The Christmas You Found Me, page 15
I’m far from a sexy Mrs. Claus right now. Per Emma’s request, I’m rocking some neon-green Grinch joggers I had to dig out of storage, and she’s given me a pair of felt reindeer antlers that have seen better days. One droops into my face, which might be why Guy keeps trying to hide a grin when our eyes meet.
Guy’s still wearing the Santa hat she put on his head before her bedtime story, but he’s ditched the boxy, shapeless matching flannel button-up shirt. Instead he’s reclining in a seat at the kitchen island in a white T-shirt that shows his muscles to distressing detail and is a little snugger after getting three solid meals in for a few days.
He has to know he looks good. I swear the man is doing this on purpose.
There’s a mug of milk and a brownie waiting for me on the seat next to his. I recognize this brownie. The special, Christmastime only, three-inch-thick, peppermint-dusted triple-chunk brownie from the bakery in town across the street from LK’s. A slab of chocolatey holiday joy stuffed full of enough sugar to keep a girl running for a month.
“Is this for me?” I ask hopefully, sidling up to the counter, no longer focused on the sexy Claus. Because nothing is sexier than this brownie.
The little wink he gives me is cute. “What, this brownie?”
“That’s my favorite brownie,” I say, sneaking a little closer and sitting down in the stool catty-corner to his.
“Funny, that’s what Jess told me last night when I was picking their brain for things you might like.”
“Jess sold me out, straight up, huh?” I sigh lustily when he nudges the brownie my way. “Thank you, although I feel guilty eating treats after Emma goes to bed.”
“Jess also told me you love puppies and snowmobiling,” Guy admits. “This was the easiest to fit on the counter, but I could go to the rescue shelter…”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Suddenly I realize this man would one hundred percent go to the rescue shelter for a Christmas puppy if I wanted to go. A rush of warmth for him floods through me, and I find myself grinning as I lift the brownie up and take an appreciative sniff. “Ooh, these get better every year.”
“I forgot to tell you I grabbed the mail on my way in today,” Guy says as I make doe eyes at my snack. “Do we normally get a newspaper?”
“Nope, I read the news online, like a normal human.”
When he hands me an actual newspaper, there’s a bright-green sticky note attached in Jess’s handwriting.
“I thought you might want to keep this,” I read aloud, then I groan when I see the front page. “‘Christmas comes early for the Naples-Maple family.’ Oh nooooo.”
“Did we make the paper?” Guy seems surprised.
“We are the paper today. In a town this size, a rabbit hopping across the road makes the news. You and I getting randomly married is on the front page.” I show him the picture under the paper’s title page, then continue to read aloud. “Longtime resident of Caney Falls, Idaho, Sienna Naples wed Montana native Guy Maple in a private ceremony. The couple celebrated their whirlwind romance—” I pause and give Guy a look, which he responds to with that charming grin of his. “—whirlwind romance at LK’s Bar and Grill. Sienna Maple (née Naples) and Guy Maple, along with daughter, Emma Maple, are the current caretakers of Naples Ranch, a thousand-acre private wilderness and gem of the Salmon River Valley.” I hide my face in my hands, leaning on the island. “Jess! Why?”
Guy peers over my shoulder at the paper. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that Micah is going to freak out. I never changed my last name to Micah’s, which was a sore point for him. Like…a really sore point.”
Guy thinks about it for a moment, and then his hands rest down on my shoulders, squeezing lightly. “You didn’t change your name for me either,” he reminds me. “You did it for Emma.”
“Yes, but Micah isn’t going to know. I swear I can hear him popping a gasket from across town.” I get up and start wiping down the counter, despite it being clean. Guy settles into the seat I vacated, watching me for a few minutes, then he casually takes a little bit of the napkin beneath my brownie, tears it off, and wads it up. Then he sets it in the middle of the island, right where I’ve wiped down three times in the last thirty seconds.
“You looked like you needed something to clean,” Guy tells me, those glacier-blue eyes sparkling mischievously. Then he starts to eat my peppermint-dusted, three-inch-thick, triple-chocolate-chunk holiday brownie.
