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I watch what looks like relief wash over him, and he chuckles. “I can’t take all the credit—I roped Piper in to help. I had everything sent to her place, and she brought it over when we left. I think I’m growing on her. All I had to do was put the tree in the stand and add the lights. Don’t check the back,” he warns, but the back could be a tangled mess for all I care. He did this for us?
“Thank you,” I repeat, my voice shaky. I don’t know what else to say. But I think Killian sees it—sees me—because he closes his hand around mine again, and squeezes once, before dropping it.
To say the kids are excited about the decorations is an understatement. True to fashion, Caitlin is a hurricane, grabbing handfuls of the colorful plastic balls at a time and hanging them every which way. James, with a Christmas cookie in one hand, follows her lead, filling the gaps between her ornaments on the lower branches, then the higher branches when Killian lifts him. I’m content to just sit back and watch them. I love being an active, involved parent, but I don’t often get the chance to watch them do things like this. Usually, I’m the one saying, “Be careful,” when Caitlin hooks a foot around a cable, or, “Slow down, buddy!” when James rushes for the treats. But Killian’s got them.
I pick up the box of handmade decorations and leaf through it, smiling at the paper wreath made of their handprints. It’s a couple of years old, and the paint is dry and flaky, the paper curling at the edges.
“Those are some tiny hands,” Killian says, dropping onto the couch beside me. “How old were they?”
“Caitlin was six, James was two,” I tell him, turning over the wreath to show him the names, ages, and dates penned on the back. “Piper did this with them, I think.” I pass it to him, and he traces the shapes of their fingers with his.
“They were so small.” His voice is so quiet, I’m not sure he meant to say it out loud.
I unlock my phone, scrolling back through my camera roll. I don’t really take pictures of anything but them, but I do that a lot, so it takes me a while to go back two years. One day, I’d love to have time to sit and organize my pictures, but at least I have them.
When I hold my phone up so Killian can see, he shuffles closer to me, the warmth of his body pressing into my side. I swallow.
“That was the first year James really got involved in Christmas,” I tell him, swiping through the pictures: Caitlin and James watching The Muppet Christmas Carol for the first time, working on a Christmas puzzle together, coloring in gingerbread houses and Santa. I swear Killian searches every photo, taking in every detail, but his eyes are a little sad.
He doesn’t need to speak for me to know he’s thinking about the time he’s missed with them—the Christmases, and crafts, and birthdays, and milestones. Dom didn’t just screw his two youngest kids over when he kept us a secret.
“I was thinking,” I say, when the pictures I’m swiping through change from red and green, to Valentine’s pink. “If your siblings want to meet the kids, maybe we could figure something out in the new year?”
“Are you kidding?” Killian’s face lights up. “They would love that. They’re both so excited to meet them. And you.”
It would be easy for Killian and his siblings to resent me and my kids. We’re living proof of their dad’s infidelity, and I can’t imagine finding something like that out about my dad. The thought of meeting Ronan and Fallon scares the shit out of me. But hearing that they want to know my children … If they’re anything like Killian, the kids are going to love them.
“I know you probably have to tell your mom first, and it’s going to be messy, but … It’s not fair that your dad kept you all apart.”
“It’s not,” Killian agrees, more sadness than anger in his expression for a change. “But we’ll make up for it.”
“We will.”
I stand to hang the paper wreath on the tree, dotting a few of the other handmade decorations around. The kids aren’t tall enough to place the glittery gold star on top, so Killian lifts Caitlin, I lift James, and together, they sit it on the top branch. It bows under the weight, but it’s still standing. This is not the kind of aesthetic tree that wins awards. It’s a little messy, a little chaotic, and perfectly us.
“There’s just one final touch,” Killian says, as he sets Caitlin down.
He grabs a Polaroid camera and a rectangle ornament I hadn’t noticed sitting on the table, still with the store tag dangling from it. He snaps off the tag before showing us the picture frame shaped like a Christmas window, with a pine and holly garland, and the year etched at the bottom.
“Cuddle into each other in front of the tree so I can squeeze you all in,” he says, while I’m actively trying not to cry at what a thoughtful idea it is.
I sit cross-legged, with James on my lap and my arm around Caitlin, who’s snuggled into my side. Killian tells us to smile, counting down, but when he gets to two, James interrupts him. “Wait!”
“What’s wrong, Bug?”
“Killian should be in the picture too,” he says, frowning.
“Yeah. If it’s a family picture, you should be in it,” Caitlin tells Killian, and he’s still for a second, before peering over the camera. His eyes meet mine, uncertain. It’s so simple for the kids. But there’s a weight to the moment I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s that they don’t know exactly who Killian is to them, or that Dom doesn’t know he’s here. Maybe it’s that it’s been the three of us for so long, but since Killian got here, it’s felt more like four of us.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I can’t get Killian out of my head, even though I know he’s leaving.
But whatever the reason, they’re right. “Of course you should be in the picture. That thing got a timer?” I gesture to the camera and Killian nods, his eyes swimming with emotion.
“Aye. It does.” He sets it carefully on the back of the couch, propped up on the shell of the stuffed rainbow turtle Caitlin won at the fair last summer. “We have twelve seconds. Ready?”
He presses down the button and a light on the camera starts blinking. Killian crosses the room in a couple of strides, sitting down beside me. I instinctively move closer to him. He wraps one arm around Caitlin, and she snuggles into him. He wraps the other around me, and … I do too. But I’m just trying to get us all in frame before the camera takes the picture, obviously. And when Killian starts playing with the ends of my hair absentmindedly, he’s just fixing it. Obviously.
He goes still—I assume, when he realizes what he’s doing. I look up at him, his face less than a foot from mine. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, and I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since he set the timer.
