Chapter 40
Time got away from them. Before long, summer had come and gone.
Fall had rushed by in a blur of Halloween costumes and pumpkin carving contests.
Aberlour had been there for it all. He’d escorted both of Oli’s daughters for their neighborhood trick or treat outing.
Oli sat on the passenger side of his old pick-up, as they followed the girls around the neighborhood.
Abby had knocked at every door next to them, dressed as a bubble-gum Princess.
Thanksgiving had been a quiet affair. Only the five of them were at Oliver’s house, pretending to enjoy the holiday spread. Mr. and Mrs. Darling were on the campaign trail again, so they’d been unable to attend. Aberlour had been glad.
But he could not avoid dealing with that part of Oliver’s life forever.
They were having Christmas at Oliver’s house. There had been talk about heading down to Alabama, but Oli’s doctors had promptly and definitively nixed that idea. He was too weak to travel very far. He needed rest, peace, and familiar surroundings.
Aberlour hadn’t received an official invitation. He’d simply shown up, presents in hand, and hadn’t taken no for an answer. No one had dared to argue. Not even Oliver’s parents.
Mrs. Darling had not changed much over the past five years.
She was a bit older, but still perfectly presented with an icy demeanor, remarkably comparable to a statue of marble in an abandoned courtyard.
She was the only one who’d dressed up, everyone else was wearing a variation of pajamas and lounge sets.
She offered Aberlour a stiff smile as he entered the living room.
She was otherwise occupied, sitting on the floor with her granddaughters helping them to build a castle with their Legos.
It was perhaps the most human she’d ever looked.
“Hi,” Oliver greeted, pale and fragile—his smile ever more heartbreaking.
He was sitting on the couch, wearing a hoodie Aberlour had left behind the previous week, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with faces of reindeer all over it.
There was a Santa hat set at a jaunty angle on his head, and a cup of something warm in his hand.
“Want a scotch?” Aberlour asked, eyeing the cup in his hand.
Oliver chuckled and nodded.
“Yes, please,” he said, feigning relief. He couldn’t quite sell it anymore. Every other expression on his face was laced with pain.
Aberlour tried not to notice.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Aberlour said, as he crossed the living room, put his pile of presents beneath the tree—which caused both little girls to squeal excitedly—and headed for the kitchen.
Pulling out the bottle he’d brought over the previous night, he poured both of them a generous amount.
Just as he picked them up, Abby came around the corner.
She looked good. She always did. No matter how little she slept, or how busy the children kept her, she—like most mothers—figured out how to keep it together.
Aberlour heartily resented the amount of respect he had for her.
It had been much easier to hate her. It was much harder to ignore her now.
“Hi, Gavin,” she greeted him politely. She didn’t pretend to be glad he’d shown up, but she offered a genuine smile as she headed for the fridge.
“Did you want one?” he asked her, trying to be civil.
Abby flashed him a curious smile as she turned, bottle of white wine in hand.
“I’ll let you boys enjoy it,” she said with a soft, ladylike snort, as if he was being ridiculous.
“Suit yourself,” he replied, before heading back to the living room.
Oliver hadn’t moved an inch. He was staring down at his daughters, smiling faintly, as they regaled him with stories.
“Here,” Abe said, as he handed over the drink. Oliver put his mug down on the coffee table and grabbed the scotch.
“Thanks,” he said. He held it with both hands, like it might warm him. Aberlour suspected it was to keep from shaking.
Aberlour hesitated for a moment, until Oliver shot the empty space next to him a look and nodded towards it in invitation. Settling into the leather couch, he was glad when Oli shifted his weight so that he was resting against Abe. He sighed in contentment.
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 hour to 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 that mattered 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 it too was 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 amounts of 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.
But that was not his reaction. Understanding. That’s all Abe saw.
“I’ll—” Aberlour swallowed. “I’ll keep up with them. Make sure they’re happy and thriving, but—” he shook his head.
“I won’t stand in her way,” he finally managed to articulate. How could he possibly do more than that? They weren’t his. Never had been.
It was on Oliver’s mind to protest, surely, but there must have been some of that Marine mentality still remaining, because he simply nodded in understanding.
“They don’t deserve this,” he whispered, voice tight with emotion. “They deserved to grow up with a father. To feel safe and—” he shuddered. He wasn’t breathing right. His hands clutching the throw blanket.
“Hey—” Aberlour said, sitting up and grabbing Oliver. “I know. You’re right, you’re right,” he repeated, grabbing the side of Oli’s face and pressing his forehead to his. “You’re right—” Aberlour said, one more time, trying to keep his own tears are bay and calm Oliver at the same time.
“I didn’t mean for them to have the same faith,” Oliver sputtered out after a moment.
Aberlour shook his head, eyes narrowed in confusion.
“I just wanted to honour them—” he added, and Aberlour caught on, piecing together the familiarity of the names for the first time.
Ali and Mia—like the two girls they’d watched get gunned down as they’d reached for their father. God how long had it been?
“They won’t,” Aberlour said, shaking his head.
“I can’t promise anything—I won’t—I can’t,” he admitted, “but I’ll watch over them.
Make sure they’re—” he hesitated. What would be the right word here?
Secure? With a dead father? “Keeping their heads well above the water,” he finally managed to articulate.
It wasn’t much. Wasn’t anything, really, but Oliver nodded, his smile thankful. Whatever for? Aberlour thought. The bare minimum? Fuck.
Aberlour gazed at the man he loved more than life.
At this beautiful, wrecked, and broken man.
Part of him wanted to promise him everything.
Wars and tidal waves of fortitude. He wanted to ache with a need to care for his children, but Abe couldn’t.
They were nothing to him. A passing thought.
They were actors in Oliver’s life, and the only reason he’d ever care for them.
Once Oliver was gone—Aberlour would be as well.
Abe was many things. An idiot, not the least of them, but he wasn’t a bleeding heart—nor a martyr. He would not promise to care for those who meant nothing to him. Nor would he wage a war for a cause he did not believe in. Perhaps it made him a cold man. But at least he was a self-aware one.
If Oliver processed any of those thoughts, he let nothing show. Instead, he nodded and took a deep breath.
“Merry Christmas, Dumber,” Oliver said after a moment.
“Merry Christmas, Darling,” Abe said, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against Oli’s dry, chapped lips.
They stayed there all night, just the two of them, breathing in every second, watching the flames dance until they had faded to gray ashes and could dance no more. Time ticking by, like an old friend waving goodbye.
And goodbye came far too quickly.