"Hmm." Her mother's mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile. "Did you."
"Is West there?"
"Right here." West's face crowded into the frame, Brynn just behind him, her hand resting on the curve of a belly that had grown considerably since Emmy had last seen her. West looked like he'd already eaten half the breakfast spread. "Merry Christmas, Em."
"Merry Christmas. Brynn, you look amazing."
"I look like I swallowed a basketball." Brynn grinned. "But thank you. Merry Christmas."
Four faces on the screen. Her family. The people who'd been orbiting the same kitchen table since before she could remember—minus one, who was usually there, who always had a plate saved, whose chair had been empty this year because of her.
Grant walked into the frame.
He was wearing pajama bottoms. Just pajama bottoms. No shirt. He was carrying two cups of coffee, and he set one down beside Emmy with the easy, unhurried confidence of a man inhis own home, and then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple.
On camera.
The screen erupted.
Her father went pale, then red, in a medical progression Emmy was genuinely concerned about. "Is that—Grant? Grant Knight? In—are those—Emmy, why is Grant Knight shirtless in what I'm now realizing is his own apartment on Christmas?—"
"Oh," her mother said. Just that. Oh. With the satisfied tone of a woman who had called this shot approximately a decade ago and had simply been waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
West closed his eyes. Opened them. The look he gave Grant was the look of a man who'd received a two-word text twelve hours ago and had been stewing about it ever since.
"I knew it," West said. "I knew that's what that text meant. Brynn said I was overreacting?—"
"You were overreacting," Brynn said.
"—and I said, no, that man is about to do something with my sister, and—" He gestured at the screen. At Grant's bare chest. At Emmy in Grant's T-shirt. "This. This is what I meant."
Brynn smacked the back of his head. Not gently.
"Ow—"
"Say Merry Christmas, you baby."
"Merry Christmas," West muttered, rubbing his head. His eyes found Grant's through the screen with an expression that promised a very long conversation at the earliest opportunity.
Grant, to his credit, stood behind Emmy with his hand on her shoulder and the serene composure of a man who had absolutely zero plans to explain himself.
"My blood pressure," her father whispered.
"Your blood pressure is fine, John," her mother said. "Merry Christmas, Grant. Will you be joining us for dinner later?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Grant said.
"Grant—" Emmy's dad was leaning closer to the screen. "Grant, is that a bruise on your neck?" His voice sharpened with concern. "And another one on your shoulder. You weren't hurt in practice, were you?"
Grant glanced down at himself. "No, that's from?—"
"Mom!" Emmy's voice came out three octaves too high. "How's the ham coming along? Can we bring anything?"
Grant looked at her. His expression didn’t move. His eyes were another story entirely. Emmy wanted to die.
Her mother smiled serenely. "Just yourselves, sweetheart. We'll see you at four. Oh, and Emmy dear? Maybe run by your apartment first? I’d like a nice photo for Facebook.”
"Gotta go," Grant said, and closed the laptop.
