Chapter 9 You’re a Manchild
YOU’RE A MANCHILD
HENSON
The moment Amira disappears into the airport crowd, I tell myself it’s fine. That this is exactly how it was supposed to go—clean break, no mess, no follow-up.
But damn, she didn’t even look back.
I rub the back of my neck, fingers pressing into the tight spot at the base of my skull. I’ve had hangovers that left me feeling lighter than this.
Amira leaving without a goodbye shouldn’t hit me the way it does, but it punches my ego in the gut.
I feel like some guy who got ghosted after a date that meant more to him than it should have. But I remind myself: I can get whoever I want, whenever I want.
I shake it off and head toward the car service waiting for me outside the terminal.
By the time the car rolls down the long driveway toward my parents’ house, I’ve buried the whole thing deep. Our Nantucket place sits like something off a holiday postcard come to life.
The front door swings open before I can knock—and there’s my older brother.
“You’re late,” Worth says, arms crossed.
I smirk. “Fashionably. You should try it sometime.”
My brother exhales through his nose, as if I’m giving him a migraine just by existing.
His sweater is neatly pressed, not a hair out of place.
Meanwhile, I’m still in my travel clothes, my hoodie half-zipped and my duffel slung over my shoulder like I’m crashing a frat house instead of coming home for the holidays.
It’s a stark contrast to the version of me people usually see, always in a tailored suit. That’s work-mode Henson. Off the clock, I live in joggers like it’s a sport.
“You’re lucky Mom still loves you.”
“Correction—Mom adores me.” I step into the foyer and drop my bag with a heavy thud.
Before he can argue, there’s a flurry of movement from down the hallway, and then I hear my niece’s voice.
“Uncle Henny!”
Brianna crashes into me at full-speed, wearing the oversized Christmas sweater I bought her last year. I catch her just in time and lift her into the air with a spin that makes her giggle.
“There she is! You still getting straight As?”
“Obviously.” She grins.
“And are you still cooler than your dad?”
“Way cooler.”
Worth mutters something behind us, probably about regretting parenthood. I set her down and ruffle her hair before she dashes off to inform the household of my arrival.
I make my way through the house, familiar scents pulling at old memories. Cinnamon, cloves, and something buttery drifting from the kitchen.
“Everyone’s outside, trying to pretend we all enjoy being in the same place for more than twenty minutes,” Worth says, following me down the hallway.
“How’s that going?”
He gives me a look. “How do you think?”
In the living room, my dad and uncle are posted on the couch, laser-focused on whatever playoff game is blasting from the flat screen.
“Hey, Dad. Uncle Lou.”
I barely get the words out before my uncle waves me off like a gnat.
My dad doesn’t even look my way. “Down in front. You’re blocking the pass, Hen.”
I laugh and keep walking. “Nice to see you too, Dad.”
Old grouch. And they wonder where I get my grumpiness from.
Out back, the sliding door sticks, as it always does—classic New England humidity meets old house charm—but I shove it open and Worth and I step onto the patio.
My mom is sitting near the firepit, a mug in her hand, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like she lives in her own Hallmark movie. She spots me and immediately lights up.
“Henson.”
“Hey, Ma.”
She stands and pulls me in for a hug. Her arms are warm, and she smells like peppermint lotion and sugar cookies.
“Let me look at you. You still don’t eat enough. You’re too thin.”
“It’s called being lean, Mom. I’m fine.”
“Mhmm.” She gives my cheek a light pat and nudges me toward the chair beside her. I sink into it, letting the fire warm my hand.
“You staying for more than a few days this time?”
“I’m gonna try.”
Mom doesn’t push. Just gives me a knowing smile.
“So… what’s this I hear about the big New Year’s Eve party?”
My mother’s expression brightens instantly, something flashing in her eyes. “I just thought it’d be nice to celebrate. Everyone’s here this year. That doesn’t happen often anymore.”
My heart dips. “Ma. Are you dying?”
She startles with a laugh, almost spilling her drink. “No, Henson. What kind of question is that?”
Just then, a hard smack lands on the back of my head.
“Ow! Damn it.”
My brother shakes his head. “You can’t just ask people if they’re dying, moron.”
Mom is still laughing. “Honestly, it’s sweet… in a weird, deeply concerning way.”
