Chapter 27
Simon
The house is steeped in the hush of Christmas morning.
The tree glows in the corner of the living room, a hundred tiny lights casting gold across the room, glittering off the ornaments and the glossy ribbons curling down the mountain of presents below.
Stockings hang heavy from the mantle, stuffed, full, promising.
The air smells faintly of pine and sugar cookies, of the night before and everything that’s still to come.
I move quietly through it, careful not to wake anyone. There’s one last gift I want to tuck under the tree before the day begins.
I had no idea how Violet would react to the conversation we had in the kitchen last night. Sure, I had my hopes and my dreams and had planned for several of her possible answers.
This present?
It’s my favorite possible outcome.
The next important question in a stream of important questions.
I kneel, sliding it into place, then sit back on my heels to admire the scene. It’s perfect.
I should go back to bed, but sleep’s impossible. I’m buzzing with anticipation. Coffee, it is. I turn toward the kitchen…
…and nearly leap out of my skin when a small shadow launches off the bottom step.
“Aha!” a voice cries, triumphant and high-pitched.
“What in the—” I stumble backward, reaching for a throw pillow. If a Navy SEAL considered it an appropriate weapon against intruders, who am I to question?
A mop of messy brown hair pokes up from behind the couch. “Uncle Simon?”
“Nash?” I lower the pillow, exhaling. “What are you doing up, little man?”
He rubs his eyes, his pajama shirt twisted sideways. “I heard noises and thought it was Santa. I wanted to catch him and prove his name isn’t Roger.”
I grin and gesture toward the tree. “Looks like you just missed him, bud. But I think he left you a few things.”
Nash turns, his mouth falling open as he takes in the sight. “Whoa.” He spins toward me, eyes wide with wonder. “Can you believe it, Uncle Simon?”
That look—pure, unguarded joy—hits me square in the chest. I ruffle his sleep-wild hair. “Pretty amazing Christmas, huh?”
He glances up at me with his father’s nose and his mother’s eyes and the strangest feeling twists in my heart. What must it be like to look at a little face and see both yourself and the person you love most in the world?
What would it be like to look at my child? To see Violet’s eyes and my lips… my mother’s smile?
I clear my suddenly tight throat and head for the kitchen. “I was just about to make coffee. Want some?”
“Mom says I’m too little for coffee.”
“Your mom’s a smart lady. We should probably listen to her.”
“Yeah. Dad says that all the time.”
I pour water into the machine, the gurgle filling the silence. “Your dad’s a smart guy, too.”
Nash grins, proud. “He says he got smart by listening to Mom.”
I chuckle, grabbing a second mug. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think the smartest thing your dad ever did was see how special your mom is and then do everything he could to keep her.”
Nash tilts his head, thoughtful. “Is that what you’re doing with Aunt Violet?”
I freeze mid-pour, then glance over my shoulder at him. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. But there’s a difference.”
“What kind of difference?”
“I lost Aunt Violet once.”
Nash’s brow furrows. “Like… at the mall?”
I laugh softly. “No, not like that. I thought other things were more important, but I was wrong. And when you’re wrong about something that big, it’s on you to take responsibility and make it right.”
Nash nods, serious now. “I bet she was mad.”
“She was,” I admit. “And hurt. But she forgave me. She’s got a pretty big heart.”
He grins, his little face lighting up as he climbs onto his knees on a chair at the table. “Aunt Violet’s happy now. Dad said you’ve got everything handled, so he didn’t need to take extra time off work to come here early.”
I can’t help laughing. “Sounds like something your dad would say.”
We sit quietly for a beat, the coffee brewing between us, filling the air with warmth and promise. I hunt through the cabinets to make a cocoa for Nash, topping it with marshmallows from the jar Violet keeps by the sink.
Maybe it’s the early hour. Maybe it’s the magic of the day. Maybe it’s the warmth in my heart after yesterday. But I feel a sudden urge to impart wisdom.
“Here’s the thing, Nash,” I say, sliding the mug toward him. “Something I want you to remember when you’re grown.”
He nods solemnly, both hands around his cup.
“When you find the right woman, you’ll know.”
“I don’t really like girls. They don’t know how to play right.” Nash wrinkles his nose.
Right.
My audience is six.
Adjust accordingly.
“I hear ya on that one, little man.” I bob my head like he’s made an indisputable point. “But someday, I bet you’ll find yourself liking girls.”
“Not me.”
“Happened to your dad. Happened to me, too. So, just in case it happens to you, I want you to remember, when it’s right, you’ll feel it deep inside.
And whatever you do, don’t let the world tell you that other things—money, fame, success—matter more.
They don’t. The most important thing in life is right here.
” I tap his chest, over his heart. “It’s being with people who love you, taking care of them and knowing you’re taken care of too. ”
He looks down at where I touched him, then back up with a small, knowing smile. “That’s what Mom says too.”
“Then your mom’s even smarter than I thought.”
Steam curls between us, soft and white against the glow of the Christmas tree. The house feels alive with peace, the kind that only comes when you finally stop running from where you belong.