Chapter 17
Underneath all of it was Graeme’s voice, low and steady and here, smoothing the static in my head.
“Rest,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you.”
Graeme
By the twenty-seventh, the calendar felt like a countdown.
The little square with today’s date stared back at me from the fridge, three blank ones after it. Three days until Rudy’s taillights disappeared down my driveway. Three days until the house went back to being quiet in the wrong way.
I shut the fridge a little harder than necessary and told myself I was not going to be that guy who spent the day mourning something that hadn’t even ended yet.
In the living room, Rudy was on the couch with his feet tucked under him, nursing a mug of coffee and staring out the window like it was showing him the best movie he’d ever seen. The snowfall had eased into a soft drift. The pines out back wore clean white coats.
He looked small wrapped in my gray sweater, curls still sleep-mussed, bare toes peeking out from the hem of his sweatpants. Not little-small. Just… younger in a way that made my chest ache. Open. Soft. Mine.
I leaned against the doorway for a second and just watched him. I wanted to take a mental photograph—this exact moment, exactly this light, exactly his face.
“You’re doing it again,” he said without turning around.
“Doing what?” I crossed the room and set his fresh cup down on the table, trading it for the empty one.
“Staring like I’m a rare bird you’re afraid you’ll scare away.” He twisted just enough to look up at me, eyes bright. “Morning, Daddy.”
My pulse jumped at the word, even said soft and teasing. “Morning, sweetheart.”
He accepted the new mug, fingers brushing mine. “This looks like postcard snow,” he said. “It’s criminal to waste it.”
“I had the same thought,” I admitted. “I was thinking we could stay home today. No errands. No town. Just…” I gestured toward the window. “This. You. Me. Snow.”
His smile folded into something softer, pleased and maybe a little relieved. “That sounds perfect.”
“We can build you your first respectable Vermont snowman,” I said. “Assuming you can handle the rigorous training.”
“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “Manual labor. My one weakness.”
“And after that,” I added, ignoring the way my brain offered up images of exactly how I’d like him to work up a sweat, “I need to chop some wood. You could help.”
His eyes flicked to mine with quick interest. “You’re going to teach me how to be a rugged mountain man?”
“You’re in Vermont, not the Rockies,” I said. “But yes. I was thinking of adding ‘axe handling’ to your skill set.”
Color rose in his cheeks, slow and delicious. “That sounds… educational.”
I let myself grin. “I’ll make sure the lesson sticks.”
He rolled his eyes, but his toes curled against the cushion, betraying him. “Okay,” he said. “Snowman. Chopping wood. Whatever else you’ve got planned. I’m yours for the day.”
The part of me that had been chronically waiting for the other shoe to drop hummed at that. I tamped it down. One day at a time.
“Then finish your coffee,” I said, ruffling his hair. “We’ve got work to do.”
*****
Outside, the air hit us like a bright slap—cold enough to sting my cheeks but not so bitter it hurt to breathe. Rudy drew in a sharp breath, looking around like the world had changed overnight.
In a way, it had. The storm from two days ago had settled. The fresh dusting smoothed out our footprints from the day before, turning the backyard into a clean canvas.
“Okay,” I said, clapping my gloved hands together. “Rule one of snowman building: not all snow is created equal. You want packing snow. Wet enough to stick, not so powdery it falls apart.”
He bent down and scooped up a handful, testing it between his mittens. When he tried to pat it into a ball, it crumbled and fell apart in sad little clumps.
He looked up at me with an affronted expression. “It’s defective,” he accused.
I laughed. “That’s user error, not snow error. Try again.”
He scooped up more and tried to roll it, pushing it along the ground. It disintegrated immediately, leaving a thin streak like a failed frosting attempt. He groaned and straightened. “Okay, this is clearly a specialized skill set. I was not trained for this.”
“Come here,” I said, stepping closer. I wrapped my hands around his from behind and lowered us both toward the ground, my chest against his back. “Start with a small ball. Pack it tight between your palms first.”
He followed my guidance, letting me mold his hands. The ball held this time, marble-sized but solid.
“Now set it down,” I said. “And roll. Gentle pressure. You’re not plowing a field.”
“That means nothing to me,” he muttered, but there was a smile in it.
He pushed the ball forward. This time it picked up more snow, slowly growing as he rolled it in a wide circle. I stayed close, my hands on his hips, steering when he veered toward a patch of ice.
His laughter echoed across the yard when he nearly toppled and I steadied him. “Look, it’s working!” he said, delighted.