I rub the back of my head, grumbling. “Well, forgive me for thinking a sudden burst of sentimentality might mean something.”
“I just want to have a nice time with my family and want everyone to be happy. That’s all,” Mom says, eyes crinkling.
Still, something about the way she looks at the fire instead of me makes my stomach twist.
Worth settles in across from me with his drink, already exuding judgment. I can’t help but poke at him.
“Did you alphabetize your sweaters again this year?”
“You’re a manchild, Hen.”
I snort. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”
I glance out at the waves rolling in just beyond the deck, and for a moment, the memory of Amira flashes behind my eyes.
I blink, clearing the image.
“You gonna mope all weekend, or are you gonna help me keep the rest of this family from killing each other?” Worth asks, scanning my face.
“I’d rather drink.”
“You’re insufferable,” Worth retorts.
“And you’re wound tighter than lights on a Christmas tree.”
“Which you’re in charge of fixing this year.”
I groan. “Fine, but I’m not wearing a damn elf hat.”
“No one asked you to.”
“Good. Because I burned the one from last year.”
“Grinch,” Worth mutters.
I roll my eyes and grunt. Grinch.
“I’m not exactly full of holiday cheer, but I still showed up. That should count for something.” Though I know full well I’m full of shit.
Mom smiles at our usual good-natured bickering and sips from her mug, an odd glint in her eye.
By the time evening rolls around, the house is a damn circus.
The kitchen smells of sugar, roasted garlic, and stress.
Someone’s kid is crying upstairs. My cousin is frantically searching for his shoes for the third time today, even though he claims he “definitely left them right by the tree.” My aunt is arguing with someone over the best way to make mashed potatoes—again—and Worth has gone full drill sergeant, trying to coordinate seating arrangements as if he’s running a black-tie gala instead of a family meal.
Christmas Eve dinner in this house has always been part tradition, part chaos.
I duck into the kitchen and immediately regret it: three of my relatives are in the middle of a loud plate handoff, the oven is beeping, while my mom flutters between the stove and the table like a woman on a mission.
Her cheeks are flushed, apron dusted with flour, and she’s humming under her breath.
The noise, the movement, and the overlapping voices start to press in around me, making my skin itch. That familiar tightness creeps up my spine, the buzz of too much going on at once, and I know I need to get ahead of it.
I head straight for the liquor cabinet. I just need one drink to take the edge off before the walls start closing in.
“Don’t even think about sneaking any food,” Mom says without turning around.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, eyeing a deviled egg.
“I will cut your hand off.”
I grab my favorite bottle of small-batch bourbon, and pour a generous shot straight into a tumbler, no ice. I down it, wincing slightly as it burns its way down, warmth spreading through my chest.
Before I can exhale, a tray of dinner rolls is shoved into my hands by one of my cousins as they breeze past.
“Dining room. Go,” they say, already halfway out of the kitchen.
I blink, still gripping the tray. I guess I’ve been recruited.
Eventually, the food is all laid out—roast beef, green beans, dinner rolls, enough sides to feed a small army. The lights are dimmed, candles lit, people milling around waiting to be told where to sit.
Then, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” my mom says, already slipping off her apron.
Several minutes pass, though I barely notice, too busy trying to keep Brianna from sneaking wine.
Worth checks his watch, frowning. “What’s taking Mom so long?”
I shrug. “I’ll go check.”
When I reach the foyer, there’s someone standing just inside the doorway, barely taller than the floral monstrosity they’re holding—an enormous winter arrangement spilling over with white roses, evergreens, and silver accents.
It’s so massive, it completely hides their face. They’re swaying slightly, as if it might topple over at any second.
“Hey. Let me help you with that before it eats you alive.” I step forward and grab the sides of the arrangement, easing it from their arms.
My breath catches—Amira is standing in the doorway, looking up at me, cheeks flushed from the cold, strands of hair stuck to her glossed lips, eyes wide and unblinking.
She’s frozen.
So am I.
The massive bouquet is still between us, stupidly festive, and I hold it tightly, because it’s the only thing anchoring me to the floor.
Neither of us moves.
I can’t. Not when my brain is still short-circuiting, trying to figure out what the hell Amira’s doing standing in my family’s front hallway like a walking daydream.