Chapter 13 Uninvited #2
When he chuckles, I am equally as confused as I am angry. “We all suffer, and we all die one day. It’s who stands beside us when we’re here hurting, and who remembers us carries us with them when we are gone, are those we should never give up a fucking moment that he can get when we’re here.”
He picks up the photos, “Sent the boys on their way to the thing with Deacon, Claudia, and Savannah. Told them I had to shit and would catch up.” He turns and opens the door. “Gonna be a minute. Let me know if I’m calling a car or if you’re going to give me a ride.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
He calls back to me, “Crashed a party once, met my wife. Now eat that damn food and let’s roll.”
Union Square is loud with lights, and people pretending the cold is charming, but don’t. Me? I like the cold.
Paul walks a half step ahead of me, not as dependent on the cane anymore. I clock the stroller, Savannah all bundled up, Claudia’s laugh, and then the way Deacon’s shoulders tighten the second he spots us.
He doesn’t smile. He meets us before we reach the group, protective and pissed.
Fair.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, eyes on me, not Paul.
Paul exhales beside me. “That’s on me.”
Deacon finally looks at him. “Paul.”
“I invited him,” Paul says easily. “I’ll take full responsibility. Whatever you’re about to say to him, you can save it. I already said my piece in the car.”
I keep my mouth shut. Let it land where it lands.
He doesn’t say shit, so I do, “I’m not staying long.”
Our eyes are still locked, but everything around us is unbothered. The market presses in, bells chiming, steam from food stalls, laughter floating in the air.
Paul looks between us. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to tolerate it for twenty minutes. Then I’ll steal him for mulled cider and complain about prices.”
I meet Deacon’s eyes. “If you want me gone, say it.”
He holds my gaze. Long. Measuring.
Then he looks back at Savannah. “I’m not dealing with you,” he says. “This is about her.”
Paul grins. “Festive compromise.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
We fall into step toward the stalls, not together, not apart. The cold bites. The lights glow. The space between us stays tight and controlled.
Not peace, but not a fight.
Then I see her.
She’s tucked in near one of the ornament stalls with Nalani and Noelle, all three of them leaning in like conspirators. The lights hit her hair differently out here, warmer, softer. She’s laughing at something Noelle says, head tipped back just enough that it looks unguarded.
It stops me cold.
This Sofie isn’t braced for impact. She’s not scanning exits, measuring distance, or calculating risk. Her shoulders are loose. Her hands are busy, lifting an ornament, turning it, holding it up to the light like the answer might be there if she looks long enough.
She looks… younger. Not in years. In the weight that is not on her shoulders right now.
Nalani nudges her, says something I can’t hear. Sofie’s smile changes. Smaller, sweeter, softer. A smile that doesn’t perform. Noelle hooks an arm through hers without asking, like it’s okay to touch Sofie-fucking-Fairfax, and it is for those whom she deems fit.
She’s not armor, angles, or restraint. She’s just a woman in a wool coat arguing over whether a glass star is too fragile or exactly right.
I stay where I am and don’t move closer, sure as fuck don’t announce myself, because the difference is stark, and it’s telling.
Around me, she’s controlled. Guarded. Ready to spar. Around them, she’s soft. Open. Real. I envy that, but haven’t I always? Is this not the same as it was at the new school in Moscow?
I make ten million dollars a fucking year, and yet I’m looking in from the outside. Hell, I can’t even buy my brother’s way fully out of danger, and he’s only there because of me.
“Gonna suggest a few things,” Koa says quietly from behind me.
“No one can stop you.”
“When you’ve got a certain someone at the Puck Pad, turn off her location.” I glance beside me at him. “Little shit turned Nalani’s on in college. Nalani didn’t know it. They haven’t turned them off.”
Something to store away from a future fight I see happening.
“When we’re out of town, they share everything as they watch us play. Every fucking thing, but it’s cool because once they know you’ve got their back, they share it with you. The only issue with that is when one of your brothers is involved, and you find out from your girl first.”
“I can assure you, it is not what you think.”
He chuckles, “Oh, good, cause I was sitting there thinking, he’s been being a dick because he doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings, because he’s never felt like this.
Like something uncontrollable and small is facing him off, and he doesn’t know how the fuck to handle it, so he’s again, being a dick.
Like he’s looking at the sun for the first time and knows that the sun is so above him that he knows he’s going to get burned, so instead he acts like a—”
“A dick. I get the point.”
He squeezes my shoulder, “Good. Stop being a dick or using your dick to make the girl like you.”
He walks away and me, I let him?
I’m past my twenty minutes and tell Paul goodnight.
“Don’t leave without saying something to her.” He nods to Sofie, who is looking at a book.
I force myself to do as instructed, and she smiles as she sets it down.
“You’re smiling at my misery.”
She smiles bigger on purpose. “A little bit, please, just let me have it. I swear I deserve it.”
I glance past her, at Nalani and Noelle arguing softly over ornaments. “They’re your happy place.” She nods. “Enjoy it, Tsarina. This is what matters, yeah?”
I turn to walk away, and she grabs my coat, stopping me. “Where are you going?”
“Heading back home.”
“Okay.”
“See you at the game tomorrow?”
“Maybe?” She teases.
I step back and turn, coming face-to-face with Deacon, and I step right on by, but I pause and hand Claudia a little bag. “For Savannah.”
“Thanks, Aleks,” Claudia says softly.
I’m ten feet from my vehicle when I hit my key fob.
From behind me, I hear, “Yeah fucker, I’d love a ride.”
I shake my head and don’t look back, “Stay, enjoy.”
“Why the hell would I want to be somewhere cheerful,” he says, opening the passenger door, “when I could be sulking and miserable with you?”
He drops into the seat like he owns it.
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, “What?”
“Pfft. This place is nothing,” He mutters as I pull away from the curb, staring out the window at Union Square like it personally offended him. “This is not Christmas.”
I sigh. “Here we go.”
“In Germany,” he continues, “Christmas markets are serious. You drink wine that could knock out a horse. There are sausages everywhere. Actual fire pits. People are warm. Emotionally and physically. Here? It’s decorative suffering.
Everyone’s cold, pretending they’re not, holding overpriced cocoa that tastes like it wants to be German. ”
I snort despite myself.
“And the music,” he goes on. “Why is it all jingles? Where are the choirs? The doom? The proper winter despair that makes joy earned?”
“You’re mad there’s no misery,” I state.
“I’m mad it’s performative misery,” he corrects. “Also, the ornaments. All glass. All fragile. Nothing practical. In Germany, you buy things you can pass down or bludgeon someone with if needed.”
“That feels on brand for you.”
“Exactly,” he says. “This?” He scoffs. “This is Christmas for people who think hardship is parking.”
“You’re such a downer,” I joke.
Faulker leans back, finally smirking. “And yet you still let me ride with you.”