you’d noticed anything unusual about Cole last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he just seemed off to me. Not his usual self.”

“How so?” I asked, even though I knew.

“Quiet. Distracted. Even anxious.”

“He said he was tired. And he had a really eventful week.” I felt the need to defend him, even though I was worried too. “I get the feeling he hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

“That could be it.” She hesitated. “So he’s mentioned the nightmares to you?”

“Nightmares?” I finished fastening the second hoop and turned to face her. “No. What nightmares?”

“Oh, dear. Well, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but his mother mentioned to me that he’s been having nightmares so bad he wakes up yelling in the middle of the night.”

A chill swept up my spine. “What? Since when?”

“She didn’t say exactly when it started, but I had lunch with her yesterday and she seemed so tense about something—it took me a while to get it out of her, but then she confessed. She said it happened at least twice this week.”

“Wow.” My heart ached that Cole hadn’t felt he could confide in me about it. “That’s . . . that’s awful.”

“I knew he used to have them when he was younger,” my mother went on, “and for the longest time he couldn’t sleep over with Griffin. But he grew out of them. Odd that they’re back all of a sudden.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, a strange mix of dread and sadness in my belly. “Maybe it was the episode with the baby?”

“Maybe.” My mother sighed. “But it makes sense now why he’s seeing a therapist.”

“A therapist?”

“Yes. Deb Culpepper saw him in the waiting room of her son’s therapist a couple weeks ago, and said he was acting very strange.”

“Is she sure it was him?”

“He was wearing his uniform,” my mother said with a shrug.

“Oh.” My brow furrowed and then relaxed. “Oh! I bet it was Mariah’s therapist whose office he was at. He spoke with her recently about us, in fact.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. Anyway, I’m sure it’s all fine, but I just wondered if things were okay with the two of you.”

“Yes,” I said, turning back to the mirror and picking up a lipstick. “They are.”

“Any news on the move?”

“He’s moving after the first, I told you.” I carefully applied the poppy-red color to my lips.

“I meant your move—when do you move in?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” I rubbed my lips together and puckered up before capping the tube.

“Of course not, dear. You know I love having you here. I was only curious.” Suddenly she rose to her feet. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear things are going so well. Are you ready to go?”

“One minute,” I said. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”

“Sure.”

As soon as she was out the door, I grabbed my phone and called Blair.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” I said quietly. “I’m so sorry to bug you on Christmas Eve, but I have to ask your advice about something.”

“Of course. Go ahead. We’re not at the table yet. It’s still cocktail hour down here.” She laughed. “The Beauforts do not skimp on their cocktail hour.”

“How’s it going down there?” I asked, feeling guilty I hadn’t led with that.

“Great! My folks adore Griffin, my grandmother is completely smitten, and he’s been talking classic cars with my uncle all night.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Okay, I’m hiding in the bathroom now. Tell me what’s up.”

Quickly, I ran through the conversation I’d just had with my mom. “So now I don’t know what to do! Do I ask him about the nightmares? Wait for him to tell me? I don’t want to make things weird for him and his mom. But why hasn’t he told me?”

“Hmm, this is a tough one.” Blair was silent for a moment.

From downstairs, I heard my mother calling me. “Shit,” I whispered. “I have to go. Tell me what to do, fast.”

“I’d ask him,” she said. “If it were me, I’d ask him.”

“What if he denies it?”

“Then I’d come clean about the conversation with your mom.” She paused. “But maybe not on Christmas Eve. I’d wait.”

“Okay.” I felt slightly better. “Thanks. I know you think I’m nuts for worrying all the time, but this isn’t just me being paranoid.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “I think you have to ask. If you guys can’t be honest with each other about these kinds of deeply personal things, it’s not going to work.”

“Cheyenne Dempsey!” my mother howled. “Do not make me climb these stairs again! I’m leaving without you!”

“Coming!” I yelled. To Blair I said, “Okay, gotta go. Thanks again. Merry Christmas. Give my brother a hug for me.”

“I will. Merry Christmas,” she said. “Love you, let me know how it goes.”

With one more glance in the mirror—I tried to replace my tense expression with a more party-appropriate one—I grabbed my purse and hurried out of my room.