THE ONLY TIME of year I ever voluntarily wake up early is when the Christmas holidays roll around.
It’s favorite time of year, the happiest time, and I like soaking up every available minute. The past few years have been a little different, a little less shiny with holiday spirit, but things are back to normal. This year, I’m up with the sun, perched on the steps of the Morgans’ back porch, mind wandering aimlessly as I gaze at the oak tree strung with twinkling lights.
“Hey, stranger.” At the sound of a blessedly familiar voice, I glance up, a grin damn near splitting my face at who I find looming over me.
At first glance, my dad and I look nothing alike. All the standout physical features, like my hair and my eyes, I, unfortunately, inherited from my mother. But the wide smile, the slightly upturned nose, the creamy skin; that’s all my dad.
“Hey.” I accept the offered steaming mug of coffee held in his outstretched hand, enjoying the warmth as it awakens my chilled fingers, and pat the space beside me. When he plops down, I rearrange the blanket draped over my legs so it covers us both. When he slips an arm around my shoulders and drags me into a tight sideways hug, I sink into him with a sigh. Five months apart and I didn’t realize how much I needed a good dad hug until now. “When did you get here?”
“Late last night.” A hand cups the side of my head as he drops a kiss on my temple. “You were dead to the world.”
My face scrunches in a silent apology. In my defense, I had a busy Christmas Eve-Eve; somehow, I got roped into helping with all the cooking necessary to prepare us for the subsequent chaotic days, and trust me, a day spent in the kitchen with Lynn and Ana is pretty much equivalent to a day spent completing a freaking triathlon. I passed out the moment my head hit the pillow. Not even Cass crawling into my bed at some point in the night woke me up—he sacrificed his room and bunked up with me so Dad could stay here instead of in a hotel. This morning, his monster-truck-esque snoring did jolt me from an otherwise peaceful sleep.
“I met Nicolas.”
Do not blush. Compose yourself. Deep breath. Then speak. “Yeah?”
Dad hums. “Nice boy. You two are close?”
Despite the alarms going off in my head, the corner of my mouth lifts. “We are.”
“Does he have anything to do with you and Dylan breaking up?”
“What?” I choke on a mouthful of coffee. “No!” Spitting the word frantically, my brow pulls in a frown; I’m almost positive my break-up has yet to come up in conversation. “Who told you?”
Honestly, I know the answer before Dad admits my eldest brother is the culprit.
Of course. I shouldn’t be surprised James has already found time to snitch on me; he’s a loud-mouthed gossip with a serious lack of a filter. He and Luna would be a force to be reckoned with.
“When did that happen?”
“Uh,” I run my thumb over the rim of my mug nervously, “Halloween.”
“Forgot to tell me?”
“Slipped my mind.”
“Amelia.”
Swallowing a huff, I drag my gaze up to meet his. Very rarely does Patrick Hanlon get to whip out the infamous fatherly ‘I’m not impressed with you, young lady’ expression so when he does, he makes it extra fierce. I sigh. “I’m sorry. It…” was a giant, embarrassing clusterfuck, “didn’t end very well and I kinda hate talking about it.”
“What do you-”
“Good morning, beautiful.” Look at that; saved by the very Morgan who dropped me in shit in the first place. “And good morning to you too, Tiny.”
Dad snorts at James’ silly joke as the big snitch plops down beside me. Stealing the mug from my hands, he takes a loud, noisy slurp. “Jesus, Mils, do you want some coffee with your sugar?”
I snatch my beverage back, throwing a sharp elbow at his stomach. “If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
“Someone’s crabby this morning,” the eldest Morgan coos. “Cassie’s dysfunctional nose keep you up all night?”
“Sleep next to a buffalo, see if you wake up in a good mood.”
“I heard that,” Cass grumbles as the back door swings open once again and he joins us on the rapidly crowding steps. He slaps us both upside the head before stealing my poor coffee, my cries of protest going disregarded.
“Get your own,” I hiss and grab it back, scowling at the lukewarm dregs.
Fucking brothers.
Smushed amongst three bickering siblings, Dad sighs, his face twisted in half a nostalgic smile, half a grimace. “Feels so good to be home.”
“Amelia, can you do my hair like yours?”
Unsurprised by Sofia’s request, I smile at her mirrored reflection. She’s been casting longing glances at me the whole half hour I’ve been styling my curls; I admire her patience, to be honest. Vacating the chair in front of the vanity, I pat the empty seat.
Sofia almost falls over her own feet in her haste to take my place, and my smile widens as I run a hand through her dark hair. It’s thick, like mine, but not quite as wild, not in need of as much help, and it doesn’t take long to secure a few curly strands into a loose braid secured by a silky ribbon—dark purple to match her dress. “There,” I exclaim, tugging the end of the braid gently. “Gorgeous.”