He’s eating my brownie.
“Oh, you brat,” I breathe.
It’s been a long time since I chased someone, but some things are worth it. Guy’s faster than me, and he’s overly confident, thinking I won’t dare follow him out into the cold of the front porch. Not only will I dare, but I also grab for the freshly fallen snow on the railing, pack it up into a ball, and smoosh the sucker right into his face.
Hmm. Maybe this was a wrong move. Yep, definitely a wrong move, because I’m in my pajamas in the snow, and sexy Christmas Claus is chasing me now.
I squeal when I get a handful of snow down the back of my shirt, then dissolve into laughter as he picks me up in his arms, spinning me until I’m dizzy. Guy trips, and we both end up in the snow, although at least it’s the soft, fluffy kind on the yard, not the hard, icy, packed-down stuff on the driveway. I’m sprawled across his lap, our limbs tangled, and I’m not sure the brownie made it.
“Brownie down?” I ask as his eyes gaze down at me in the bright wintery moonlight.
“There’s a second one in the fridge,” Guy tells me smugly. “I know better than to not get a backup brownie.”
Oh, he’s a smart man. A shivery, cold man, but a smart one.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing some sort of ridiculously sexy workout routine right now? Instead of getting frostbite on your entire back?” I ask, because Guy might be sitting in the snow, but plenty of it is still falling on us.
“I had to do something more important first.” His voice gets softer and at the same time huskier. “Hey, Sienna? I’m glad everyone knows. When we walked into the restaurant last night, I have never been prouder. I like being married to you.”
I close my eyes, then I exhale softly. “I like it too.”
Guy’s face dips down, his breath condensing in the cold air. “You said you had a stomachache after the kiss,” he whispers. “I didn’t have a stomachache.”
“Maybe a stomachache isn’t exactly the right wording,” I whisper back. “More like a gut punch. The good kind.”
Guy doesn’t make fun of my description. Instead, he murmurs, “Yeah, me too.”
His fingers curl through my hair, asking a silent question. Maybe, if a snowflake hadn’t chosen this moment to land on the end of his nose, I would have been able to resist. Instead, I laugh at the way his nose wrinkles and find myself pressing my mouth to his smiling lips.
And when my fake-but-not-fake husband kisses me in the snowy moonlight, it’s even better than peppermint and chocolate.
Chapter 14
My phone chirps at my side, and I can’t help the silly grin crossing my face.
I’m finishing the last of the lunch dishes, so I don’t check it yet, but I know who the text is from. I’m not sure when Guy managed to find time to work today, because we’ve been messaging each other little silly GIFs all morning. I sent him off to work with a lunch box filled with sandwiches again, resulting in goofy selfies of him eating each one with gusto. I never knew ham and cheese on whole grain could look so good in a man’s hand, or maybe I just love seeing him happy. But I feel like I’m a teenager again, all excited when a boy texts me and unable to focus on my day job.
Admittedly, I haven’t been trying to work much anyway. Emma and I spent the morning inside finger painting and waiting for the day to warm up enough to take her outside.
“Emma, do you want to go say hi to Legs and Lulu before your nap?” I ask as I dry my final glass. She doesn’t answer, which isn’t abnormal, but I hear a small gagging noise. When I turn, I see her sitting on the couch with her head bent down.
“Emma?”
“Sen-na, I don’t feel good.”
Then she promptly throws up all over herself, including the llamacorn Christmas sweater she was so excited to wear today. The effect is instantaneous. The moment Emma realizes her sweater is covered in vomit, she immediately bursts into tears, bawling out my name.
“Oh, sweetie,” I say, hurrying over to her. “It’s okay.”
This is a new experience for me, having a crying child holding on to me with vomit now on us both, but I know the power of a hug when you’re feeling awful. I hold her tight until the sobs become sniffles, then I carry her into the hallway bathroom to get her cleaned up.
“It’s really okay, Em,” I promise her. “I’ll throw it in the wash, and you’ll still be able to wear it today.”
“Really?” She looks up at me with red, puffy eyes, and I hug her again, extra tight.
