Just two adults who can barely stand to be in the same room and a dead mother who never gave him a real Christmas to begin with.
I think about what he said at dinner—that he won’t get presents if he doesn’t have a family. My throat closes up remembering the matter-of-fact way he said it.
“You’re up.” Ethan’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway. He’s clearly showered and changed into dark jeans and a navy Henley. His hair is still damp, and he looks frustratingly put-together considering our circumstances.
“Morning,” I manage.
“We made pancakes,” Ethan says. “Though I didn’t make many since you’re not a breakfast person.”
The fact that he remembers this detail about me after eight years shouldn’t make my heart skip, but it does. I clear my throat and turn back to the window.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll grab some coffee in a bit.” I need distance from him, from the awkward tension crackling between us. “I need to go wash up.”
“Of course,” Ethan says, stepping aside to let me pass.
I slip past him, hyperaware of the small space and how his scent follows me into the hallway. I head upstairs to the tiny bathroom with avocado green fixtures I used last night.
I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth with supplies from my luggage that Ethan had brought in after dinner last night. I comb my hair into a low ponytail, trying to look more put-together than I feel.
When I emerge, the house is quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from the kitchen downstairs. Rather than face another awkward moment with Ethan, I decide to explore the house thoroughly.
The upstairs hallway is cramped, leading to three small bedrooms and a bathroom. I pause in the doorway of Britney’s room, hit by a confusing tangle of emotions.
Her bed remains unmade, clothes still draped over a chair as if she’d just stepped out for a moment. Journals lie scattered across the room—the ones she’d kept religiously since high school, documenting her every thought and feeling.
Someone needs to pack all this up. Me. I’m the only family left now, which means dealing with Britney’s belongings, her unpaid bills, and probably settling this lease. I add these tasks to my ever-growing mental list of things I’m not prepared to handle.
My gaze drifts upward, catching sight of a cord hanging from the ceiling. I step into the room and pull it.
A set of wooden stairs unfold with a satisfying creak, releasing a puff of dusty air. I take a few hesitant steps up, the wood groaning under my weight.
The attic is dark and smells of old wood and forgotten paper. I feel around for a light switch and find a bare bulb hanging from a rafter.
When the light flickers on, I gasp.
The attic is a treasure trove of Christmases past, though thick with dust and cobwebs that make me immediately start sneezing. Boxes labeled “XMAS DECORATIONS” in faded marker are stacked against one wall.
In the corner sits an artificial Christmas tree, probably six feet tall, still in its original stand. Strings of lights are coiled in plastic containers, and I can see the glint of ornaments through clear storage boxes.
My heart starts racing, but this time it’s not panic. It’s hope.
“Everything okay up there?” Ethan’s voice calls from below, probably alerted by my sneezing fit.
“Ethan!” I call back, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. “You need to see this!”
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and then Ethan’s head appears through the opening. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene.
“Whoa.” Ethan climbs up behind me. “It’s like Christmas threw up in here.”
Axel’s voice comes from below. “What’s up there?”
“Christmas decorations,” I call down. “Lots of them.”
Axel scrambles up the attic stairs with the enthusiasm only a seven-year-old can muster, his eyes going wide as he takes in the Christmas wonderland surrounding us.
“This is amazing!” he breathes, immediately gravitating toward a box of ornaments.
