By the time he finishes and accepts the six-month chip from the meeting leader, my throat feels too tight to swallow. These people are amazing.
When he sits back down, Brody hugs him so hard they nearly topple off their chairs. I slide my hand along the metal folding chair between us until my fingers brush Brody’s knee. He looks at me, eyes wet and wondering.
“He’s right, you know,” I say quietly. “You’re the strongest person I know, too.”
His gaze drops to our hands. I’m not actually holding his, but my fingers are close enough that I can feel the heat. He shakes his head, looking away.
“I just had a full-blown meltdown in front of our entire team and threw away my future to land one punch,” he whispers back. “It wasn’t worth it, Beck. It wasn’t strong. Neither is laughing off that shit for years or letting them talk about my mom and brother the way they did. Neither is running away from the fallout.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But you kept moving forward. You didn’t let them break you. Even when you snapped, you were true to yourself. That’s strength, Brody.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull his knee away either.
After the meeting, a few people come up to clap Davis on the shoulder or hug him. I stay back, feeling like an intruder in something sacred. Mrs. Miller squeezes my arm as she passes, like she wants to comfort the stranger standing here gawking at them all.
On the way out, Davis stares down at the chip they gave him.
“For whatever it’s worth, I think what you’ve done is really amazing, and you should give yourself credit for it, too.”
I duck my head, kind of embarrassed that I opened my mouth.
He studies me for a second, then nods once. “Worth more than you think,” he says. “Thank you.”
Back at the Miller house, Brody and his mom move around the kitchen layering noodles and sauce and cheese in a casserole dish that has apparently heldThe Christmas Eve Lasagnasince Mr. and Mrs. Miller were first married. It’s seen better days, has a few chips and spots where it’s been warped. But it smells amazing, and I think it’s a really cool tradition.
Davis and I sit at the small table, ostensibly keeping them company, but mostly just watching.
“You cook?” Davis asks me at one point, lip quirking.
“Not at all,” I admit. “Beckett men don’t cook,” I say, putting on my most pompous voice. “I can make a mean protein smoothie though.”
“Brody’s a great cook,” Mrs. Miller calls over her shoulder. “I don’t even know what half the spices in our cabinet are, but he’s always been good at making something out of nothing.”
Brody blushes, which is frankly delightful. I totally get why he likes getting me all flustered.
The lasagna goes into the oven. Then Davis gets out an old copy of Monopoly that has clearly been played to death—most of the money is wrinkled and worn, corners frayed, the cards are bent, and almost all the game pieces are missing. Apparently, finding your own game piece is part of the tradition. In Brody’s room, I steal a kiss and one of his peewee wrestling trophies. He chooses a matchbox car that was displayed on his shelf. Mrs. Miller uses a tube of lip balm, and Davis uses his new chip.
I win, obviously. I’m relentlessly teased for it, but I don’t hate it.
Dinner is modest. Salad from a bag, frozen garlic bread, and the lasagna they made themselves bubbling in its dish. It is also one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
We eat, we talk, we laugh. They tell stories about the boys as kids and include memories of their dad. The whole time, they act as if I’m part of the family. Like I’ve always been here.
Once dinner is over and I’ve helped Davis clean up, since the other two cooked, I glance out the window a little forlornly. I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, but I really don’t want to go. I want to belong here, with these people. With this family.
Mrs. Miller puts a hand on my wrist. “Can you stay?”
“I’m sorry?”
Mrs. Miller gives me an assessing look. “Do you have plans for the rest of Christmas?” she asks. “Somewhere you need to be?”
The honest answer is no. My father’s house is not a place Ineedto be. It’s a place I’ve always shown up to for duty, obligation, appearances.
I shake my head, feeling overwhelmed.
“Then you stay here,” she says decisively. “We may not have much, but we always have room at the table. And I think it would make Brody really happy if you stayed. He was not himself when he got home. You seem to have brought the light back.”
Something in my chest swells, then cracks. “Thank you,” I say, because it means a lot that they’re willing to share their holiday with me.