“Really, sweetie. We’ll do the quick cycle too, so you don’t have to wait long.” I’ll even train Barley to do laundry if it’ll make her feel better.
I start to help her change into clean clothes, then I realize it’s not just her little eyes that look puffy… Her legs look puffy too. The tops of her socks look like they’re digging into her skin. There’s no way Guy would have dressed her in too-small socks.
“Emma, is it okay if I check your feet?” I ask her. When she nods, I press my thumb gently into her ankle. She’s not just puffy; her feet are significantly more swollen than I realized. Guy checks her every morning and evening for symptoms, and he records everything. When I check her tablet, he’s marked she has mild edema, but this doesn’t look mild to me. These are some seriously squishy feet. I put a pair of my socks on her instead of her own, because too big seems better than making her uncomfortable with too-tight socks.
Barley’s waiting for us in the hall outside the bathroom, and he whines pitifully until Emma is back in her room, where he can hop up next to her in bed. I’m about to tell him to get down, but she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur, and the look Barley gives me is clear.
He won’t be moving anytime soon.
“Good boy,” I murmur, briefly touching his muzzle. Then I inhale a tight breath, because Barley’s not the only one going gray. Emma is too.
When I call, Guy picks up on the first ring. “Sienna? What’s wrong?”
“Emma just threw up, and she seems really out of it. Her feet and ankles are really swollen, and she’s lost a lot of color in her face.”
“How swollen?”
“Enough her socks don’t fit. I put her in a pair of mine.”
“Swelling and vomiting is a sign she needs dialysis.” Guy breathes a soft curse.
“Didn’t she just get it?”
“Yeah.”
Emma makes another gagging noise, and I grab the trash can in the corner of her bedroom, pushing between her and Barley so I can hold it under her face. “She’s throwing up again,” I tell him, alarmed.
“Get her in the truck, and meet me in town,” Guy says sharply. “I’ll call her nephrologist.”
He doesn’t say goodbye before hanging up, and I don’t blame him. I’m already scooping Emma up in my arms and rushing for the door. Barley is hot on our heels, but I bark at him to stay. He listens, but he doesn’t like it. I run back in for Emma’s bag, grateful for Guy’s preparedness, because inside are green plastic vomit bags. Barley tries to follow again, so I shut the door with my foot before he can sneak out. He ducks through the doggie door, but this time he stays on the porch, ears flattened with stress, as I start the truck to warm it up for Emma.
Emma wants to lie down in the back seat, but I tell her she has to be buckled into her car seat. It starts a new wave of crying, but weaker this time. I hush her as best as I can, telling her we’re going to get her daddy. She nods, clutching the vomit bag I give her like it’s a stuffed animal.
I hate that I didn’t remember to grab one of her toys.
Never has the drive from my place to the main highway felt this long. Every icy bump on the road makes me cringe, because now would be a terrible time to end up with a tire in a snow-filled ditch. I keep checking if my phone has reception just in case I get stuck out here with Emma in trouble.
She’s sniffling in the back seat, and it’s physically painful for me to keep both hands on the wheel instead of reaching back and holding her little mittened fingers. But I can’t risk an accident. I talk to her instead in my softest voice because she’s hurting. I tell her I love her and her daddy loves her and most of all, God loves her. I tell her when we go back home, we’re going to make reindeer antlers for Legs. We can put Barley in a Santa suit because he’s already red, even though he’ll be grumpy about it.
Emma’s still crying, but she giggles at the image. And when we finally turn onto the ice-free main road into town, I reach behind me and drive the rest of the way with her hand gripping mine.
Guy’s waiting outside the jobsite with a little stuffed moose under his arm that must have been in his truck, and he jogs over to my driver’s side door, opening it. “Her nephrologist wants to see her,” he says, truck keys in hand. “I need to get her to Idaho Falls. Can we switch vehicles? The car seat takes forever to change out, and I need her there now.”
“I’ll drive you,” I tell him. “I’d rather stay with you both.”
