Free A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese Page A

soil. He ran to a room down the hall and then back out, barking at Weston’s feet.
    “She’s not here, buddy.”
    The dog sobered instantly, as if that were the only explanation he needed.
    I took a tentative step forward. “He understands you?”
    “He has some weird doggy ESP with Savannah. I think he knew she was sick even before Willa realized it. He wouldn’t leave Savannah’s side for week s . . . ” Weston looked out the window as Prince Pickles laid his head on the linoleum floor.
    I glanced down the hallway, fighting to squelch the uncomfortable burn at the base of my throat. I was much better at writing dialogue than saying it. While Weston filled Prince Pickles’s water and food bowls, I studied each picture on the wall. Most were of Savannah, but a few were of Willa and Weston.
    The wall of photographs was a timeline of memories, and one in particular twisted around my heart like barbed wire. I paused in front of it, taking in every detail. The background, the faces, the costumes—it was the night of the Christmas play seven years ago. There Weston stood, his arm around his sister’s shoulders, beaming at the camer a . . . while I was weeping alone in the playground, nursing a broken heart.
    Suddenly, my skin burned with fury. How dare he—
    “Whatcha thinking about?”
    I started at the sound of his voice. My heart flung itself against the brick wall I just rebuilt.
    “Can we go back now?” I asked.
    “Are you okay?” Concern edged his voice.
    No. In no sense of the word was I okay , especially not while in the presence of Weston James. “I’m fine. I just need to get going.”
    “ Need to or want to?” He scanned my face for answers I prayed weren’t there.
    “Does it matter?”
    “It does to me.”
    I rolled my eyes and hiked my satchel strap higher onto my shoulders. I squeezed past him in the tight hallway.
    Peeking my head into the living room, I whispered, “Bye, Prince Pickles. I hope you get reunited with your owner soon.”
    The dog was safe, fed, and drooling on a large pillow.
    Crisis averted. Weston didn’t need me after all.
    He never had.
    Jerking the front door open, I made my way back to my car, unwilling to allow Weston to bully me into staying there a minute longer.
    I stood outside in the cold, waiting for Weston to unlock my car with the keys he’d stolen from me, when I heard his voice.
    “We’re not driving anywhere until we talk.”
    I whipped my head around. “What?”
    Arms folded, eyes narrowed, Weston stood with his feet planted shoulder-width on the porch steps.
    “Be serious, Weston. Let’s go.”
    “Oh, I’m serious. And if you think you’re getting these keys back without wrestling me to the ground—a wrestling match I’d thoroughly enjoy, by the way—then you’re crazy. It’s time to talk, Georgia. Inside, where we won’t die from hypothermia.”
    I crossed my arms over my chest, mirroring his macho demeanor. “No.”
    The smirk on his face churned my organs into a rage stew.
    “Then what’s your plan, Georgia?”
    I had no plan, other than to get away from him—far, far away.
    “Give me the keys.” I held out my palm as a shudder racked my body from head to toe.
    He arched an eyebrow. “And if I refuse?”
    Before I could answer, he strode toward me and manacled his large, warm hand around my wrist. My strength faded, extracted from my being by the heart-sucking vacuum that was Weston James. My knees trembled as he raised my hand to his mouth, warming it with his breath.
    And then I was transported to another lifetime.

    By the age of ten, Weston had more than made himself known in my life: pulling my hair, pushing me into puddles, and giggling when I misspelled a word during the spelling bee in fourth grade. But then one afternoon after school, he found me crying alone in the park.
    Even though I knew he lived across the street, I wasn’t worried about running into him—or anyone for that matter. No one played at the park in