"Leave the dishes, Daddy," I yell over my shoulder. "I'll take care of them."
But the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water tell me he ignored me.
"Thank you," I murmur to Nate, taking a handful of dry cereal when he extends the box to me.
"I know I give you a lot of shit," he says. "And I'll deny ever saying this. But you're like, my favorite person, Abs. It fucking kills me to see you so sad. I wish I could fix it for you. All you've ever done is take care of me, the least I can do is give you an excuse to cut the bullshit for one night. You don't have to put on a brave face or make sure you don't 'ruin the holiday' or whatever."
"Who are you and what have you done with my brother," I say tearfully, scooting closer to him and taking his hand in mine, wrapping myself around his arm.
"Don't worry, I'll go back to normal tomorrow," he chuckles. "But tonight, let me take care of you for once. You don't have to hold it all together. Let me hold some of it for you for a little while."
We stay like that, arm in arm, shoveling cereal into our mouths in silence until Dad finally joins us in the living room. Instead of his designated recliner, he sits with us on the couch, wrapping his arm around both of our shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "I shouldn't have tried to be business-as-usual. Nothing about this year is usual."
"It's okay, Daddy," I say, letting go of Nate and leaning sideways into his arms. "I didn't know I couldn't do it until it was happening. There's a lot I don't know these days."
"That's okay, kiddo," he says softly. "You don't need to have anything figured out right now. But we're right there with you until you do."
"Merry Christmas, Daddy," I murmur. "And Merry Christmas, Nathan," I add, poking his thigh with my foot.
"Get your nasty feet away from me," he grumbles, pushing my legs out of his lap briefly before grabbing my ankles and putting them back in place, the warmth of his hands a welcome comfort.
Wheeler family Christmases are typically loud, full of laughter and the sound of holiday classics playing on the TV. This year may be quiet, and sad, but being wrapped up together, watching A Christmas Carol in comfortable silence, I think it might be my favorite one yet.
***
"Merry Christmas," I call out, letting myself into Alan and Andrea's house when I find the door unlocked.
"We're in here, sweetie," I hear Andrea call from the kitchen. I wander my way through the house, enjoying the decorations I couldn't stand to put up in my own home, until I find them side-by-side at the kitchen counter, tag-teaming the french toast for Christmas brunch.
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, unraveling my scarf and hanging it with my coat over the back of a dining room chair.
"Not a thing," Alan says, focused intently on making sure he doesn't burn breakfast. "Unless you want a beverage, we haven't gotten to those yet."
"I can do that," I say, opening the fridge and grabbing two green bottles and jug of orange juice from the middle shelf. Andrea keeps the dining room table immaculately set year-round, so the wine glasses are already out on the table. I put the mimosas together, filling their glasses with champagne and mine with sparkling cider. They plate the food and bring it over to the table, the three of us automatically taking our normal seats.
I think all three of us are painfully aware of the empty chair.
"How are your dad and brother?" Andrea asks, looking anywhere but the other end of the table where Aaron usually sits. "Did you guys have a nice Christmas eve?"
"No," I admit. "We sat on the couch being sad and eating cereal straight from the box."
"Sounds nice to me," Alan says. "This was never going to be a happy holiday. But it's nice that you had each other to get through it."
"It's not the same without him," Andrea adds quietly. "Nothing is."
I nod, unable to speak for fear of completely breaking down. We spend the rest of the meal not saying much, all of our gazesfixed on our plates. The moment we all finish, we quickly clear the table and leave the room. An empty chair has never been more horrible.
Unlike my family, we don't cling to each other and sit in our sadness. We sit as far apart as possible, drowning in unbearable tension until an appropriate amount of time has passed and I jump to my feet.
"I'll let you guys have the rest of your afternoon," I say in a strained voice. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Alan chokes, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm sorry we aren't better company. It's just so painfully obvious that a piece of us is missing, I can't—"
"It's okay, Alan," I interrupt. "I know. It's okay. I'll come by again soon, I promise."
"Merry Christmas, dear," Andrea whispers. "I'm so sorry. It's not supposed to be this way."
