4. Dallas #3
“Nothing is falling into my lap,” I say through my teeth. “She’s here because she had nowhere else to go, and I’m not an asshole. That’s it.”
He lifts both hands. “I know. I know. I’m just saying, you always said if Faith ever came back—”
“I said a lot of stupid things when I was eighteen,” I cut in. “Newsflash: people change.”
His grin fades, just a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “They do.” He studies my face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Go help the girls put batteries in something before they lose their minds.”
“On it,” he says, and slips back into the havoc, humming “Here Comes the Bride” under his breath until I throw a balled-up piece of wrapping paper at his head.
Clay is more predictable. When I tell him in the doorway between the hall and the living room, his eyes go flinty.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“What, pulling someone out of a ditch?” I say. “Yeah, Clay. Generally considered ‘good’ behavior.”
“You know what I mean,” he says. “You. Her. This house. On Christmas. People talk.”
“They’re gonna talk no matter what,” I say. “When have they not? At least this way, I’m not the idiot who left someone to freeze because I was scared of gossip.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I’m saying… be careful. For you. And for Lila.”
The mention of my daughter’s name softens some of the defensive prickle up my spine. “I know,” I say quietly.
He nods once.
“All right then.” He claps me on the shoulder, harder than Boone did. “Yell if you need me.”
“I always do,” I say.
Presents blur together after that. Dollhouse furniture for Ellie, boots for Lila, a new tool set for me that Mom pretends isn’t partly for her benefit.
Rose unwraps a framed photo Nash snuck of her, Boone, and the kids at the fall festival; her eyes go shiny, and she has to put Wyatt down to hug him and then Boone.
Somewhere between the girls arguing about who gets to put the angel on the tree and Mom herding everyone toward the table for breakfast, I slip away.
The hall feels quieter than it did earlier. The noise from the living room hits an invisible wall and softens. I pause outside the guest room, hand on the doorknob.
This time, I let myself open it.
The room is dim, lit only by the thin gray light sneaking in around the edges of the curtain. The air holds a faint chill; this back corner of the house is always the coldest. I make a mental note to bring in another heater if she ends up staying more than a night.
Faith lies on her side in the bed, facing the door, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other curled near her chest around the edge of the quilt.
Her hair spreads in a messy halo across the pillowcase, curls flattened on one side, wild on the other.
My flannel shirt is buttoned wrong, off by one button near the top, collar skewed.
Her face is softer in sleep. The tension I saw around her eyes last night is gone. Without the makeup, the freckles across her nose stand out stronger, constellations I memorized once upon a time. Her lips are slightly parted, breath slow and even.
On a chair, her wedding dress lies in a heap. White silk and lace and thousands of tiny hand-sewn beads destined for a very different kind of place.
My gut twists.
I spent years trying not to think about Faith in a wedding dress.
When we were sixteen and both pretending we didn’t see how the other one had changed that summer, I’d pictured it once or twice.
Her walking down the aisle of Grace Community Church, the sun slanting through the windows, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hands.
Me standing at the front of the church in a suit that didn’t quite fit, waiting.
In those half-formed daydreams, her eyes always stayed on me.
Reality turned out different.
I close the door softly before my thoughts can spin too far. Standing in her doorway, staring at her while she sleeps, is crossing a line I’m nowhere near ready to think about crossing.
I grab a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet and leave them on the nightstand later, when I can trust my face not to give away whatever is churning inside. She doesn’t stir.
Back in the kitchen, breakfast is in full swing. Bacon sizzles, cinnamon rolls bake, and kids bicker cheerfully over who gets the plate with the snowman on it.
“Where’d you disappear to?” Mom asks, sliding scrambled eggs onto a platter.
“Checking the pipes,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but she lets it go.
We squeeze around the table, making room wherever we can.
Wyatt sits in a high chair, smearing mashed banana into his hair.
Ellie tells a breathless story about how she hears reindeer hooves on the roof, punctuated by sound effects.
Lila listens more than she talks, eyes wide, clutching her horse book on her lap.
It’s good. Noisy. Familiar. The kind of morning I used to wish for as a kid, imagining my own future family.
I should be fully in it.
Instead, part of my brain stays down the hall, in a cold room with a sleeping girl and a crumpled dress.