It’s a simple as shit hairstyle—pretty much the only thing I can do besides a ponytail or a bun—but to an eight-year-old, it’s worthy of an excited squeal and a sweet hug of thanks. Sofia twirls from side to side in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection, and I do the same.
There’s not a dress code, as such, for the annual Christmas Eve affair, but we make an effort. We shed the matching pajamas and slip into something slightly more presentable; I’ve donned the same dress I wore to Nick’s fight but I had to layer a high-neck, slight sheer black top underneath it in an attempt to hide the growing collection of hickeys adorning my skin. I swear to God, the man’s a vampire. Neck, chest, boobs, they’re everywhere. I look like a white tablecloth someone’s artistically splattered red wine all over.
I’m nervously tugging the neckline higher when knuckles rap against my bedroom door, pausing our self-appraisal as we turn to the noise but it’s a welcome interruption. I don’t know anyone who would be disappointed by the sight of a ridiculously good-looking man leaning in the doorway, dressed in dark, perfectly tailored trousers and a shirt—dark green, fuck me—with the sleeves rolled up to reveal mouth-watering forearms.
Deep dimples wink at me as Nick assesses us thoroughly. “Merda, ladies,” he drawls, and Sofia giggles. “Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?”
Charmer.
My eyes roll but I’m blushing something fierce, unreasonably tempted to do an exhibitional spin like Sofia does, her dress floating around her like a ballerina’s as she preens for her brother. There’s a definite pang in the general vicinity of my ovaries at how Nick devotes his full, loving attention to her, muttering compliments in a language I don’t understand and chuckling as she swats him away when he tries to ruffle her hair. “Mamãe is looking for you, minha anjinha.”
Excitement for the evening’s festivities must have the little girl in a chokehold because she flits from the room without any arguments, shouting her thanks over her shoulder as she thunders downstairs. Nick doesn’t spare his fleeing sister a parting glance; he’s too busy stalking toward me like a predator approaching its prey.
“Nick,” I warn as hands land on my hips, sliding along the silky fabric of my dress to palm my ass. The door is wide open, for God’s sake; anyone could walk past and have a clear view of the show.
Nick shushes me gently, teasingly, fingers kneading. “I’m just looking.”
And look, he does. Admire would be a better word, as much as that acknowledgment makes me squirm. He greedily soaks up every inch of me, the intensity of his gaze doing odd things to my belly, to the treacherously pounding bruised organ in my chest. Dragging down the collar of my top, Nick smirks. “Something to hide?”
I swat his hand away. “They’re not gonna disappear if you take your eyes off them.”
“I like looking at them,” Nick coos with a wriggle of his brows, leaning down to press soft kisses along my neck. Straightening up, his lips connect with my forehead. “You’re beautiful.”
You’re killing me. “You look average.” You look so handsome I want to cry. “Did you copy me on purpose?”
A palm comes down on my ass so hard, I’m positive the sound can be heard throughout the house. If not the slapping sound, then definitely the squeal that accompanies it. Soothing the sting with stroking motions, Nick crooks a smile. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
Promises, promises.
People have been arriving for hours yet the traffic shows no signs of slowing down; Lynn Morgan’s Christmas Eve extravaganza is the neighborhood equivalent of The Oscars.
Every time someone new arrives—which is every four freaking seconds—I’m inevitably met with surprised squeals and exaggerated exclamations of my name. If it wasn’t so painful, it would be hilarious; I’m almost positive I’ve never spoken to half the people claiming it’s so good to see me again and lamenting over how much they missed me.
However, the sympathetic, knowing glances they try and fail to hide kill any and all chances of humor. No one says anything directly but the blatant pity in their voices is unmaskable. And the longer the night drags on, the more people I reacquaint myself with who’ve witnessed me at rock bottom, and the more anxious I become. The guys do their best to offer me relief but I’m reluctant to accept their help; they’re having a great time and I don’t want to ruin it. Besides, it’s hard to keep track of them in the hubbub; the last I checked, Cass was on a mission for ice, James was flirting with anything breathing, and, most worryingly of all, Nick and Dad were engaging in a conversation that looked dangerously akin to bonding.
So, I save myself. Slipping out the front door and into the quiet, peaceful night, I plonk myself on the porch steps with a blanket stolen from the living room, mimicking the way I started the day. I’m nursing a much-needed, very strong rum cocktail when the glass almost slips from my hand, a timid voice sending shivers down my spine. “Amy?”
