Page 18 of Christmas By Design

That’s not good.

It doesn’t sound like normal crying. It sounds like panic crying, like she’s having a panic attack just on the other side of this flimsy door. I want to break it down and hold her until it passes, but I don’t think that display of misplaced chivalry will make anything any better.

I settle for tapping softly. “Woodard?” I call roughly. “Everything okay?”

No sooner than it is out of my mouth do I cringe. No, you idiot. Everything is not okay. Am I doomed to repeatedly put my foot in my mouth around this woman tonight?

She doesn’t answer. The sobs get quieter for a minute, but then I hear her gasping as if she’s trying to control it but failing.

I try again. “Can I come in?”

She still doesn’t answer, but I hear her shift. The door shakes as if she’s pressed herself up against it.

I’ll take that as a no.

“I won’t if you don’t say I can, okay?” I ask as gently as possible. It admittedly sounds less soothing than I’d like, but I’m doing my best. I lower myself to the ground where I imagine she’s sitting on the other side of the door and rest my head against it. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I can tell you’re upset. And I’m very, very bad at small talk, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

A wet, huffing sound comes from directly on the other side of the door.

“Was that a laugh? I hope that was a laugh.” I mutter the last part. “Anyway,” I continue, “if you’re upset about being here with me tonight after what that asshole said, you don’t have to worry. About me, I mean. I’m not… I won’t… shit.” I curse softly. I am really mucking this up. What the fuck am I even trying to say?

But then the doorknob twists, and the door pops open. I immediately push it wider and crawl inside. I can see her in the dim light filtering in from the window beyond which the blizzard is officially in full force. She’s curled up against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Her face is buried, and wild curls the color of dark brick cover her face.

I scoot close enough to her that I can serve as a support, but I’m careful not to touch her. I don’t say anything. Just being near her feels like a win for now. Sure enough, her breathing starts to become less ragged.

After a few minutes, she croaks out, “It’s not you.”

I’m flooded with relief. “Oh.” Then, I test the waters. “I suppose I shouldn’t flatter myself about that either, then?”

Gemma groans. “That was mean. I’m sorry. When I get…” She pauses, swallowing. “When I get anxious, I get angry sometimes.”

I let that settle for a moment. “Is that what’s happening? You’re anxious?”

She nods.

“But not about being here with me?” I clarify.

She turns her head so her cheek is resting on her knees. Her green eyes are glassy, and they gleam in the dreary light coming through the window. Big, red splotches mar her pale skin, and her makeup is smudged around her eyes.

Still, she’s breathtaking. I can’t help but feel like it’s a privilege to see her this way. Vulnerable. Like she trusts me with her fear.

“No. It’s not you. I…” She trails off again. Talking is clearly difficult for her right now, so I wait. “Shit, this is going to sound really stupid when I say it out loud.”

“Try me.”

Her breathing speeds up again as if she’s at war with something inside her mind. “I’ve never left my baby for a whole night.”

She buries her face into her knees and sobs.

I lean over so my head is close to hers. “Gemma,” I say softly. I don’t think I’ve ever said her first name aloud before, but I like the feel of it on my tongue. I say it again. “Gemma, can I… Would it help if I held you?” I want to calm her. That’s all. Nothing more.

If I keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll be true.

“I don’t know,” she admits between gasps. “I’m not usually near anyone when this happens.”

“Can I try?”

“You want to hold me while I panic-cry in a house with no power in the middle of a snowstorm?” Even despite her voice shaking, it still sounds incredulous.