“You did it,” I said. “Basic snow physics conquered.”
We rolled three lopsided spheres under the pines, stacking them with more enthusiasm than symmetry. The snowman ended up a little crooked, head tipped to one side as if perpetually asking a question.
“He’s perfect,” Rudy declared.
“He’s ridiculous,” I said. “He’s going to fall over as soon as the temperature changes.”
Rudy brushed snow off his gloves and stepped back to admire our creation. “So what? He’s still ours.”
I snorted. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“It’s the right way,” he said firmly. “Not everything has to last to be worth making.” He tilted his head, studying the snowman, tongue peeking out in concentration. “We should name him.”
“All right,” I said. “What’ve you got?”
“Mr. Wobbles,” he decided. “Patron saint of trying his best.”
Something in my chest did that painful, fond twist again. “Seems appropriate.”
Snowflakes clung to Rudy’s eyelashes and the knit of his hat. His cheeks were bright pink, his nose red, his breath coming in little white clouds. He looked… happy. Deep-down happy, not just holiday-sparkle happy. For a second it made the world feel sharper, like my eyes had just come into focus.
“You’ve got something on your face,” I said.
He swiped at his cheek with a mitten. “Did I get it?”
“Not even close.” I reached out and brushed away a flake near the corner of his mouth, letting my thumb linger. “There.”
He smiled up at me, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lean down and kiss him.
His lips were cold at first, then warming under mine. He rose onto his toes, arms looping around my neck. The snow muffled the world around us until it felt like we were standing in our own little snow globe, sealed off from everything except the sound of our breathing.
He broke the kiss with a soft laugh. “We’re going to freeze,” he said.
“You started it,” I said.
“You kissed me.”
“You looked kissable.”
He gave a tiny, pleased shrug. “Can’t argue with facts.”
*****
He was the one who suggested snow angels.
It happened after he slipped and landed on his ass for the second time, right next to the drift at the edge of the yard. He sprawled back in the snow with a theatrical groan and then, instead of getting up, he swept his arms and legs out wide.
“What are you doing?” I asked, hands on my hips.
“Conducting important scientific research,” he said, voice slightly muffled. “Also, I’ve never done this before.”
“You’ve never made a snow angel?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Newsflash: foster homes with cold linoleum floors and drafty windows are not big on ‘fun winter activities.’” He looked up at the sky, moving his limbs with careful precision. “They were more about ‘don’t touch the thermostat or we’ll know.’”
The casual way he said it didn’t make it land any softer. I folded that anger away for later. This wasn’t the moment for it.
“Arms and legs,” I reminded him, keeping my tone easy. “All the way out, then back. Nice and even.”
He did it, movements growing more fluid. When he was done, he lay still for a second, breathing hard, eyes closed.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Cold,” he said. “And kind of perfect.”
On impulse, I dropped down beside him, the shock of the snow against my back making me hiss. “You’re not hogging all the angel glory,” I muttered.
His laugh bubbled out of him, bright and unguarded. “Look at you,” he said. “Big, tough Daddy in the snow.”
“Shut up and flap,” I said, but I was smiling.
We lay there, arms and legs sweeping rhythmically, the sky stretching overhead in a pale winter wash. For a moment, the only sounds were our clothes rustling and the hush of distant branches shedding snow.
I stopped first, letting my limbs fall still. My breath puffed into the air in short bursts. Rudy’s sleeve brushed mine.
“Three days,” he said suddenly.
I turned my head. He was staring straight up, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. “Three days until I screw up your quiet life by leaving a Rudy-shaped hole in it.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said softly.
He swallowed. “I don’t… want to think about it yet,” he admitted. “But it’s there. Like a… clock somewhere in the background.”
I wanted to tell him to stay. The words pressed against my teeth. Don’t go. Don’t drive back to that small, careful life where people ask you to cut off pieces of yourself to be acceptable.
Instead I reached for his hand, snow dampening our gloves where they met.
“We’ve still got three days,” I said. “I vote we use them properly.”
He turned his head then, finally, to look at me. Something softer smoothed out the worry between his brows. “Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I squeezed his hand. “Starting with getting you back inside before you turn into a popsicle.”
He huffed a laugh. “But Mr. Wobbles hasn’t seen our angels.”
“Mr. Wobbles will cope.”
We stood carefully, stepping out of the impressions we’d made. Two imperfect angel shapes in the snow, arms spread wide.