Snowed In With The Grinch

Chapter 18: Jack’s Story

The wind had finally quieted by the time evening rolled around. Snowfall Valley was buried under a heavy white blanket, but inside the lodge, the world was warm and alive. The fire crackled in the sitting room, guests chatted over cups of hot cocoa, and the smell of Marjorie’s famous cookies filled the air. It was the kind of cozy scene that might’ve made Holly gag a week ago. Now, she was beginning to appreciate the charm of it—though she’d never admit that to Jack.

Speaking of Jack.

He was sprawled on the sofa near the fireplace, his legs stretched out and his head tilted back, a picture of complete relaxation. A group of kids sat on the rug in front of him, listening intently as he told some ridiculous story about a snowman that came to life and became a secret agent.

“And then,” Jack said, his voice dropping dramatically, “Agent Snowball dodged the laser beams and—”

“Jack,” Marjorie interrupted from the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Stop filling their heads with nonsense.”

Jack grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s not nonsense, Marjorie. It’s creativity.”

Marjorie rolled her eyes but didn’t hide her smile. “It’s bedtime for the little ones. Go on, now,” she said, ushering the kids out of the room with promises of bedtime stories.

As the room emptied, Holly lingered by the window, pretending to be absorbed in the snow-covered view. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t gone up to her room yet. The fire was warm, the glow from the lights was comforting, and—if she was being honest—Jack wasn’t the worst company. Not tonight, anyway.

“You sticking around, McAllister?” Jack’s voice broke into her thoughts.

She turned to see him watching her, his head tilted slightly, his grin softer than usual. The room felt quieter now, the chatter replaced by the faint crackle of the fire and the muffled sound of the storm still swirling outside.

“Maybe,” Holly said, crossing her arms. “What’s it to you?”

Jack chuckled, patting the empty space on the sofa beside him. “Come sit. You look like you could use a break.”

Holly hesitated, but only for a moment. With a sigh, she grabbed the mug of cocoa Marjorie had pressed into her hands earlier and sank into the sofa next to him. “This doesn’t mean I’m enjoying myself.”

“Of course not,” Jack said, his grin widening. “You’re far too serious for that.”

Holly rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, she stared into the fire, letting the warmth seep into her bones. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the flickering flames casting soft shadows across the room.

“You ever just stop?” Jack asked suddenly, his voice quiet.

Holly frowned, glancing at him. “What do you mean?”

“Stop running,” Jack said, his gaze still fixed on the fire. “Stop trying so hard to be... whatever it is you think you need to be.”

Holly’s chest tightened, his words hitting a little too close to home. “I’m not running,” she said defensively.

Jack looked at her then, his expression softer than she’d expected. “Aren’t you?”

Holly opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. She looked away, her fingers tightening around her mug. “What about you?” she said, deflecting. “You’re always so... cheerful. Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

Jack chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “You think I’m cheerful?”

Holly raised an eyebrow. “You’re like a walking Christmas card.”

Jack smiled faintly, his eyes distant. “It’s easier, you know? To focus on the good stuff. The things that make people happy.”

“Why?” Holly asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

Jack hesitated, his jaw tightening as he stared into the fire. For a moment, Holly thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s about Ben,” he said quietly.

Holly’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to bring up his brother, not so soon after the tense conversation they’d had the other night. But she stayed silent, letting him continue at his own pace.

“Ben was my little brother,” Jack said, his voice low. “He was... everything I wasn’t. Brave, creative, fearless. He wanted to be an artist, you know? He used to draw these crazy things—dragons, spaceships, worlds straight out of his imagination. He had this way of seeing the world that was... bigger. Brighter.”

Holly felt a pang in her chest as she watched him. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“The night he died...” Jack’s voice faltered, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “We were driving home from a Christmas party. It was snowing, and the roads were icy. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep us safe.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to the mug in his hands. Holly’s heart ached for him, but she didn’t dare interrupt.

“I lost control of the car,” Jack said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “We slid off the road and hit a tree. I walked away with a few bruises. Ben didn’t.”

The room felt impossibly quiet, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Holly’s throat tightened as she tried to process his words, the weight of his pain settling heavily in her chest.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You were just a kid.”

Jack shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I was the driver. It was my responsibility to keep him safe. And I failed.”

Holly set her mug down and turned to face him fully. “Jack, that’s not fair. You didn’t cause the accident. It was the weather, the ice—you couldn’t have prevented it.”

Jack’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “Tell that to sixteen-year-old me.”

Holly’s heart ached for him, for the boy he used to be, for the guilt he still carried after all these years. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand or his shoulder, but she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

Instead, she said softly, “The festival. The sculptures. That’s your way of honoring him, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded, his gaze distant. “He loved Christmas. The lights, the decorations, the magic of it all. Every year, we’d build snowmen in the yard, and he’d make up these ridiculous stories about them coming to life. When he died... I didn’t know what to do with myself. The festival gave me something to hold onto. A way to keep his memory alive.”

Holly swallowed hard, her chest tight with emotion. “That’s... beautiful, Jack. What you’re doing. It’s not just art—it’s love.”

Jack looked at her then, his eyes searching hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them heavy with unspoken emotions.

“Thanks, McAllister,” he said finally, his voice soft. “That means a lot.”

Holly nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling—admiration, sorrow, something warmer and more complicated that she wasn’t ready to name.

As they sat there in silence, the firelight dancing across their faces, Holly realized something she hadn’t wanted to admit before. Jack wasn’t just the annoyingly cheerful guy she’d written off when she first arrived. He was so much more than that—layered, complicated, and quietly brave in a way she hadn’t expected.

And, despite her best efforts, she was starting to care about him.

Jack’s vulnerability deepens Holly’s understanding of him—and her own growing feelings. But as the snowstorm continues, Holly begins to wonder if she’s ready to let down her own walls.