Page 20 of No Room in the Inn
“Myrtle!” I call softly. When I don’t see her on the sofa or the rocking chair, I head immediately to her favorite spot, taking the stairs two at a time to get to my old bedroom.
“Hi, sweet girl,” I say. She’s basking in the sun on my bed, stretched out lazily like the spoiled princess she is. I sit next to her, and she lifts her head, a purr vibrating from her. Her ginger coat is starting to thin, and she looks worn out. I scratch softly between her ears, running my hand down her back. “I’ve missed you,” I say.
“She missed you, too,” a voice says from my doorway, and I jump. I turn to see my mother entering the room. She’s got on yoga pants and a flowy top, her long hair tied back with a bandanna; a standard look for her. “She waited for a long time for you to come home. Sat at the top of the stairs every night.”
I can’t even think about that mental image, so I push it away. I ignore the slight edge to my mother’s voice too, instead focusing on Myrtle.
“Are you happy to see me?” I say. I’m unashamedly speaking in a baby voice, but I don’t care. This is Myrtle we’re talking about. She deserves to be cooed at.
“Are you asking me or the cat?” my mom says.
I take a deep breath and don’t answer.
“When are you going to stop this, Willow?” she goes on, sounding tired. “The ignoring, the shunning, the running away—”
“I’m not running away,” I say, focusing more intently on Myrtle, on the feel of her fur beneath my fingers, on the gentle vibration of her contented purrs.
Because I’m not running away, am I?
“You haven’t been here in years,” my mom says.
“I haven’t been here in years because whenever we talk, you harp on me about living in St. Louis or working for some big company or abandoning the family. I didn’t abandon the family, Mom,” I say, finally frustrated enough to speak. “I went to school. To agoodschool. I got a good education, and I’ll get a good job because of it. And not only did you not support me,” I go on, my voice rising, “you actively stood against me. I could have been saving for college all through high school if you’d have told me you wouldn’t pay for school if I went anywhere other than where you wanted.”
“Family should stick together. Because family is the most important thing we have in this life,” my mom says with a sigh.
“It should be,” I agree. “But you don’t chain your family to you. You don’t control them. That’s not how family should work.” I sigh, feeling suddenly drained and dangerously close to tears. I give Myrtle one last kiss on the top of the head. Then I stand up and leave.
***
“You’re crying,” says Santa, whose name I still do not know. It’s the first thing he says when I walk into the kitchen and find him making hot chocolate. He could say any number of other, more tactful things—or he could just stay silent—but no. He looks surprised and maybe a little concerned to see my tears.
“Very observant,” I say, wiping my cheeks. I can’t help my anger, though I’m not angry at him; not really, anyway. I’m mostly angry at myself—upset that having the same conversation with my mom still affects me like this. I hate crying.
I look at my squatter more closely. This is the first time I’m seeing him in clothes that don’t have anything to do with Santa, and the change is definitely welcome. Of course, he’s distractingly attractive, but I expected that. His jeans are slung low on his hips, and the green of his long-sleeved Henley brings out the color of his eyes—eyes which seem to be taking me in and sizing me up.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, feeling peevish.
His gaze flits back up to mine. “Like what?” He leans back against the kitchen counter, looking perfectly at ease.
“Like—like—I don’t know,” I say. My voice comes out as a frustrated huff. “Like you could be checking me out but also maybe like I’m a bomb that might explode or something.”
He just stares at me, stirring his hot chocolate slowly. He’s doing that eye contact thing again, gazing into my soul, and it’s completely unnerving. “I was checking you out,” he admits, still staring me down. “But the thought of you exploding hadn’t occurred to me.” He tilts his head slightly. “What kind of explosion are we talking about? Should I worry?”
My cheeks heat under his words and his scrutiny, but I just say, “No. I’m fine.”
He nods slowly, and I finally can’t stand the eye contact anymore; I look away. “So do I get one of those?” I say, gesturing to the hot chocolate that he’s now been stirring for longer than necessary.
“Pretty presumptuous, aren’t you?” he says, and when I look at him again he’s got one eyebrow cocked.
I shrug, waiting for his answer.
He sighs, but there’s a smile playing at his lips now. “Yes. I’ll take pity on you because you’ve clearly had a bad morning. This one is for you,” he says, and he holds the mug out to me.
“Really?” I say, taken aback. I accept the glass.
“Yes, really,” he says. “Don’t sound so surprised.” He pushes his weight off the counter and turns around, grabbing another mug and a pack of hot chocolate mix.
“I wasn’t aware squatters had manners,” I say.
