Chapter Three - An Ex-mas Reunion
1388 Words
“Michelle?” he said again, as if saying her name might somehow make her disappear.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Ten years.
Ten years of distance, silence, and deliberate forgetting—and here he was, standing barely a few feet away, looking painfully real.
Jeremiah looked older. Broader. But still as handsome as she remembered.
Ten years had carved deeper lines around his eyes and filled out his frame, turning the boy she once knew into a man who looked like he could carry the weight of the world—and apparently, a daughter.
And that realization hit harder than the cold ever could.
Michelle froze, the icy wind whipping a stray lock of hair across her face, but she couldn't feel the cold anymore. All she could feel was the suffocating weight of Jeremiah’s stare.
"Jeremiah," she breathed, the name tasting like ash and old secrets.
"Daddy, do you know her?" Daisy asked, her small hand tugging on Jeremiah’s flannel sleeve.
Jeremiah didn't look down at the girl. His eyes were locked on Michelle’s, a turbulent mix of shock and a sudden, sharp pain he couldn't quite mask. "I... I used to," he managed, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through gravel.
“Michelle,” he breathed, softer this time. “What… what are you doing here?”
Her mind scrambled for words. Any words. Apologies, explanations, excuses—none of them seemed right. All she could feel was the rapid thudding of her heart, the way her hands trembled inside her gloves.
“I—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I didn’t know this was your cabin.”
That was an understatement. She hadn’t known anything. Not that he lived here. Not that he had a child. Not that fate could be this cruel.
Daisy looked between them, her small face wrinkling in confusion. “Daddy,” she said, tugging at his sweater, “why is she shaking?”
Jeremiah’s gaze dropped to Michelle then, really seeing her—the snow clinging to her hair, her pale face, the exhaustion etched into her eyes.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.
She nodded, unsure if that was permission to breathe again or a warning.
“I… my car broke down,” she managed. “The storm— I didn’t know where else to go.”
For a moment, he just stared at her, as if weighing something heavy. The wind howled behind her, snow blowing into the doorway, urging her forward—or back. She wasn’t sure which scared her more.
Finally, Jeremiah stepped aside.
“Come in,” he said. Not unkindly. Not warmly either. Just… firm. Controlled. “Before you freeze out there.”
Michelle hesitated, her pride screaming at her to trek back to her car, even if it meant freezing. But another look at the swirling abyss behind her told her that pride would be her death sentence. She stepped over the threshold, the warmth of the cabin enveloping her instantly.
A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls. The cabin smelled of cinnamon, pine, and something baking in the oven. Christmas lights twinkled softly along the mantel, and a small tree stood in the corner, decorated with handmade ornaments.
It felt… lived in. Loved.
Homey.
And it hurt.
Jeremiah closed the door behind her, shutting out the storm with a decisive click. For a brief, unbearable second, they stood facing each other in the quiet, Daisy humming softly to herself nearby.
A deafening silence pressed between them.
Neither of them knew what to say.
"I’ll get you some tea," Jeremiah finally said stiffly, his back to her as he moved toward the kitchen. "Daisy, go find the spare blankets in the linen closet."
As the little girl scampered off, Michelle stood in the center of the rug, feeling like a ghost haunting her own life. Her eyes drifted to the mantelpiece, looking for a sign of the woman who must live here—the mother of the cute little girl, who looked a lot like Jeremiah.
There were several photos. Daisy at the park. Daisy in a Christmas play. But in every single one, the space beside Jeremiah was empty.
"You have a beautiful daughter," Michelle said, her voice trembling as he returned with a steaming mug. "Your wife must be very pretty."
Jeremiah stopped a few feet away, the firelight catching the gold of his wedding band—or rather, the lack of one. He set the mug down on the coffee table with a hollow thud.
"I don't have a wife, Michelle," he said, his voice a bit cold. "But yes, Daisy's mother is very pretty. You should know I only date the pretty ones."
Jeremiah’s words landed like a compliment and a slap.
You should know I only date the pretty ones.
Michelle flinched before she could stop herself. The old sting—sharp, familiar, humiliating—burned through her chest. Ten years, and he still knew exactly where to hit.
“I wasn’t—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t trying to pry.”
His jaw tightened, as if he instantly regretted the barb. But pride—or pain—kept him from taking it back.
“Drink your tea,” he said instead, gesturing to the mug. “You’re shaking.”
She wrapped her gloved hands around the warm ceramic, the heat seeping into her palms, into her bones. It helped. A little. But nothing could warm the space between them.
“So,” she said quietly, needing something—anything—to ground her. “You live here full-time?”
“Yes.”
“With Daisy?”
“Yes.”
Another silence stretched, taut as a wire.
“And… her mother?” Michelle asked before she could stop herself.
Jeremiah’s eyes flicked to the hallway where Daisy had disappeared, then back to Michelle. Something unreadable crossed his face.
“Her mother and I are no longer together, we haven't been for years now. We share custody and have a healthy co-parenting relationship. But romantically, that door is completely closed,” he said.
Michelle nodded, unsure why relief curled in her chest—and hating herself for it.
The sound of small footsteps broke the tension as Daisy returned, dragging a blanket nearly twice her size. She dropped it at Michelle’s feet with a proud grin.
“Daddy says you can stay the night,” Daisy announced cheerfully. “The storm is really bad. He said it’s not safe for you to leave.”
Michelle’s breath hitched.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d been bracing for rejection—how close she’d been to being turned back into the storm.
“Thank you,” she said softly, looking at Jeremiah.
He didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on her bag—the worn leather handle, the tag still attached.
Paris.
His eyes narrowed.
“You're going to Paris?” he said slowly.
She stiffened.
“No,” she admitted. “At least, not yet.”
Before he could ask more, a sharp clang echoed from the kitchen.
Jeremiah turned sharply. “Daisy?”
“I didn’t touch it!” Daisy called back quickly.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll check.”
As he walked away, Michelle let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her gaze drifted again—this time to a small box on the side table.
It was old.
But familiar. Too familiar.
She moved closer to it and opened it.
Inside was the leather watch she had bought for him ten years ago, to celebrate their fourth year anniversary together.
She flicked it over, and saw the engravings she had written on it.
Four years. Always you.
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
“You kept that?” she whispered.
Jeremiah froze halfway across the room.
Slowly, he turned back to her, his expression dark, guarded—and wounded in a way that made her chest ache.
But before he could say anything, the lights flickered.
The wind howled harder, rattling the windows.
And just as he took a step toward her, the power went out completely—plunging the cabin into darkness.
- Writer
