He hooks a finger under my chin, pulling my attention up. His expression is molten, softer under the tease. “No, baby. You don’t.” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, then steps back, satisfaction still tugging at his mouth. “Get dressed. Santa’s waiting.”
And just like that, he disappears into his room, leaving me flustered, trembling, and nowhere near ready to face Christmas morning.
Wrapping paper carpets the floor.Antonio works the room with a garbage bag while Janice snaps photos and a remote-control car chews the rug.
“Who gave a two-year-old a drum?” Ryan shouts over the din. “Reveal yourself so I can ruin your life before breakfast.”
“That would be me,” Antonio calls from the kitchen doorway, pleased with himself. “The boy needs rhythm.”
“He needs a mute button,” Ryan deadpans, diving to save a vase from a fly-by Nerf arrow. He’s still wearing his gym shorts and that satisfied expression from upstairs, the one that says he’s got enough blackmail material to last him a decade.
I plant myself on the arm of the sofa next to Mom and Janice, pretending my face isn’t still warm from earlier. Mom squeezes my hand; her attention is soft, curious, far too perceptive. Janice beams at me, then at Nate across the room, humming under her breath.
Nate’s claimed the armchair near the window, all long legs and easy confidence. He’s been drafted into assembly duty: a plastic castle sprawls at his feet, instructions in his lap, a five-year-old supervisor dictating turret placement with the authority of a union foreman. Nate doesn’t roll his expression once. He listens, nods, clicks pieces into place with steady hands, and the kid stares at him with open adoration.
Nate looks up from his task periodically, his focus finding me. It hits every time, a low thud under my ribs, the same one that started last night and never backed off.
Leo waits at the edge of the room, nursing one of those “clean” protein shakes—Naked, Pure, whatever marketing cooked up this week. The label is shredded in his hand. He doesn’t talk; he tallies. Ryan keeps drifting across his sightline, the human version of a privacy screen, but Leo doesn’t need the angle. His jaw is sharp enough to slice granite.
“Stockings are done, now presents,” Janice sings,clapping once. “Kids first. Grown-ups, refill your coffees. We’ll need it.”
The living room detonates into more chaos. Ryan provides colorful commentary while Antonio bellows from the kitchen about not using the oven mitt as a puppet. Through all of it, there’s a hum under my skin that has nothing to do with caffeine. I’m aware of the little wrapped box, the one I told myself I’d give Nate after everything calmed down. There’s no after here, only now. Christmas doesn’t pause so a girl can compose herself.
“Alright,” Janice declares, once the youngest have reached sugar-high equilibrium. “Adults. We go in order. Eden, honey, you start.”
Every head swivels; the room drops a decibel. They’ve been clocking us since yesterday, and now they’re waiting for the show.
I stand, legs steadier than I feel, fish the small box from under the tree, and cross to Nate. “Merry Christmas.”
A hush settles. It’s not silence, because the kids don’t get the memo, but it’s close. Nate leans in, takes the box, and peels off the paper with infuriating patience. Inside: a braided black leather bracelet, a slim strip of silver at the clasp engraved with a single small star. He stares at it before shifting his focus to me.
Ryan whistles. “Well, well. Somebody upgraded from string.”
Meghan elbows him. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” he says, absolutely lying. “I’m thrilled. This is a holiday miracle. Our girl finally got tired of friendship bracelets and moved into grown-up inventory.”
“Ryan.” Mom’s voice holds warning and pride in equal measure.
Nate lifts the second thing from the box. It’s a frame,with the photo of the four of us inside. Leo and Ryan are tossing a football, two skinny showoffs frozen mid-argument about rules. I’m on the step of the old boardwalk stairs, smiling straight at the camera, hair wild, knees scuffed. Nate’s in the foreground, not centered, caught mid-turn with his smile pointed somewhere off-frame. Someone must have called his name and snapped at the exact moment his focus chased whatever he loved.
Janice’s hand flies to her chest. “Oh, my heart. Look at those babies.”
Antonio steps in behind her, peering over her shoulder. “We still have that football,” he says, too proud of this fact. “It’s in storage. No one throws it near windows.”
“That rule was written for Ryan,” Leo says flatly.
“And you, mister,” Janice adds without looking up. “Don’t think I forgot the Great Lamp Disaster of 2009.”
Nate turns the frame over, thumb smoothing the wood. He looks back at me, a promise blooming in his expression.
“Your turn,” he says finally, voice low, and slides a bigger, flatter box across the floor with his foot.
I drop to the rug, cross-legged. Paper rips. Inside there’s a glossy photo of a treatment table so pretty I could cry, all clean lines and memory foam, and a short note clipped to the corner.
Waiting at your clinic. Merry Christmas, Trouble. —N
My throat clamps. I swallow hard. “You got me a?—”
