Lydia
“Bash, you said we can build the X-wing after presents! You promised.”
Bash squeezes my arm and whispers into my hair, “Did he make me sign a contract? I think I signed something.”
“You did,” I say. “He had you press your thumb into Cheeto dust. It’s legally binding.”
Watching Bash like this, throwing himself right into a family I’m still learning how to belong to, stirs something behind my ribs—a good ache.
“Okay, okay, last one,” Sarah says, appearing with a small box in her hands, cheeks flushed, happy. “This is for you, honey.”
“You didn’t have to,” I start, even as my fingers are already reaching.
The paper is that thick, crunchy kind that makes a satisfying sound when you rip it.
Inside is a white jewelry box. I open the lid, and a tiny gold locket necklace sits in the middle.
My hands are stupid with nerves as I flip it open.
On one side is a photo of me and Camilla, heads tilted together, the sun in our eyes, and her arm looped around my shoulder.
On the other is a family photo from Thanksgiving, Huxley making a silly face, Mark’s hand on Sarah’s back, and me not realizing my smile looked genuine.
“I—how—” My voice cracks and embarrasses me, and I cry anyway. “Where did you—get this picture of Camilla…I thought I lost it.”
Sarah’s eyes go shiny as she smiles down at me. “We found a box in the garage with some of your old things, tucked in a backpack. We made a copy so the original stays safe.”
I can’t help it; I stand up and fold into her. She smells like vanilla and jasmine. “Thank you,” I whisper into her shoulder. “It…it means a lot, really.”
When I sit down, Bash’s arm finds me again like a magnet. He kisses the side of my head once, quietly, and I feel something steady in the middle of all the emotion.
The doorbell rings, and I jump back up, knowing exactly who it is. When I open the door, Simone is there in a ridiculous pink glittery beanie, hugging me with one arm and holding out a pie with the other. “Peace be upon this house,” she declares. “And also pie.”
I squeal because I know exactly which pie tin that is. “Your mom’s sweet potato?” I reach for it like it’s an infant and carry it with the utmost dignity into the living room.
“I would like to remind the court that you still owe me a slice since you did not bring me any back from Thanksgiving,” Bash calls out, grinning.
I cradle the tin as if it can hear him. “Some things are sacred and should be treated with respect, Sebastian.”
He puts his hands up, laughing. “Oh, the government name, huh? I apologize, your majesty; I only beg for a crumb.”
I pretend to think about it. “You can have…a bite. Maybe two, depending on how generous I’m feeling.”
We all fall into this lazy Christmas morning ease, just enjoying each other’s company. As I watch the time slowly tick by, I know we have to get moving soon.
“We should head to the airport,” I say, even though every part of me is truly comfortable here for the first time. “I checked—our flight’s on time.”
Sarah makes a sad face. “I still think y’all are crazy for flying on Christmas. It’s going to be hectic at the airport.”
“I told her we could just stay,” Bash says, kissing the top of my head, which is becoming a habit I want to tattoo onto my skin.
“And I told him, there’s no way I’m letting his parents’ first impression of me be me keeping their son from them on Christmas Day. I want them to like me.”
“They already do,” he says, amused. “As many times as they make me put you on the phone when they call. They’re already obsessed with you, I promise. You’re fine.”
“That doesn’t count,” I argue, pulling on my boots. “Phone Lydia is the peak performance version. Real Lydia says weird things and hoards pie.”
“That’s my favorite version,” he murmurs and steals a quick kiss that makes Simone fake gag and then wink at me.
Goodbyes swarm by the doorway. Mark hugs me like he doesn’t want to let go. “Love you kiddo, call when you land,” he says before letting go.
Sarah squeezes me and whispers, “I’m so proud of you, Lydia. We love you. Have a safe trip.” I tuck that love into the locket-space and promise myself I won’t lose it.
Bash carries every piece of luggage to the car, refusing to let me touch anything. At the airport, we end up in those terrible black seats at our gate that make you wonder if they considered the existence of spines when they designed them. Lani FaceTimes the second we sit.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, LOSERS,” she yells. Sandro leans in over her shoulder and says, “Merry Christmas” at a regular volume because he knows how to be slightly more normal than his sister.
“Merry Christmas!” I say, and tilt the phone so they can see Bash. “Say hi.”
“What’s up?” Sandro tells him.
Somehow, they end up taking over the call with talks about the Christmas Day football game, and I have to pry the phone back from him to talk to Lani before we get on the plane.
