The Shack is fine, Miller wrote. Not even a leak. Come back. Or we can come to you?
The urge to go to Miller and Ronan—people I’d lay down my life for—nearly sent me back out. But my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace was a horror show. A drowned rat stared back, haggard, with dark circles around red-rimmed eyes that were lit with fear. I couldn’t go back out into the storm of memories. Not again. And if my friends saw me, they’d want to know why I looked like this. I’d ruin their Christmas with my fucked up past that trailed me wherever I went, reminding me that a normal life was always out of reach.
I’m not feeling up to it, I texted.
Bullshit. Get back here. Or give me your address.
I imagined them lugging all that shit I’d bought through the rain. For me.
Another text came in. You went through all that trouble with the food. Come back.
Another. We didn’t want to spoil it but since you’re being an asshole, we got you a space heater. You’ll be warm. I promise.
I closed my eyes, tears stinging.
Raincheck, I texted. Because…actual rain.
Not funny. Then, Please come, H.
Merry Christmas, Miller, I wrote, my vision blurring.
My phone lit up with his number. I hit decline. He called again. Decline.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered and turned my phone off.
I was just about to take off my dripping coat when a knock came at my door.
River…
It was Beatriz, bundled in a raincoat and scarf over her head. Her warm smile morphed into a stricken expression at the sight of me.
“Mr. Holden? What happened to you?” she asked in Portuguese.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I took a walk.”
“In this storm?”
“A bad idea, looking backward. What are you doing here? Eu pensei…” My Portuguese failed me. “I thought you were with your family?”
“I am. We made biscoitos.” She hefted a basket covered in red cloth.
“For me?”
“Sim.” She pressed the basket in my arms, her face twisted in concern. Lemony-orange scents wafted from the cookies on warm currents. “Are you alone today, Mr. Holden?”
“No,” I whispered and cleared my throat. “No, my friends are coming over. I just got off the phone with them, actually. I should get ready. Take a shower and warm up.”
The cold was making my jaw tremble, and Beatriz’s brown eyes widened in alarm.
“Bim, bim, go. Warm up or you’ll be sick. Your friends…they are coming?”
“Any minute now.”
“Okay, good. That is good.”
“Thank you for the biscoitos, Beatriz. Muito obrigado.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Holden.” Her hand came up and touched my jaw. “Feliz Natal, doce menino.”
Merry Christmas, sweet boy.
She left and I shut the door behind her, then sagged against it, willing back tears.
Like picking at a scab, I wondered what my parents were doing right now. If the family was gathered around the huge tree with hundreds of glittering lights and gifts tastefully wrapped in expensive paper. Mom would be playing her Bing Crosby and Dad would be on the phone with Tokyo or London, arguing about oil futures until someone lured him away with brandy and a cigar.
I set the basket down and turned my phone back on. A string of texts and three missed calls from Miller and Ronan waited. None from Seattle. None from River.
I turned the phone off and left it off.
I took a shower as hot as I could stand to drive out the cold that had settled into my bones, then dressed in pajama pants, a long-sleeved undershirt, another shirt on top of that, and my robe. The fire roared and I turned the thermostat up to eighty.
With Beatriz’s cookies and the rest of Reg’s Scotch, I settled on the couch. A Christmas Story was playing on its endless Christmas Day loop. The storm outside raged harder, rain lashing the windows. Lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder that made the house shake. I ate a little, drank a lot, and time slipped out from under me. The movie played over and over; the scenes shuffling around like a deck of cards. I couldn’t keep straight if I were watching the same movie, or if it had begun again.
Judging by how dark it was outside, night had fallen (#science). At some point, I must’ve gotten up to use the bathroom but didn’t make it back to bed. My old friend, the hardwood floor, welcomed me back.
“This is where I live now,” I said, chuckling. “I live on the floor.”
Thunder shook the house, pounding, as if trying to bang the door down. I thought I heard someone call my name.
“Holden?”
The storm is talking to me.
“Holden, are you there?”
River.
He pounded on the door, hard and insistent. “Holden, open the door.”
“This is a new development,” I murmured, my stupid heart begging me to let him in.
I can’t. I can’t let him in…
The pounding became a slower, more forceful bang. Once, twice, and then the door slammed open, bringing with it the sound of rain and heavy footsteps.
“Jesus, it’s an oven in here,” River muttered, then he was kneeling beside me, his face floating across my blurred vision. Rainwater coursed down his jacket and made his dark hair hang over his forehead.
“You broke the door down?” I asked. “My hero…”
“Are you okay? Christ, I’ve been calling for hours.”
“Why?”
“Why…? Why?” He glanced around, shaking his head. “Because…what the hell are you doing?”
“The room is spinning so I’m holding the floor down.”
River sat heavily beside me with an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing? Drinking yourself stupid on Christmas? Where are your aunt and uncle?”
“Seattle. With my parents.”
“They left you alone?”
“I told them to go.”
His eyes darkened, his voice tinged
