Chapter Thirteen
Mason
“You going to punch me before this conversation?” my older brother teased, leaning against his daughter’s crib.
My mind went to Micah’s crib, knowing that, in a few hours, our family would know the truth. “Nah,” I drawled, shaking my head. “Once was enough.”
The last time Den and I talked about our childhood, it started off with me clocking his jaw so hard my hand throbbed for over an hour.
Of course, that was years ago, and we’d had a lot to unpack.
This conversation, however, would be different.
When he didn’t say anything else, I added, “I can feel Mom in here.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, folding his arms over his chest. “Used to feel her everywhere, but now, I mainly feel her in here.”
I swallowed. I felt her presence anytime I walked into this house, but I didn’t need to tell him that. “You wanna start, or should I?”
His eyes flicked up from his boots to my face. “Pop hated Christmas.”
“Yes.”
“Loathed it,” Denver continued, looking out the window. “The Christmas after Mom passed, I wanted to do right by her. Even though it had only been less than a year, I felt this…pull to make Christmas special for all of us. Figured it would cheer Pop up at the very least.”
I took a few steps back, not stopping until my back hit the door. From there, I put my hands in my pockets, studying him. “You did?”
He nodded once, mouth tight. “Went out and cut my own tree down. Dragged it all the way to the back porch all by myself. It was a small thing—hell, I was fully expecting you to give me shit over it.”
Silence.
The room was filled with nothing but a sad silence. After a moment, my gut twisted painfully, as if my body knew this story was about to get worse.
Denver sighed, the sound heavy and exhausted. “Dad had gone out that morning to take care of the herd, so by the time I got back, the house was quiet. You were sick in bed that day, running hot with a fever that scared the shit outta me and Jigs. You remember that?”
A lump manifested in my throat, sharp like a razor.
I knew if I tried to swallow it, I would be shredded.
I didn’t remember much of my childhood immediately following Mom’s death.
Most of my memories after her were filled with Pop and his abusive hand.
At the thought, the scar on my shoulder blade began to burn, my own screams from the night he branded me ringing in my ears.
“I don’t remember much after…” I trailed off, my voice cracking.
I looked away from him, clearing my throat.
“I remember being super sick one year around Christmas, but I didn’t know it was that one. ”
My brother’s eyes flashed with regret. “Yeah, it was that one.”
“So what happened?”
He scratched his beard. “I climbed into the attic to get all of Mom’s Christmas decorations.
Figured if I made the house up like she always did, I could make everyone happy for a day or so.
Then maybe we wouldn’t feel her absence so much, but when I got up there, everything was gone.
The fake tree that went in the dining room, the garland she hung from the kitchen entry, the ribbons, the Christmas balls, the countless Christmas light bins, and the light-up Santa.
Hell, even the Christmas dishes that you and I painted for her… gone.”
My chest began to burn, a familiar tightness there.
“What?” I whispered.
Something new flashed in his eyes, but he blinked it away too quickly for me to decipher.
“I closed up the attic and ran to tell you that someone had robbed us. But you were asleep. The only option was to wait, and while I did that, I brought the tree into the house. I did what I could with it. Then I went out onto the porch and waited for Pop. He didn’t show until after the sun had set, and I could tell right off the bat that he’d had a bad day.
I didn’t think anything of it, because every day without Mom was a bad day for Pop. ”
I grunted and ran a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath.
“If this is too much for you, Mase, then—”
“No,” I cut him off firmly. “We need to get through this. What triggers come with it, I’ll deal with it during my next therapy appointment.”
“Promise?”
Another failed attempt at trying to swallow that damn lump. I nodded. “Promise.”
“Pop never laid a hand on me. Since finding out about what he did to you, I’ve carried a heavy sense of guilt.”
“No, Den,” I started, shaking my head.
We weren’t going to do that. Not again. What’s done is done.
“I’m the older brother; I should’ve protected you. No matter what you do or what you say, I’ll always carry that guilt. Told my therapist the same thing. It’s just not something I can ever see myself letting go of. That’s my own burden. Not yours, Mase.”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t want you—”
“I’m working through it,” he promised me.
Another deep breath left me. “All right, then.”
“Pop never laid a hand on me, but that night, I was certain he was close to doing so. Never seen him so angry before. When I told him we’d been robbed, he demanded to know what the hell was going on.
So I told him everything. He didn’t even let me finish before he bolted inside.
I followed him, foolishly thinking that he was angry that Mom’s stuff was gone.
” He paused and bent his head. “I would’ve never guessed he was angry at me for trying to find it.
” My eyes moved to the window, finding a snow-covered branch on the tree just outside of it to focus on.
“They say that when you’re angry or scared, your brain taps into extra strength or something?
” he continued. “Dad lifted that fuckin’ tree in the air and threw it across the living room so fast… I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“Jesus,” I muttered. “I don’t remember any of this, Den.”
“After everything, I’m kind of glad you don’t,” he muttered back.
“He destroyed that living room in a fit of rage, yelling at me the entire time. He told me the Langstons no longer celebrated Christmas, that it was forbidden in his home—”
“That fuckin’ son of a bitch banned Christmas from us?” I growled, pushing off the wall.
“I never told you because you loved it, Mase. I didn’t want to see your happiness go away. Then, when you got older, you started challenging him in your own way. By the time that happened, I was too lost in my own world, in my own responsibilities to care.”
“Why did you say that like that?” I demanded, clocking him.
He blinked. “Because it’s the truth.”
“Told you I don’t blame you for any of that.”
“But you did, and you had every right to.”
“Been over this, Denver,” I clipped, chest heaving.
He nodded, standing on his ground. “Yes, I know.”
I blinked, the red in my vision fading away at his calm tone. “I don’t—I don’t understand. Why didn’t you push back?”
Then he gutted me.
“I just wanted to please him,” he whispered.
“Without Mom, Pop’s approval was all I had left.
As time went on, his hate for the holiday rubbed off on me.
I didn’t think about the pain it would cause in the future.
I let my son see that hatred.” He shook his head, growling, “I let my wife see it, feel it.”
“I faked it,” I countered, throwing my hand out. “Just to piss him off.”
Another stretch of silence and then he said, “Valerie showed me what it meant—what all of this means.”
I gave him a small smile. “Yeah, she has a way of doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Bringing light into the darkness,” I murmured, twisting my wedding ring. “Harmony does the same thing for me.”
“I don’t want to feel the darkness anymore, Mase.”
I ground my teeth as I stepped up to him. “Then let’s make a pact. Right here and now. The Langston brothers will celebrate Christmas. We’ll do it for us and our families. No one else.” I held out my hand.
His eyes dropped down to it. “Just like that?”
“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Just like that.”
He took my hand, shaking it firmly as I pulled him in for a hug, clapping him on the back. “Love you, Den,” I said with a smile, feeling warm.
“Love you too.” Just as I was about to pull away, his hold on me tightened. “You fuck up my Christmas ham, and Harmony will be a widow by the new year.”
“Christmas isn’t about ham,” I shot back. “It’s about love and acceptance.”
“And you’ll have both of those as long as the ham turns out okay.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I assured, backing away from him with my arms spread wide. “I’m a master chef. This ham will be the best ever made. People will make monuments in my honor because of this ham, not my bull riding records.”
Hours later, I realized everything I’d said was a lie when I opened the back door and saw the ham on fire inside the smoker.
Fuck.
Fuckin’ fuck.
Merry Christmas. I was going to die.