We board. We land. And then we’re standing in front of a white house with a teal door and a beautiful Christmas wreath…and my stomach pitches in that roller-coaster way, even though it’s from happy nerves this time.
Bash barely gets the doorbell fully pressed before it flies open.
“Oh my goodness,” a woman who is all eyes and warmth like her son says as she pulls me into a hug like she’s been waiting all day to give it to me.
Over my shoulder, Bash says, “Hey, Mom, remember me? Your actual son?” and she swats at him without letting go of me.
She finally releases me to fold him into her, too. Behind her, a man with Bash’s broad shoulders and radiating calm stands, shaking my hand gently. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Lydia,” he says, then side-hugs his son with that quiet pride a dad is supposed to have.
We stay downstairs for a while, just talking and catching up with his parents, while his mom ropes everyone in to helping her cook dinner.
All the food is in that waiting stage with nothing to do when his mom says the sentence that changes the air in the room. “You can go put Lydia’s bags in the new guest room.”
I nod, starting to walk where she points up the stairs, and then I see Bash freeze like someone hit pause. He goes still, eyes flicking up the stairs, the color draining in that way I recognize too well.
“New guest room?” His voice is careful and tight.
His mom smiles, like she’s proud. “We thought…since you said you were going to take the couch and let her have your room, it was time to—well, time to clean out Isabel’s room. We wanted it to be ready when you came. Thought it was the perfect push to finally do it, you know. It was…just time.”
Bash’s jaw works for a moment. Then he moves.
Fast. He takes the stairs two at a time.
I’m stuck and confused for a moment. Then, when my brain catches up, and I look over at his parents’ shocked and sad faces, I don’t even think.
I head up the stairs too, catching the end of a hallway and a door that opens into a room that smells like fresh paint and lavender.
It’s a perfectly nice guest room. White duvet, plants, a framed print that says Be Still.
Bash is on the floor against the bed, elbows on his knees, hands pressed to his eyes. The sound that comes out of him is small and tears something inside me.
I hover in the doorway for half a second, hating that I don’t know the right thing to do and hating that there probably isn’t one. “Bash,” I say, softly.
His parents appear behind me. He looks up at the sound of my voice, eyes wet, and the look hits me like an impact. Then he looks past me to them, and the hurt cracks open into anger.
“Why would you do this without telling me?” he asks. His voice isn’t loud. It’s worse; it’s the quiet that breaks.
“We thought—” his mom starts, hands twisting. “We thought you’d be happy. It’s been years, Sebastian. It was time.”
He shakes his head, breath hitching. “You took the last part of her that I had, and didn’t even warn me.”
His dad steps forward. “We’re sorry, Son. We thought this was what you would want too—”
“It’s not…” he spits. “It wasn’t…” he shakes his head. “I—I feel like you just ripped her away from me all over again… Why would you—” his voice gets loud, and I can see him trying to get his thoughts together, his emotions. The anxiety is obvious in my eyes.
There’s a tremble in his shoulders I recognize. It’s like the floor is tilting under him and his body is trying to find balance and can’t. He tries to take a breath, and it sounds like it hurts.
I turn to his parents, voice low. “Can I have a minute with him?” They nod immediately and back away. I step into the room, closing the door with a soft click.
I slide down onto the carpet in front of him, leaving a careful distance, and mirror his posture so he doesn’t have to climb up to meet me. “Hey,” I say. “Look at me.”
He does, barely. Everything in him is frayed—nostalgia and loss and the shock of it tearing through the careful stitching he’s done. The part of me that always wants to run is so very still.
I take his hands, tug them gently from his face, and place one on my locket. “What do you feel?”
He blinks, confused. “Cold,” he whispers.
“Good. Cold. The floor?”
“Scratchy.”
“Good. Two more things.” I keep my voice slow, like we have all the time in the world. “Air?”
“Smells like…” He swallows. “Paint.”
“And me?”
A ghost of a smile. “That Burberry perfume you love.”
“Okay.” I breathe in with him, putting his hand on my chest so his breathing can follow mine.
He lets out a broken little laugh, then his face crumples again, and I move an inch closer, resting my forehead to his. “You’re allowed to hate this,” I say. “You’re allowed to feel all of it and not be ‘proud’ of anyone for anything today.”
He exhales. “It’s just…a lot to process. I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t ready for this to be all gone…”
I just nod, letting him talk about it when he’s ready.
“I feel like my heart is beating out of my chest. My head is spinning…”