“Exactly, you’re a survivor,” she shot back. “Meaning you’re not sick anymore, and you should get married and have babies and be happy.”
“I am happy,” he said automatically.
“No. You aren’t. You’re content, and you smile a lot, and you’ve still got the best sense of humor of anyone I know, but you’re not happy, Josh. You want everyone to think you’re living life to the fullest with the music and the laissez-faire ’tude you’ve got going on, but you’re really living a half life because you’re too scared of having no life.”
“That’s deep, sis. Also, bullshit.”
She threw her hands up. “I should have listened to Kevin. He told me not to get into it with you.”
“Smart man,” Josh said. “Speaking of, was that the garage door opening?”
“Saved by the BBQ,” she muttered as they both stood. “Hey, Josh,” she said, touching his arm as he started to walk past her toward the kitchen.
He tensed but turned toward her. “What’s up?”
“I love you.”
His throat tightened. “I love you, too.”
“I also think you’re an idiot.”
Josh smiled. “Noted.”
“Heather’s not coming for Christmas, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope. She’s going back home to Michigan to spend it with her mom.”
“Ah. Maybe next year, then,” she said, patting his arm with a smile.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his sister that in no universe would his and Heather’s fling last an entire year to next Christmas.
But the words never made it out.
Because somehow, the thought of him and Heather parting ways just seemed . . .
Wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CHRISTMAS HAD NEVER BEEN one of Heather’s favorite holidays.
She didn’t dislike it. She enjoyed the lights and the carols and the general festivities as much as the next person.
But when it came to the actual day, Christmas always felt a bit like a letdown. After a month of parties and selecting the perfect gift and ogling the window displays on Fifth Avenue, you were left with a strange sense of disappointment, knowing that you have to wait a whole other year to do it again.
But Christmas did mean spending time with her mom. And even though once again Heather found herself back in Michigan, in the same tired trailer at the same tired table, Christmas meant family.
And family was Joan Fowler.
“I’m sorry it wasn’t fancier,” Joan said, nudging her plate away with the base of her wineglass.
“If I ever choose fancy over homemade mac and cheese, just put me out to pasture,” Heather said, picking up her own glass and leaning back in her chair with a contented sigh.
Her mom was right. Dinner hadn’t been fancy. Macaroni and cheese with bacon. But they’d grated the four kinds of cheeses together, stressed over how much salt to add to the water together, and eaten half the bacon together before it ever made it to the pasta dish.
The perfect Christmas.
“I still can’t get over cooking bacon in the oven,” her mother mused. “That’s going to be very dangerous to my waistline. Who’d you say taught you that trick again?”
Heather gave her mom a look. “Mother. You’re fishing.”
“Guilty,” Joan said with a wide grin. “It’s just that you’ve been here for three days and have told me next to nothing about your young man.”
Heather shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “I’ve told you, there’s just . . . not much to tell. I like him, we’re having fun, but he’s told me in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t want anything serious, and I’m trying to respect that.”
“What about you? What do you want?”
Heather groaned and stood before flopping on the ugly old couch directly behind the kitchen table. “I don’t know. Are the brownies cooled yet?”
Her mom didn’t let her off the hook. “If you want something more, you should tell him. Men appreciate honesty.”
“Respectfully, Mom, I’m not sure they do,” Heather said, closing her eyes and laying her head back. It was times like this that she appreciated her mom’s casual lifestyle. Christmas was so much better in yoga pants.