Five years. That letter had been setting in Oliver’s house for five years, and the words written there, withheld from Abe for too fucking long.
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear them from me,” Oliver said, with a shrug. “I meant to tell you. A hundred times, I picked up the phone and swore to tell you, but then—” he shrugged again, re-folding the letter and dropping it in his lap. It looked pale and sad. The corners were frayed. The paper creased. Clearly, this letter had been well loved. “You never picked up.”
Not an accusation. Just a fact.
“You can read it, if you want,” Oliver said, holding it out to Aberlour.
He thought about it. Nearly reached for it but changed his mind.
“It wasn’t meant for me,” he replied, shaking his head. “Ghost knew better than I did most times, so I’ll trust him on this, too,” he added, before Oli could argue otherwise.
Chapter 40
December 2019
Time got away from them. Before long, summer had come and gone. Fall had rushed by in a blur of Halloween costumes and pumpkin carving contests. Aberlour had been there for it all. He’d escorted both of Oli’s daughters for their neighborhood trick or treat outing. Oli sat on the passenger side of his old pick-up, as they followed the girls around the neighborhood. Abby had knocked at every door next to them, dressed as a bubble-gum Princess.
Thanksgiving had been a quiet affair. Only the five of them were at Oliver’s house, pretending to enjoy the holiday spread. Mr. and Mrs. Darling were on the campaign trail again, so they’d been unable to attend. Aberlour had been glad.
But he could not avoid dealing with that part of Oliver’s life forever.
They were having Christmas at Oliver’s house. There had been talk about heading down to Alabama, but Oli’s doctors had promptly and definitively nixed that idea. He was too weak to travel very far. He needed rest, peace, and familiar surroundings.
Aberlour hadn’t received an official invitation. He’d simply shown up, presents in hand, and hadn’t taken no for an answer. No one had dared to argue. Not even Oliver’s parents.
Mrs. Darling had not changed much over the past five years. She was a bit older, but still perfectly presented with an icy demeanor, remarkably comparable to a statue of marble in an abandoned courtyard. She was the only one who’d dressed up, everyone else was wearing a variation of pajamas and lounge sets. She offered Aberlour a stiff smile as he entered the living room. She was otherwise occupied, sitting on the floor with hergranddaughters helping them to build a castle with their Legos. It was perhaps the most human she’d ever looked.
“Hi,” Oliver greeted, pale and fragile—his smile ever more heartbreaking. He was sitting on the couch, wearing a hoodie Aberlour had left behind the previous week, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with faces of reindeer all over it. There was a Santa hat set at a jaunty angle on his head, and a cup of something warm in his hand.
“Want a scotch?” Aberlour asked, eyeing the cup in his hand.
Oliver chuckled and nodded.
“Yes, please,” he said, feigning relief. He couldn’t quite sell it anymore. Every other expression on his face was laced with pain.
Aberlour tried not to notice.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Aberlour said, as he crossed the living room, put his pile of presents beneath the tree—which caused both little girls to squeal excitedly—and headed for the kitchen.
Pulling out the bottle he’d brought over the previous night, he poured both of them a generous amount. Just as he picked them up, Abby came around the corner. She looked good. She always did. No matter how little she slept, or how busy the children kept her, she—like most mothers—figured out how to keep it together. Aberlour heartily resented the amount of respect he had for her. It had been much easier to hate her. It was much harder to ignore her now.
“Hi, Gavin,” she greeted him politely. She didn’t pretend to be glad he’d shown up, but she offered a genuine smile as she headed for the fridge.
“Did you want one?” he asked her, trying to be civil.
Abby flashed him a curious smile as she turned, bottle of white wine in hand.
“I’ll let you boys enjoy it,” she said with a soft, ladylike snort, as if he was being ridiculous.
“Suit yourself,” he replied, before heading back to the living room.
Oliver hadn’t moved an inch. He was staring down at his daughters, smiling faintly, as they regaled him with stories.
“Here,” Abe said, as he handed over the drink. Oliver put his mug down on the coffee table and grabbed the scotch.
“Thanks,” he said. He held it with both hands, like it might warm him. Aberlour suspected it was to keep from shaking.
Aberlour hesitated for a moment, until Oliver shot the empty space next to him a look and nodded towards it in invitation. Settling into the leather couch, he was glad when Oli shifted his weight so that he was resting against Abe. He sighed in contentment.
