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My mother hums. “Of all the answers to give…” Kissing my forehead, she draws away. “I’m glad we’re seeing one another more clearly now, Wynnter.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, welcoming me back beneath his arm. “Me, too.”

“Until…the soup hop,” she says, and turns.

Stationary, Wynnter and I watch her trail up through the Christmas lights while eerily distant cheerful tunes swirl with an underlying sensation…of hope.

Chapter 21

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Kissing >>> Communicating

December

Merrily, I sip my broccoli cheddar soup—my favorite and therefore the one Wynnter and I are serving at our place, which is the last stop on our decoration soup hop. We’ve already come through Mr. and Mrs. Winslow’s home, Leeann’s, and August’s with no incidents, but that was before. Specifically, before my mother was in possession of the document she is currently perusing on the couch behind me… Trying not to regret giving it to her before we started decorating so I wouldn’t forget, I attempt not to give in to nerves and instead let the cheer surround me while I decorate our tree.

“It’s crooked,” Wynnter grumbles at August while she stands on a ladder to hang a garland on the pins set up near the ceiling around the living room.

“So? It has character.” August crosses her arms and sits on the top of the stepladder. “If you fix it later, I will assume you’re disowning me.”

Wynnter’s arms lift while his brow twitches. “August, get down from up there. You’re not being careful.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Augy, stop giving your brother gray hair,” Mr. Winslow murmurs, stretching to set a small pom-pom angel near the crest of the tree.

Reluctantly, August sees herself down the ladder, and her husband visibly relaxes once she’s stable on the floor—even though he’s supposed to be an assassin tasked with her murder these days. Talk about an attack on my suspension of disbelief. If only he were a yandere jester. Then my immersion would scarce falter for even a moment…

Just saying.

“Devina, honey,” my mother calls me from my happy thoughts, and my stomach knots up.

Tense, I turn toward her and see that she’s looked up from the neatly printed copy of my comments and concerns. “Blue Christmas” whispers through the air, melding and mingling with the chatter of the Winslow family, but the festive cheer feels a world away as I grip my soup mug and approach. Finding a place amid decoration packaging, I nestle into the couch beside my mother. “Yes, Mom?”

Pained, her eyes settle on me. “I…” Breath leaves her, and she runs her fingers over the words I carefully arranged. They’re lines and lines of my emotions stripped bare for my parents to finally see. “I’m so sorry we’ve made you feel this way. We wanted to prepare you for a full life. We never meant to let our beliefs of what that looked like confine you like…this.” Her eyes close. “I fear we completely missed when you transitioned from a girl to a woman. Or…maybe…we didn’t want to see it.” Glassy-eyed, my mother looks at me. “We’ve always been so busy. It feels like we didn’t get to watch you grow up. So we didn’t let you, even though you already had.” Forcing a small smile, she lifts her face and fights to keep her tears from falling through her makeup. “I’m getting emotional.” She breathes. “I shouldn’t be saying these things out loud anyway. Your father and I are supposed to go over your letter together and respond with our own until we mend the gap between us and rebuild the bridges we’ve damaged. I’m getting ahead of myself. And I have neither helped with your decorations nor gotten myself some of your soup.”

Hesitant to allow hope before I learn how my father might respond to my comments and concerns, I smother the fluttery emotion. It’s much too soon to assume things will work out just because my mother is responding well. After all, she’s not been the main problem this whole time, and I still haven’t reviewed the four pages of comments and concerns she gave me from them.

If I’m honest, I’m afraid to.

I’m afraid that my father will have valid points I can’t get past. I’m afraid that he’ll out-maneuver me yet again. I’m afraid that—in the face of his logic—I’ll feel like an immature child throwing common sense away in the name of love.

My father is a business man. He’s built his livelihood out of being right and succeeding in his negotiations. He knows how to get people to agree with him.

My entire life, his way has been right, and mine has been wrong.

I’ve bent to his will countless times, believing him correct even at the expense of myself.

But I can’t do that this time.

This time, I have someone I refuse to sacrifice in order to come to an agreement with the man who raised me. This time, I’m afraid I’ll lose my father in the diplomacy because I am unwilling to utilize the only tactics that have ever worked on him: crying and begging.

This time, I’m communicating maturely, and the facts are simple:

I know Wynnter’s a good man.