Forbidden Christmas

CHAPTER 11: Building Something for Her

Derek's Pov

I woke up before dawn with sawdust in my hair and a crick in my neck from falling asleep in the workshop chair. Again.

The bookshelf I'd been building for Sophie sat half-finished in the corner, mocking me. I'd been working on it for three nights straight now, throwing myself into the precise cuts and careful measurements. Anything to avoid thinking about Maya sleeping in the house across the yard.

Anything to avoid thinking about the look on her face at dinner two nights ago when I'd used that neutral, distant tone. Like I was talking to a stranger instead of the woman who'd made me feel alive for the first time in five years.

I stood and stretched, my back protesting. The workshop was freezing. I'd let the small heater die hours ago. Through the window, the sky was just starting to lighten, that pale gray that comes before sunrise.

Maya's window was dark. She was probably still asleep. Probably dreaming about anything other than me.

Good. That was good. That was what I wanted.

Except it wasn't what I wanted at all.

I turned back to the bookshelf, running my hand over the smooth wood. Cherry, because it was Sophie's favorite. Six shelves, each one precisely measured and sanded until there wasn't a single rough edge. I'd carved a small pattern along the sides, delicate vines and leaves that had taken hours of painstaking work.

This was what I was good at. Building things. Creating something solid and permanent with my hands. Not relationships. Not navigating feelings that had no business existing.

I picked up the sandpaper and got back to work.

An hour later, my phone buzzed. Sophie.

"Dad, where are you? Breakfast is ready and Maya made pancakes."

My hand slipped. The sandpaper scraped across my knuckle, drawing blood.

"Be there in a minute."

"You better be. And bring the bookmark you've been working on. I want to see it."

I froze. "What bookmark?"

"The one I saw on your workbench last week. The wooden one with someone's name on it. Is it for me? Because if it is, I want to see it now."

My stomach dropped. The bookmark. The one with Maya's name carved into it. The one I'd been stupid enough to leave out where Sophie could see it.

"It's not done yet. I'll show you when it's finished."

"Ugh, fine. But hurry up. The pancakes are getting cold."

I hung up and looked at the workbench. The bookmark sat there, Maya's name flowing across the smooth wood in careful script. I'd spent hours on it, getting the letters just right, sanding it until it felt like silk.

I'd told myself it was just practice. Just keeping my hands busy. Just something to do while I figured out what to say to her.

But I'd carved her name into wood. Permanent. Indelible. Like I was marking her as mine even though she could never be.

I shoved it into the drawer and covered it with wood shavings. Then I washed the blood off my knuckle and headed to the house.

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and butter. Maya stood at the stove flipping pancakes, her hair in a messy bun, wearing leggings and one of Sophie's college sweatshirts that was too big for her. She looked young and soft and completely off limits.

She didn't look up when I walked in.

"Morning, Dad!" Sophie was already at the table with a stack of pancakes drowning in syrup. "Maya makes the best pancakes. Even better than yours. Don't be offended."

"I'm devastated," I said, pouring coffee.

"They're just boxed mix," Maya said quietly, still not looking at me. "Nothing special."

"They're amazing," Sophie insisted. "Jason, tell her they're amazing."

Jason looked up from his phone long enough to nod. "Yeah, good pancakes."

"See? Amazing." Sophie turned to me. "Dad, sit. Eat. You look terrible. Have you been sleeping in the workshop again?"

"Just working late."

"You're obsessed with my Christmas present. It better be incredible."

"It will be."

I sat down at the table. Maya finally brought over a plate of pancakes and set it in front of me without a word. Without eye contact. Like I was a stranger she was serving at a diner.

"Thanks," I said.

She nodded and went back to the stove.

Sophie chattered about her plans for the day. Something about going into town to shop. Maybe hitting the slopes in the afternoon if everyone was up for it.

"Maya, you're coming shopping, right?" Sophie asked.

"Actually, I think I'll stay here. Catch up on work."

"You've been catching up on work for three days. Come on. We need girl time. Just you, me, and Melissa."

"Melissa's coming?" Maya's voice was carefully neutral.

"Yep. I already texted her. We're leaving at ten. No excuses."

Maya looked like she wanted to argue but just nodded. "Okay. Sure."

After breakfast, I escaped back to the workshop. Threw myself into the bookshelf with renewed intensity. Cut. Sand. Measure. Repeat. Don't think about Maya. Don't think about how she'd looked at dinner. Don't think about the text I sent that made her cry.

