Page 12 of Innocent
I can’t even sell this virginity away, and I don’t feel good about keeping the money. Who knows where it came from, or who it was that sent it. This whole thing is a mess.
Music from the Christmas ball echoes through the corridors of the lodge and I tempt myself with going down for dinner and having a chat with my mom, who I’m sure is wandering around. She’s helped Maddox and his wife, Emma, run the Christmas ball in Rugged Mountain since we moved down here from The Springs when my dad died. Plus, I’m already dressed to impress in a satin red dress. I shouldn’t let it go to waste. Who knows the next time I’ll be this fancy again?
The lodge overlooks the best views of Main Street. Tall, white-capped mountains and jagged rocky paths, all surrounded by dark green pine and cedar. Tonight, though, the scene is much different. With the mountains under the veil of darkness, the only view is the hundred or so trees decorated with twinkling white lights in the field outside the picture windows.
Inside, the décor is much more elaborate with a three-story tree decorated with hundreds of white lights and green and red vintage ornaments. The star on top has been handed down through Rugged Mountain’s history and it’s said that it originally belonged to Maddox’s grandfather. A man whose lore in the mountains lives on to this day. His picture sits above the fireplace in the lodge and every Christmas, Maddox tells stories about his very first Christmas up in the mountains. The resemblance between Maddox and his grandfather is eerie, like one of those click bate articles on the internet where they show Cleopatra’s twin living in the current day. Maddox’s grandpa has the same long gray beard and kind dark eyes.
My mom waves from the back corner of the room where she’s socializing with Mrs. Robinson—the town gossip. They’re both dressed in fancy holiday clothes and bright red lipstick, like it’s a requirement of the season. I intend to say hi, but I get distracted by the bartender and a big, dark bottle of whiskey sitting behind him. I could use the warm-up, and the distraction.
“Double shot of whiskey,” I say, leaning forward against the bar.
I’ve seen the bartender around town here and there, but not enough to know his name. He’s a tall guy with dark hair and a piercing in his septum. He cocks a heavy eyebrow. “Double shot? Are you here by force?” he laughs.
I contemplate spilling all my tea out on the counter for him to drink, but the day has been traumatic enough. What I need is this shot and some of those mozzarella sticks on the table behind me. After I’ve acquired the best Christmas has to offer, I’ll retreat to my room for a long, sappy Christmas movie that will make me regret every life decision in slow painful mockery. And when I fall asleep, virginity still intact, hopefully I’ll dream about Huck and the life that we’ll never have.
“Kind of,” I joke, taking the double shot he slides toward me. I don’t drink it all at once. I sip the liquid slowly and take another glance around the room, studying all the happy couples and smiling faces of Rugged Mountain, searching inadvertently for a glimpse of Huck. I’m not looking for long before I see him. He’s standing next to the Christmas tree alone, his hand tucked into one pocket of his jeans while he stares up at the tree.
My heart pinches in pain and blood rushes from my head into my toes, prompting me to leave the bar.
The bartender’s talking, but I don’t turn back. It was a mistake to come down here. I thought I wanted a glimpse of Huck, but it’s too hard to see him. If he were to see me too, I would be humiliated.What would we say? How would we say it?I move through the small crowd of people toward the front door, desperate for some fresh air, but what greets me is anything but freshness. It’s Mark, and he looks like he’s about to steal what’s left of Christmas.
“Janie.” He says my name like we’re business professionals passing each other in a boardroom, not like the guy who’s been my best friend for years. Not like the guy who talked me off a ledge at least four times our senior year of high school because I tore my dress in the bathroom at senior prom and had to waddle out of the school with Mark’s suit coat tied around my waist. Pictures still circulate to this day.
“Mark, wait.” I twist toward him. “Please talk to me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t even know why I’m here. Truthfully, I wouldn’t be if it weren’t Christmas.”
“You’re here because you’re my best friend, and I know deep down you’re hoping we can fix this.” I reach for his hand, and thankfully, he doesn’t pull away. “I should’ve told you I had feelings for your dad. It’s so fucked up.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “kind of. Why are you here alone, anyway? Don’t you have your cherry popping event going on?”
“The guy never showed, but he still paid. I don’t know what’s going on. I think I have to contact the company and figure out what to do next.”
Mark’s brows turn inward. “What was his handle?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s so stupid.”
He nods.
“Mr. Claus.”
He lets down his shoulders. “I think my dad sold his truck last night to pay for your virginity.”
“What? No. He didn’t. His truck is right outside and like I said, whoever did this didn’t show up. Your dad wouldn’t do that. He didn’t even know I put the listing up. It’s not—”
“He knew. We talked about it last night. And I just ran into Bo outside. He was climbing up into Dad’s truck, so I asked him what was up, and he told me that he bought it this morning. What else would Dad have used that kind of money for?”
I turn back toward the tree, and see Huck is still standing there, now with a bottle of beer in his hand.
“You don’t really think he’d do that, do you? He loved that truck.”
“Sure did,” he sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”
I nod, swallowing down the lump that’s growing in my throat. I don’t know if a good conversation ever started with‘can I be honest with you.’
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve seen it for years. He’d be happier when you were around, and I guess I always knew in the back of my head he was thinking about you.” His face crinkles up. “It’s gross, but I see it.” He shakes his head as though cooties have just crawled all over him. “What I’m trying to say is… if he sold his truck to keep you safe, he must like you a lot more than I could imagine. You guys should talk.”
My head spins with a cocktail of whiskey and a hormone shift that I’m not accustomed to. “What do you mean?”