His dad adds a smaller box: smoked salmon, blueberry preserves. “Taste of home.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
Wesley squeezes my shoulder, kisses my temple.
“Your turn, son,” his dad prompts.
Wesley pulls my flat package from under the tree. Brown paper and twine. He opens it carefully, then goes still.
The shadowbox gleams: vintage puck, brass posts, copper plate.
59.0° N, 158.5° W — Home
40.7505° N, 73.9934° W — Home
His throat works. His dad reads, eyes brightening. “That’s real thoughtful, Joy.”
“You’re both,” I say softly. “Alaska and New York. You don’t have to choose.”
Wesley sets it on the mantel where the light hits the copper, then meets my eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths.
He reaches behind the tree for a velvet pouch and envelope. “Open the pouch first.”
Inside is a gold bracelet with three charms—a ballroom shoe, a tiny camera, and a blank disk.
“For the girl who counts slow, slow, quick-quick,” he says. “Who sees everything. The blank’s for what comes next.”
My throat tightens. “Wesley?—”
“The envelope,” Erik urges.
Two tickets spill out: Alvin Ailey in January. Orchestra seats.
“How did you?—”
“I pay attention.” That smile. “They come with a date, Foxy. Me.”
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him—quick, grateful, real.
When I pull back, his mom’s dabbing at her tears, his dad hides a grin, the boys groan theatrically.
Wesley fastens the bracelet around my wrist, thumb lingering on my pulse.
I’m helpingWesley pack when it hits me that this is the last night in Alaska. Tomorrow we fly back. Tomorrow it all stops being snow and cocoa and pretending. Tomorrow is parents and trustees and the ghost of my grandmother micromanaging from beyond the grave.
I freeze with a sweater half folded. He knows I have a family, an inheritance. He doesn’t know that “inheritance” comes with marble staircases and a family tree probably cataloged at the Library of Congress.
But why would he? Who blurts out their net worth over breakfast?
Hi, I’m Joy. I come from old money and unresolved emotional trauma. Pass the syrup.
Maybe I don’t have to tell him. It’s Christmas. Everyone’s happy. Who ruins Christmas with financial disclosures?
Besides, I didn’t lie. I just…didn’t pull up a PowerPoint titledMy Ancestral Burden.
He wouldn’t care. Probably.
He’s grounded. Mature. He?—