Around noon, I heard car doors slam. Looked out the window to see Sophie's car pulling away, all three women inside. Maya was in the back seat, staring out the window.

The house was quiet with them gone. Just me and Jason, who was probably glued to his phone somewhere.

I should have felt relieved. Space. Distance. Time to reinforce the walls I'd been building.

Instead, I felt empty.

I pulled the bookmark out of the drawer and stared at Maya's name. What had I been thinking? That I'd give this to her? That she'd want anything from me after the way I'd treated her?

I should throw it away. Burn it. Use it for kindling.

Instead, I kept sanding it. Making it perfect. Because apparently, I was a masochist who enjoyed torturing himself.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus, my business partner.

"Need your input on the community center design. Can you swing by the office?"

I looked at the bookshelf. At the bookmark. At the empty house that felt too quiet without Maya in it.

"Be there in 30."

I needed to get out of here anyway. Clear my head. Remember who I was supposed to be. A father. A professional. Not some lonely divorcé obsessing over his daughter's best friend.

The drive into town helped. The office was familiar territory. Plans and blueprints and problems I could actually solve. Marcus showed me the revised drawings for the community center. We debated load-bearing walls and sight lines and budgets.

Normal. Professional. Safe.

"You okay?" Marcus asked after an hour. "You seem distracted."

"Fine. Just tired."

"Sophie still driving you crazy with Christmas stuff?"

"Something like that."

"At least you have her. Some of us are spending Christmas alone." He said it lightly, but I heard the loneliness underneath.

And I felt like the worst person alive. Because I had Sophie. I had a daughter who loved me, who wanted to spend Christmas with me, who trusted me completely.

And I was fantasizing about her best friend.

When I got back to the estate in the late afternoon, the women still weren't home. I went back to the workshop and kept working.

The bookshelf was almost done. Just needed one more coat of finish and it would be perfect. Sophie would love it. I knew she would. She'd cry probably, the way she always did when I made her something.

But the bookmark sat there. Maya's name. Evidence of feelings I shouldn't have.

I picked it up, running my thumb over the letters. It was smooth now, perfect. The kind of thing you could carry in a book forever, the wood warming to your touch over time.

I should throw it away.

Instead, I wrapped it in a soft cloth and put it in a box. Told myself I was just preserving my work. Just keeping it safe until I decided what to do with it.

Not admitting that some part of me still hoped I'd find a way to give it to her. That somehow, impossibly, this could work.

I heard car doors again. Looked out to see the women returning, laden with shopping bags. Sophie was laughing about something. Melissa was rolling her eyes. And Maya was trailing behind, carrying bags but not engaging.

Even from here, I could see the sadness in the slope of her shoulders.

I'd done that. Put that look on her face. Taken someone bright and full of life and dimmed her light.

My phone buzzed.

Sophie: "Dad, we bought stuff for hot chocolate bar tonight. And I got you the good whiskey. You're welcome."

Derek: "Thanks, sweetheart."

Sophie: "Also, is something going on with you and Maya? She's been super quiet and you've been weird and I can't figure out what happened."

My heart stopped.

Derek: "Nothing happened. Why?"

Sophie: "Because you barely look at each other. And when you do, it's awkward. Did she say something that offended you? Because I'll talk to her."

Derek: "No. Everything's fine. I've just been busy with your present."

Sophie: "Okay. But if something's wrong, you'd tell me, right?"

Derek: "Of course."

Another lie. Add it to the pile.

I set my phone down and stared at the bookmark in its box. At Sophie's bookshelf waiting for its final coat. At the workshop that had become my hiding place.

This was my life now. Building things in isolation. Keeping secrets from my daughter. Hurting someone who deserved better.

And the worst part? I'd thought pulling away would make it easier. Thought distance would kill whatever this was between Maya and me.

But three days later, I wanted her more than ever. Missed her more than made sense. Lay awake thinking about the way she'd looked at me before I ruined everything.

I was failing at staying away. Failing at being appropriate. Failing at everything except making both of us miserable.

The bookmark sat in its box, Maya's name carved in wood that would last for decades.

Permanent evidence of temporary madness.

Or maybe just evidence that some things, once started, were impossible to finish.

I wrapped the box carefully and hid it in the back of my drawer, underneath the wood shavings and spare sandpaper.

Out of sight.

But definitely not out of mind.