Chapter 12
Rudy
Lunch at Mae’s Inn was quiet in the way small places got right before the holidays—low voices, the scrape of cutlery, coats slung over chair backs like everyone was halfway ready to be somewhere else. The windows fogged from the heat inside, snow pressing faintly against the glass.
In front of me sat a bowl of chicken pot pie soup—thick, creamy, heavy on the carrots and potatoes—with a slab of crusty bread balanced on the edge of the plate. Mae had insisted. “You can’t do December on an empty stomach,” she’d said, already ladling.
I took a bite. It was good. Comforting in a way that didn’t try too hard.
It didn’t stop my thoughts from drifting anyway.
Last night stayed with me in quieter ways—the warmth of Graeme’s living room, the way the couch had dipped under our combined weight, how nothing in me had been braced for correction.
I hadn’t been watching myself. I hadn’t been measuring my reactions or waiting for the moment I’d gone too far. I’d used the pacifier without apologizing. I’d just been there, comfortable in my own skin in a way that felt unfamiliar and real.
After Home Alone, we watched something newer—Elf, which I’d seen, and then The Holiday, which I hadn’t. Snuggling in Graeme’s big, strong arms was amazing. I hadn’t had to earn the comfort.
Mae stopped at my table again, smiling as she glanced at my bowl.
“Looks like it hit the spot,” she said.
“It did,” I replied. “It’s really good.”
She smiled, pleased, and nodded at my mostly empty bowl. “I’m glad. Let me know if you want seconds.”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning more than just the food.
She gave my shoulder a light, familiar pat and moved on.
My phone buzzed against the table.
Daddy: How’s lunch, sweetheart?
My chest did that small, ridiculous flutter again.
Me: Mae is feeding me like she’s afraid I’ll blow away.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Daddy: Smart woman. You up for a book date later?
I stared at the screen for a second.
Me: A… book date?
Daddy: Walking. Browsing. No pressure. Meet me at my shop?
I swallowed, excitement blooming slow and warm.
Me: Yeah. I’d like that.
Holly & Pine smelled like evergreens and citrus when I stepped inside. Graeme was at the counter, sleeves rolled, focused on a customer I didn’t recognize. I wandered, pretending to look at ornaments while sneaking glances his way.
He wore a soft, deep green sweater that made the silver in his hair stand out more. Up close, his face didn’t match the gray at his temples at all—no deep lines, just faint creases at the corners of his eyes. The kind you got from squinting into winter light. From smiling at people.
When the customer finally left, Graeme flipped the sign to Closed, turned the lock, and rested his hand there for a beat.
He turned back to me, something warm and deliberate in his eyes. He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, his hand lifting like he meant to cup my jaw—like he was about to ask permission.
I didn’t wait.
The rule surfaced clear and steady in my chest: say what you need.
“Kiss me,” I said.
The words came out softer than I’d planned, but they landed. I saw it in the way his breath hitched, the way his hand stilled for half a second before settling against my face.
“Yeah?” he murmured, low, checking even as his thumb brushed my cheek.
I nodded. “Please.”
The kiss landed slow—but it didn’t stay that way.
Heat unfurled low in my belly as his kiss deepened, sure and unhurried, like he was savoring the fact that I’d asked, like he had all the time in the world and meant to use it. His other hand slid to my waist, holding me close enough that I could feel how much he wanted me without a single word.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed against my lips, and I melted into him, fingers curling into his sweater, heart thudding hard and happy in my chest.
He kissed me again—slower this time, lingering—before resting his forehead against mine.
“Hi, angel,” he murmured.
Heat slid straight through me. “Hi,” I said, then quieter, “Daddy.”
“Ready for that book date?” he asked, voice low and warm.
I nodded, still catching my breath. “Very.”
He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, shrugged it on, and held the door for me like he always did, like it was instinct. He took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and led me back out into the daylight.
The bookstore was only a few streets away, tucked between a florist and an antiques shop. A little painted sign over the door read The Reading Nook, letters curling around a tiny open book and a stack of stars.
I squeezed his hand, smiling before I could stop myself.
“This,” I said. “This is a very good idea.”
He glanced down at me, eyes soft. “I thought you might think so.”
A bell chimed when we walked in. Inside, it was quiet in the way good bookstores always were—sound softened by shelves and paper and whispered conversations.
The air smelled like coffee and old pages and pine from a tree twined in white lights near the front.
“Hey, Graeme,” someone called from behind the counter.
They looked about my age, maybe a little younger, with a shaved head, silver hoops in both ears, and a forest-green sweater that read READ GAY BOOKS in looping holiday script.
“Is it that time of year again?”
Graeme smiled, easy and familiar. “Something like that. Jules, this is Rudy. Rudy, Jules.”
“Welcome,” Jules said, not performative, just warm. “Fiction’s to the left, queer romance straight ahead, and the kids’ corner’s in the back where it’s quiet.”
“Thanks,” I said, already taking it all in.
Graeme’s hand brushed lightly against my elbow—barely there, but grounding. “We’ll start wherever you want.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure where that was yet.
We moved together through the aisles, spines passing under my fingers. Essays. Memoirs. I slowed without meaning to when we reached the back corner.
The children’s section was small. Low shelves. A soft rug worn pale at the center. Picture books placed face-out, their covers bright and gentle and inviting in a way adult books rarely were.
Graeme paused beside me, didn’t comment or steered me away. Just stayed.
I crouched and let my fingers trail across titles. Lost mittens. Night skies. Bears who found their way home.
That was when I saw it.
All the Wishes I Didn’t Make.
The cover was washed in deep indigo and silver, a boy wrapped in a blanket on a rooftop, stars streaking overhead like something just missed. Beneath it, a small handwritten card rested against the shelf.
For the kid who grew up too fast—or the grown-up who didn’t get to be one.
— J
I picked the book up before I could think better of it.
The art inside was soft, almost luminous. On one page, the boy sat at a kitchen table, pen hovering over paper, shoulders drawn inward like he was trying to take up less space.
The text read:
Some kids wrote lists. I wrote nothing at all. I learned early not to ask.
My thumb traced the edge of the page. Not tight. Not sharp. Just… familiar.
I didn’t realize I’d lowered myself until the rug cushioned my weight and my balance shifted forward.
Graeme lowered himself beside me. “Find something?” he asked quietly.
I turned, the book pressed to my chest. “Yeah,” I said. “I think… I think this one.”
I turned the book so he could see. He leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine, the warmth of him settling there as he read over my shoulder.
“That line,” he murmured. “That one hurts.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We stayed like that for a few beats, sharing the quiet. I held the book open between us, turning a page, then another—just enough to take in the art, the words. I wasn’t tracking time so much as texture: the soft music overhead, the low murmur of the shop, the solid presence of him at my side.
“Have you decided?” he asked gently.
I glanced down at the book, thumb resting on the edge of the cover. The answer settled easily. “I want it,” I said.