Abe took a sip from his scotch and pretended that’s what burnt all the way down.
“Do you remember that Christmas, on the boat—” Oliver said. His voice was a little scratchy, like he hadn’t used it in a while.
Aberlour chuckled and nodded.
“We all made each other gifts, and Carlos was insulted ‘cause he made this cool sculpture, and JD gave him a roll of toilet paper wrapped in tin foil,” Oli said.
“Marcus wanted mashed potatoes, but the canteen was only serving tater tots, so Ghost mashed them up with a fork and poured cream all over them,” Aberlour recalled fondly. If he shut his eyes for a second, he could see them—all his men, sitting around a shitty mess hall table, watching as Ghost meticulously mashed the tater tots and poured just the right amount of half-and-half to get a decent consistency. It had taken nearly an hourto make enough for the whole table, but they’d been drunk, bored, and together—it had gone by in the blink of an eye.
“We drew a mustache on Carlos’ face, and he didn’t notice until a day later,” Oliver added, chuckling. He took a sip of the scotch, grimacing from the burn. He melted into Aberlour then, letting his body relax fully. Content and at peace.
“Look, Daddy!” Ali squealed, sitting next to her grandmother while holding up a miniature castle of pink and purple Legos.
“That’s amazing, sweetheart,” Oliver said, looking impressed by her ingenuity.
“I’m going to be a castle builder one day,” she promised, pushing her tongue between her teeth.
“Of course that’s what you’ll be,” Oliver agreed, though his smile faltered.
“She’ll be an amazing architect,” Mrs. Darling said, gently brushing her fingers through her granddaughter’s hair as she looked up at her son. There was anger there, but also a great deal of sadness. They shared that intense look for a moment as Ali began another project.
“She’ll be whatever she wants to be, as long as she’s happy,” Oliver replied.
Ali was none the wiser. She simply kept playing, humming as her grandmother stared at her father head-on, obviously hurt by his words.
Aberlour didn’t say a word, simply pulling Oliver closer and refusing to look at her. It was too late for this war. Too late to fight a battle that shouldn’t even exist.
Aberlour hadn’t asked what Mrs. Darling knew about their relationship. He hadn’t wanted to know, nor had he cared enough. It hardly mattered, at this stage, whether Oliver was out, or what his mother knew about them. The only thing thatmattered was that whatever amount of time that Oliver had left, Aberlour would spend all of it by his side.
There was very little conversation after that. Christmas music played softly while Oliver’s daughters continued to entertain themselves with their new toys in the living room. Their grandmother hovered, keeping busy, glancing frequently at Oliver—probably making sure he was still breathing—and stayed out of their way. Oliver fell asleep before finishing his glass of scotch. The glass tipped and amber liquid slid down his arm. Aberlour grabbed the glass and wiped off his arm, striving to keep him comfortable while he slept.
Abby came in for awhile to play with her daughters, then she left to take care of the catering. A few people joined them later in the day. Oliver’s sister, her boring husband, and her three kids. They sent the children to the basement so they wouldn’t wake Oli. Oliver’s brother also made an appearance, though he never looked in either Oliver or Aberlour’s direction. No one approached Aberlour. He was a ghost holding onto Oliver in the last moments of his life. He was an accessory that no one commented on. Like a bad hat.
He didn’t mind. He got to hold Oliver all evening long. Fuck them all.
Oliver woke a few minutes before dinner. He looked no better than before his nap, but he smiled affectionately at Aberlour. He ate very little at dinner, but he did his very best to participate. He cut up food into bite-sized portions for his youngest daughter, smiled at his wife, joked with his sister, and held his mother’s hand during grace.
No one asked Oliver about the cancer. They avoided the topic, as if ittoowas a bad accessory. Aberlour and cancer. Bad hats.
They opened presents after dinner. Everyone was stuffed and the adults were all pleasantly mellowed by copious amountsof wine. The children squealed and screamed and ran around, excitedly showing off each new present. Aberlour even got a giant hug from both of Oliver’s daughters as they unwrapped their Nerf Power Shot guns. If anyone disapproved of his choice of gifts for them, no one commented on it.
Oliver chuckled and leaned his head against Aberlour’s shoulder but didn’t say anything either.
Oddly enough, they were the last ones to go to bed. Oliver refused to move. He was comfortable, he kept saying, burrowing deeper and deeper into his pile of blankets, as his feet were warmed by the fire.
At midnight on the 26th, they were alone at last. Just the two of them, sitting in the dimly lit living room, watching the flames dance.
“Would you look out for them, if I asked you to?” Oliver asked, sounding frail, and heartbroken.
It was on Aberlour’s lips to ask for more information. Like a soldier inquiring about a task. It was his training that urged him. Nothing else. See, Aberlour knew perfectly well what Oliver was asking of him.
He took a deep breath, then another—then contemplated lying for the sake of reassurance.
It was not worth it. If the past had taught him anything, it was the price of a lie.
“No.”
There was a beat of silence, and Aberlour waited for Oliver’s anger. For fury and rage to rapidly appear on his weathered face.
