Chapter 20
20
In the end, there’s procedure. There are reports to write, forms to file, all the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Calla takes Grandma Ruby to get checked out at the local hospital (she has a sprained wrist and some rib bruising, but thank god, nothing major), while I’m stuck liaising with FBI officials, passing over the diamonds, and giving my exceedingly long statement. Turns out, Johnny breaks pretty quickly under interrogation, detailing his parents’ and his henchmen’s involvement in the crimes. At the wedding, they were all taken into custody—and now, they’re staying there. Nick texts me that he’s going to be a while; his handler has flown in from the Toronto regional office, and CSIS and the FBI are squabbling over who gets credit for the takedown. Doesn’t matter either way. Not to me, anyway.
What matters is I have my family back.
At home, well after midnight, after I dot every I and cross every T, I find Grandma Ruby and Calla curled up on the couch together. Someone from the FBI must’ve helped move out all the wedding chairs—and the altar—because our living room is just as I remember. Warm, cheery, reindeer-less. Plush couch and overstuffed armchairs. There’s an open packet of goat cheese resting on the coffee table, and Grandma Ruby has fallen asleep with a spoon clutched in her hand, Calla snoring open-mouthed on her shoulder. Even after this catastrophe of a day, they actually look... peaceful. Peaceful in their holiday pajamas and snowman socks.
“Love you,” I whisper, heart in my throat, dragging a blanket over them. Keeping them warm. By the Christmas tree, Sweetie Pie licks my toes before I sneak back upstairs, soundless, careful not to wake them. Nick still hasn’t returned, and the house is so quiet, just the gentle hum of the furnace, snow-flecked wind hitting the windows. In my old bedroom with the bubblegum-pink sheets, I thwomp back on the mattress with the world’s biggest sigh.
My vision catches on a shoebox.
A shoebox, on the corner of my nightstand.
It’s been such a wild twenty-four hours, I’d almost forgotten what Grandma Ruby said last night. About a Christmas gift of sorts, waiting for me in my bedroom. For some reason, my pulse picks up—and I reach for it, thin cardboard under my fingers. When I lift the lid, there’s a bundle of... Christmas cards? Tattered Christmas cards, with a crisp white letter on top.
Swallowing hard, I read the letter first.
Sydney Bean , it begins in Grandma Ruby’s handwriting.
I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing here, and I’ve debated with myself about it for years, but maybe you and Calla should have these. They’re from your father. Every year, he sends a Christmas card to the house. Sometimes they arrive way after the holiday, sometimes around Thanksgiving, and they never say much. My thinking was it would hurt you and Calla to see them, to know he was occasionally in touch but not coming home——not fulfilling his duties as a father. I thought it might be better not to remind you of the pain, to live our lives united and together. But I think I was wrong. I think you need to see that a part of him, no matter how small or how broken, has always held on to you.
Forgive me,
Grandma Ruby
I finish the letter with a knot in my throat, but it’s... it’s the kind that unwinds. Forgive her? Forgive her for what? She gave Calla and me everything.
I finger the first card, taking a deep breath through my nose. The last remnants of glitter cover my hand like silt, and I open it. Dad’s name is scrolled at the bottom, his handwriting, which I remember from grocery lists. Little Post-its on tools in the garage.
The next card has a snowy barn on the front—quaint, elegant, with a Merry Christmas on the inside. I flip through reindeer prints and village scenes, pictures of silver bells and roasted turkeys, and Grandma Ruby’s right—there isn’t much. Barely any writing. And maybe, yes, that would’ve made me sad as a kid. Where are the updates? Where was he ?
But there, in a card near the bottom of the stack, is one small note. It says, simply, Please say hello .
I sniff, tears welling up again, and look down at the card. “Hey, Dad,” I say after a long moment, into the silence of my room. Because how can I forgive myself for leaving if I can’t, at least a little bit, forgive him?
Placing the card back into the box with care, I shut the lid and slip the whole thing under my bed. I’ll show Calla when she’s ready. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight is for rest, and sleep, and—
Nick.
All the lights are off when he knocks gently on my bedroom door. I’m still awake, so I answer him, giving a weak but warm “How did it go?”
“As well as it could’ve,” Nick says, obviously exhausted. He’s kicked off his shoes, is just in his socks, white shirt, and the tuxedo trousers from this morning. “Can I...?”
“Sure,” I whisper, reading his mind, making space for him.
The twin mattress doesn’t have that much room, especially for his frame, but he climbs into bed with me without another word, hugging me from behind, curling his body around mine. Matching me from head to toe. His arm nestles into my hip crease, and his breath is soft on the back of my neck.
“Is it weird that I missed you?” Nick whispers with a chuckle that comes out more like a wince. What he doesn’t say is, We’ll have to get used to that. His flight out’s tomorrow. My flight out’s tomorrow. Sure, we can call each other. We can text. But a part of me is terrified that this is all some strange holiday magic. That as soon as he leaves this house, and I leave this house, the spell will be broken.
“Only if it’s weird that I missed you, too,” I tell him, honest, quiet.
He kisses the space behind my ear, nestling farther into me, and slowly, I turn around to face him, my nose almost to his nose. I like being this close to him. When he reaches up, his thumb swipes a comforting path on my cheek. “You were great today,” he says. “Perfect.”
“Do me a favor?” I whisper back, wrapping my leg around him. “Never try to die for me again.”
He laughs roughly, like he knows better than to argue, and slides his weight even closer to me. Right now, our eye contact might be described as extreme. His pupils lock on to mine, and in this moment, I want nothing— nothing —more than him. I think Nick’s feeling the same way. His breath starts to come out ragged, his chest rising and falling against mine. And suddenly he’s shifting on top of me, my heart beating faster, and my hips rise up to meet him.
“You are really good at that,” he groans.
“What, this?” I tease, meeting him again, feeling how hard he’s getting. I stoke him through his pants before my fingers turn to his zipper, and—that’s enough talking. No more talking. We are all teeth and skin and moans. When Nick drags his tongue up the nape of my neck, I let out an almost inaudible sound—but his fingers still move gently to my lips, reminding me that we need to be quiet, so quiet. Which is honestly really difficult. Especially when he slips that same hand under my pajama bottoms, circling a finger in exactly the right spot, and I like... just watching him move. Watching his face as we undress, watching how he looks at me, like I’m a present he’s just unwrapped on Christmas morning.
His knee nudges open my legs, his muscles in sharp definition, before he drops down and licks a path up my thigh. And that’s almost too much. That’s almost too teasing.
There’s a condom in my nightstand, still miraculously good from my college days, and I help him slip it on, wondering if it’ll fit, wondering—
“Is that glow in the dark?” Nick asks, bursting with a laugh.
“Oh, shit. Oh my god.” I cover my eyes with my hands, genuinely mortified. “It’s a novelty condom. That was... I grabbed it as a joke, way back when. But it looks...” I peek through my hands. “It doesn’t look bad?”
“I’m neon green, Sydney,” Nick says, still whisper-laughing.
“Yeah, but in a hot way?”
“ Sydney ,” he chuckles, fully grinning now, and if we never see each other again, this is definitely how I want to remember him. About to dissolve in a fit of laughter. Beaming down at me with his dimples and his eyelashes. “I’m going to try to recover from this setback.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
“I think this is salvageable.”
“Oh, completely,” I say, only half believing it, but Nick’s right. Within minutes, he’s guiding me over the edge, drawing soft kisses across my collarbone, and it occurs to me with a bittersweet rush: Wouldn’t it be great if we had more nights together, just like this?