Page 97 of After We Fall

But at night . . . at night the earth dims its lights, muting the sharp edges of its creation, inviting me to revel in its beauty.

It’s a mirror to my life.

Everything that used to be beauty to me is too much for my injured brain to absorb. However, if it’s taken in doses, if it’s appreciated from a distance, a different view, or a new angle, I can once again enter its realm and soak in the elements of life that I love.

My significance, my worth in this world, has always been equal to my work. Before the accident, I would have chosen to sacrifice myself for my job. But for the foreseeable future, pushing myself simply isn’t an option. I have to see a possible job at Twelve Bluebells in a different light. But I can. Program director isn’t out of my reach if I approach it from a different angle. I’m not ready to share this with anyone yet, but delegating—purposefully, strategically—could be a powerful part of my role.

I just hope I get the opportunity to do so before Claire takes my dream job. Claire, who arrives tomorrow and stays through the beginning of January. Claire, Meredith’s lifelong friend. Claire, who is not recovering from a brain bleed. Claire, who won’t need to ask for breaks, won’t need a flexible schedule while she’s recovering, and won’t need to ask anyone else for help while doing her job.

But these aren’t the things I want to be thinking about on Christmas Eve. Not with Luke on the way, and a small, pristinely wrapped box waiting to be opened. It sits in red matte paper, a flat wooden Christmas tree affixed to the top with double-sided tape. Dark remnants of bark on the carved tree give Luke’s gift a rustic feel, and I cannot wait to see his reaction to what I’m giving him.

The alarm beeps, alerting me to the front door opening. A giddy shiver runs down my spine.

“Penelope,” Luke’s familiar voice growls from behind me.

Just the sound of his voice puts a smile on my face. But when I turn to him and catch a glimpse of the seething man in front of me, my glee fades. “Is everything all right?”

Save the two of us, the house is empty. A living room lamp provides the sole gentle lighting through the entrance to the kitchen. Only with Luke’s glowering frame filling the doorway, the light casts an ominous, hulking shadow across the room.

“No. Everything is not all right. What’s this?” He holds a familiar package out to me.

“It was still out there?” I ask, staring at the red-and-white-striped gift bag with green tissue paper bursting from the top.

“Still out there? When did you expect it to get picked up?”

If my defenses weren’t going up, I could spend more than a second appreciating that Luke ditched his signature cargoes and Henley tonight. They’re replaced with a deep-red flannel shirt untucked and worn jeans that are frayed at the bottom with threads draping over his black boots. A complement to my red cashmere sweater and dark skinny jeans. But it seems our clothes are the only thing complementing each other this evening. Something is seriously wrong.

I open my mouth to respond, but he says, “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase. When did you expect the girl who is living with the man who assaulted you to pick it up?” He paces in the room, his anger sucking every last square inch of air into its vortex. “Or even better, when did you expect the man who assaulted you, the man you pressed charges against, the man who is really not pleased you exist right now, to probably bring her to the house to pick it up?”

I hold out a placating hand. I might not be able to work right now, but I still know how to negotiate tense situations. “Luke—”

“I can’t. I can’t.” He shakes his head, still panther-pacing from side to side across the kitchen tile. I’m surprised a black tail doesn’t appear and swipe everything off the countertops in a fit of rage.

I clamp my mouth shut, waiting out the tirade.

He stops a few feet in front of me and crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t protect you, Penelope, if you don’t do what I say. I thought she was blocking everyone’s calls. You were supposed to let me know if you made contact. Then you invite her here to pick something up when no one is at the house with you.” He runs his hands over his face. “If she had come to the porch, you would have gone out to talk to her without anyone else here.”

“She just texted this afternoon,” I explain, my voice rising. “It was the first time I’ve heard from her in weeks. Yes, I told her I had something and would leave it on the porch. Yes, I have kept a watch out for her since the text. But she wouldn’t hurt me, Luke.”

“No. But I’d put a hundred dollars down on this counter”—he slaps the granite—“betting that you wouldn’t have checked to see if she came alone.” He holds his hands up in exasperation. “You are a brilliant woman. Capable of almost anything you set your mind to. But something happens to you when you’re around those girls. You just can’t help yourself. Your brilliance flies out the window and is replaced by poor judgment.”

Spots dot my vision, and I have no idea if this is due to anger or my racing blood and impending headache. I grasp the counter to keep my balance. The last time someone accused me of poor judgment was . . . never. And how did we get so far off track? What happened to falling snow and an intimate Christmas celebration?

“You’re not even going to deny it, are you?” he asks.

“I haven’t looked forward to a Christmas Eve since before my mom died,” I whisper with no small amount of acrimony. “I thought this was going to be a lovely Christmas Eve with the man I like.”

“Yeah?” Luke throws his hand out wide. “I don’t even remember the last time I stayed in town for Christmas. I thought this was going to be a lovely Christmas Eve with the woman I like.”

“Really? Well, don’t let me stop you. Here.” I snap my gift off the counter and slap it against his chest.

“Oh, good.” One of his hands wraps around the box while the other yanks something out of his coat pocket. “Since we’re doing this now, here you go.” He tosses me a four-inch-square box wrapped in hunter-green paper with a simple red grosgrain ribbon around the top.

I bumble the catch but try my best to do it with attitude, and I storm out the back door.

My immediate view of the decor on the covered porch reminds me what an epic failure the last ten minutes have been.

Tonight, the Holcombes took the girls to a Christmas Eve event. With all the visual and auditory stimuli that encompass a celebration of that kind, had I attended, I would have been destined for a beast of a migraine. Luke promised we would have our own special Christmas Eve “event” here at the house and exchange gifts.