I start to ask him if it’s okay, but Guy’s already hustling around the truck. He hops in the passenger seat, then turns around and takes Emma’s hand. “Hey, baby girl,” he says in his kindest, most gentle voice. “I brought Mr. Moose. He wanted to see you.” When she ignores the moose, Guy’s voice softens even more. “Having a tough day today?”
She nods, tears in her eyes, reaching her arms out to him. For a tall man, he’s awfully good at climbing over the center divider, ditching the passenger seat so he can be next to his daughter. It’s not safe to take her out of her car seat, so Guy sits as close as he can, wrapping his arms around Emma and cuddling her.
The drive to Idaho Falls is long, but it’s never felt this long before. The stretch of highway lies in a valley between two parallel ridges, and in the summer, it’s a pretty if remote drive. In the winter, it’s two hours of nothing but snow.
I’m doing ten miles over the speed limit, but it feels like we’re crawling. When Emma throws up again, I push it to fifteen. I wait until she falls asleep against Guy’s shoulder, clutching a vomity Mr. Moose, before asking, “Was it the party? Did she get something we didn’t see?”
“No, I watched her like a hawk.” When I glance in the rearview mirror, Guy’s expression is bleak. “This is just what happens. The dialysis isn’t working as well anymore.”
I don’t ask if he’s going to be in trouble at work. I don’t think it matters.
It’s been a while since I was last in Idaho Falls, but Guy knows these streets well enough to give me directions to the hospital without using his phone. When the hospital’s concrete walls rise above us outside the truck windows, I should feel relieved. Instead, a new kind of fear washes through me. I follow the signs for the emergency department entrance, then pull up to the curb. Guy hops out and takes Emma from her car seat as I go to find a parking space at the most packed hospital ever.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a hospital. As I scratch the door’s paint job getting out because I parked too close to a concrete pole, I realize going to the hospital is Guy’s and Emma’s lives. Days like these maybe aren’t the standard, but they sure are the norm.
By the time I get inside, Guy and Emma aren’t in the emergency waiting room. “I’m looking for my husband and my stepdaughter,” I tell the front reception desk, and I’m told they’ve been moved to the children’s wing.
As I try to find my way to the children’s wing, I wonder if it’s confusing signage or simply my brain resisting this situation that makes it so hard to know where to go. Each long empty hall looks like the next. Beige vinyl tile, more beige on the walls. Gray plastic handrails and oversize pictures of benefactors from the last hundred years fastened to the walls.
Someone in green scrubs yawning while carrying a salad. Two coworkers in red scrubs laughing at a shared joke between them. The logical part of me knows this hospital is full of hundreds of people who need to eat and joke and walk down halls. They are the miracle workers trying to save Emma’s life, the ones who will take care of her and hopefully one day put a new kidney in her. But in this moment, when I am scared and frustrated and lost, there’s another illogical part of me that hates the salad for the normalcy it represents. A part that doesn’t understand how anyone could share a joke when Emma’s sick. Don’t they understand? Emma is sick.
I pause, looking left and right, then close my eyes and lean against the plastic handrail, letting it briefly hold me up. I can’t stomach the idea of calling Guy and telling him I can’t even be competent enough to find them.
“Get it together,” I tell myself roughly. “Be better than this.”
“Do you need any help?” I open my eyes to see a woman in blue scrubs with CNA on her tag. Thank you, God.
“The children’s wing,” I tell her. “I think nephrology?”
“The kidney and transplant center?” She gives me a sympathetic nod. “This way. I’ll take you there.”
I don’t know how long I’m taking out of her break, and I feel guilty for my earlier thoughts as I whisper a thank-you. I silently promise myself not to be upset at any more salads or laughter. We pass from the adult wing to the children’s wing of the hospital, and the decor changes to an overly cheerful holiday theme. The walls are plastered with attempts to make this terrifying place resemble the North Pole. We turn left at the reindeer paddock, follow the hall of Santa’s workshop, and I try not to let my eyes linger on the Christmas lists handwritten in crayon and taped to a giant snowflake cutout. There are so many Christmas lists, it makes my heart twist and drop somewhere deep in my gut.