My suddenly burning eyes open and close in a series of slow, confused blinks as I try to determine whether or not the man hovering in the driveway is really there. He’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost, and I’m looking at him the same way.
Light brown hair.
Blue eyes.
An easy smile that used to make my heart flutter something fierce.
Sam.
For a brief, impossible second, I swear it’s him. And then, my brain kicks into gear and the man calling me by a nickname I haven’t heard in years comes into focus.
His hair isn’t long like Sam’s was, and he doesn’t have the sun-bleached streaks. His eyes are the same but also not; they look older, older than Sam ever got. And that’s not his smile either. Close, but so different. “Hi, Zach.” I have to force the words out.
My throat doesn’t want to speak. It wants to scream and cry and beg for forgiveness I don’t deserve.
As though he knows, Zach’s tone is gentle. “It’s been a while.”
Four years, give or take.
“It’s good to see you.” Liar. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
I smile weakly. “Cass invited me.” Obviously.
“I didn’t know you two were in touch again.”
My shaky shoulders rise. “Long story.”
Zach nods slowly, and my vision blurs again because God, he looks so much like him. “How’ve you been?” I cringe before the question even fully leaves his mouth and surprisingly, Zach does too. “Sorry. I hate that question, I don’t know why I asked it.”
“It’s okay.” I laugh but it does nothing to ease the tension gripping my body. He’s being kind, too kind, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for him to mention the accident. His brother. Waiting for him to blow up. But he doesn’t; he smiles and chats nonchalantly about mundane things, never once broaching the subject that hangs over us like a dark cloud and makes my chest feel like it’s about to explode.
He’s dead because of me, I want to yell, and the words cut me like knives, accompanied by vivid memories of a boy who once meant everything to me.
Bumping into him at school, embarrassingly flustered by the older boy paying attention to me. Cass teasing me for having a crush on one of his friends. A clumsy but perfect first kiss. Screaming until my voice gave out at endless baseball games. The license he was so proud of getting, his car, driving…
“Amelia?” Warm fingertips brushing my cheek break me out of my nightmarish reverie. Concerned golden eyes snap me back to reality with a jerk. A calloused thumb brushes underneath my eyes and comes away wet with tears I didn’t realize I’d spilled. Shit.
Nick perches beside me, concern written all over his face, and my stomach plummets. Over his shoulder, I spot Zach, looking as guilty and forlorn as I feel. “I’m sorry, Amy, I didn’t-”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt, my voice cracking. “I’m okay.” Even to my own ears, I don’t sound convincing, and Nick must agree because he doesn’t move a muscle other than to clasp my shaking hands tightly in one of his.
I can’t find it in me to pull away, not even when Zach’s gaze flits between the two of us, piecing something together, and the guilt doubles in a nauseating way. “Zach-”
“You look good, Amy.” It’s his turn to interrupt, his words heartbreakingly genuine. “I’m happy for you.”
I don’t even have time to reply. In a blink, he’s gone, disappearing into the night, his whirlwind arrival and departure giving me emotional whiplash. If not for Nick sitting quietly beside me, staring at the spot he vacated, I would’ve wondered if he was ever there at all.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Words can’t describe how much his soft tone, inquisitive but not demanding, settle me. “Not tonight.” Not tomorrow, either. Not ever, if I had my way.
Soft lips brush my temple. “Do you want me to get Cass?”
I scrunch my nose as I shake my head. God, no. He’d take one look at my puffy eyes and the mascara undoubtedly streaming down my face and descend into panic. I wonder if he knew Zach was coming tonight. Probably not, or he would’ve warned me. And been glued to my side like a guard dog all night.
Silence surrounds Nick and me, interrupted only by the sounds of the party bleeding into the night air, and the longer we sit, the more my thoughts begin to contradict themselves.
I want to tell him.
Not everything. Just something. Enough to explain what he saw. He’s so freaking honest with me all the time, and I like how that makes me feel. I want him to feel like that. Before I can talk myself out of it, the words spill out. “His name’s Zach.”
Nick’s hand tightens around mine. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know.” That right there, those six words, are why I want to tell him. “I was… involved with his brother.” I cringe at my own wording. Involved is not the right word to describe what Sam and I were, it doesn’t even come close, but the other ones, the ones that really detail how I felt about him, refuse to come out. “He’s not around anymore.”
It’s another vague understatement but the way Nick stiffens tells me he understands. Snaking an arm around my shoulder, he drags me close, chasing the empty, cold ache in my bones away with his presence.. “Thank you for telling me.”
It’s right then, with those words warming my cheek, that I realize the idea of telling him what happened all those years ago doesn’t terrify me quite as much as the fact that I want to tell him.
