31 - Wesley
Wesley
Christmas at my place is cozy in a way that makes me yearn for my family to live closer.
Growing up, Christmas always came with a shadow.
Even years later, even after the casseroles and grief settled into something manageable, the ghost of my mother still seemed to linger whenever we were in the old house.
She was tucked into the corners of the dining room and threaded through every recipe card written in her looping handwriting.
There is always a sense that we are honoring something fragile there, protecting it, and measuring ourselves against it.
I don’t know how they do it every single day.
But here, in my apartment, there is no shrine to memory, no careful choreography around absence. It’s just us. My dad. Emma. Me. Loud and imperfect and alive in the present tense.
The kitchen is already too warm, the oven humming as pots crowd the stovetop and jockey for space. Steam is fogging the windows, carrying the smell of garlic and butter through the entire apartment.
My dad moves between the sink and the counter with comfortable efficiency, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes as I use them. Emma drifts in and out, stealing pieces of food and offering wildly unhelpful commentary.
They both look at home here, which does something strange to my chest. My apartment has felt lonely this past week, but right now it feels like a real home.
We did gifts this morning in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the rug.
We don’t exchange anything expensive, just small, deliberate things that say I saw this and thought of you.
A framed photo of the three of us from a summer trip years ago.
A mug in Emma’s favorite ridiculous color.
A cookbook for Dad with handwritten notes tucked inside.
A few years ago, we stopped doing big gifts after it started feeling like a performance review instead of a holiday. Without that pressure hanging over it, the day has become lighter and more centered on time together instead of transactions.
I cannot imagine choosing to be alone on a day like this, which is probably why I invited Nathan without thinking through the very obvious emotional landmines attached.
It’s not my job to rescue him. It’s not my responsibility to patch the cracks in his family or make up for their lack of support.
But the idea of him sitting somewhere by himself, feeling unwanted on Christmas, lodged under my ribs and refused to budge until I did something about it. So I did. Impulsively.
A month and a half ago, I would’ve said there was nothing impulsive about me, but now I’m not so sure. When it comes to Nathan, it seems reason evades me every damn time.
Now, I’m at the counter chopping vegetables with more force than necessary, trying to keep my hands from shaking. In two weeks, we break up and go our separate ways. Introducing him to my family makes the line harder to walk.
Emma is perched across from me at the bar, chin in her hand, watching me with the delighted curiosity of someone who smells gossip.
“Hey,” she says. “Those carrots didn’t do anything to you.”
“I’m just focused.” I don’t look up.
“Focused,” she repeats, eyes dropping pointedly to my bouncing foot. “Is this about Nathan?”
“Why would it be about Nathan?”
“Because five minutes ago you announced that your extremely hot boyfriend is coming over for Christmas dinner and now you look like you’re about to either pass out or commit a felony with a vegetable peeler.”
I plant my foot flat on the floor and will it to behave. “He’s just coming by.”
Her grin widens. “Just coming by. On Christmas. To dinner. With your family.”
Before I can build a defense, Dad looks up from the table he’s in the process of setting. “Boyfriend?”
“No,” I say loudly enough that they both flinch. “There is no boyfriend.”
Emma doesn’t even try to hide her amusement. “That’s not what’s trending in the gossip columns.”
“We are not dating,” I say, heat crawling up my neck. “The media connects dots with crayons.”
Dad turns fully now, interest engaged. “Why would it be in the media?”
Emma raises an eyebrow. “It’s Nathan Wilder, Dad.”
“You’re dating Nathan Wilder?” He blinks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad’s a hockey fan. He isn’t a die-hard fan or obsessed, but even a casual viewer has heard of Nathan. The reminder of how well-known Nathan is causes heat to rush to my cheeks. Why is he humoring me with all of this when he has to have more important things going on?
“We’re not dating.” I sigh and set the knife down.
Dad’s expression shifts into a slow, knowing smile. “Then why is he coming to Christmas dinner?”
“Because his family situation is complicated,” I say, defensive even to my own ears. “And no one should spend Christmas alone if they don’t want to. That’s it.”
Emma makes a humming sound that means she believes absolutely none of that.
“Sounds like you know him pretty well.” Dad grabs the silverware out of the drawer, making a show out of getting an extra fork for our incoming guest.
“Drop it,” I tell them both.
They mostly do, at least out loud.
A few minutes later, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, quickly putting on mascara and tinted lip balm for absolutely no practical reason whatsoever. I’m in the middle of debating whether I’m pathetic when Emma appears in the doorway.
“You don’t put on makeup for friends.” She picks up the blush brush, dusting it across my cheeks.
“I put on makeup because I look tired and it’s Christmas.”
“Okay.” She turns to leave, but pauses at the last second. “I think it’s good. For you, I mean. You had to grow up too fast. To take care of me. Of dad. It’d be nice if you had someone to take care of you.”
She walks away, leaving me to watch myself in the mirror. My breath comes faster, fighting through the bundle of nerves growing beneath my ribs. She’s wrong. That’s not what this is. I don’t need someone that way. I never have.
The doorbell rings, the sound causing a prickle at the back of my neck. I breathe deep for a count of five, then push my way to the front of the apartment.
“I’ve got it,” Dad calls.
I step into the hall as he opens the door.
Nathan stands on the porch with snow dusting his shoulders and a small cluster of poinsettias in his hands. He looks out of place in the most disarming way, his eyes flickering between us as if he doesn’t want to take up more room than he’s offered.
Dad smiles and welcomes him immediately. Emma leans around the corner to stare without shame.
Any illusion that this was a simple, harmless idea evaporates on the spot. Nothing is simple when it comes to him.
Dinner smells incredible by the time we all sit down. The table is crowded with dishes and far too much food. Nathan takes the seat I gesture to without hesitation, setting the poinsettias on the sideboard.
A pang of jealousy courses through me at the way that nothing seems to rattle him, at least not visibly. Meanwhile, around him, I’m constantly rattled.
My dad wastes no time.
“So,” he says, passing the potatoes. “Where’s your family from?”
Nathan straightens a little. “Here originally. They still live about twenty minutes away.”
“And you’re not joining them tonight?” Dad asks, tone casual but eyes sharp.
If I could get away with it, I’d kick him under the table.
Nathan shakes his head, fiddling with his napkin. “No, sir. They had other plans.”
“Work-related?” Dad presses.
Nathan hesitates briefly before taking the rolls from Emma. “Something like that.”
I shoot my dad a look, but Nathan doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, he answers every question calmly. When did he start skating? How long has he been with the Blades? What has his season been like so far?
My dad must know the answers to some of these questions, but he asks anyway. I soften at the way he lets Nathan explain who he is instead of believing what he’s certainly seen on TV. Nathan is so much more than people realize.
Finally, after twenty minutes of grueling interrogation, my dad finally leans back in his chair, fork resting on his plate. “You’ve built an impressive career. That takes discipline and commitment. You should be proud of that.”
Nathan goes quiet. His ears turn a faint shade of pink as his gaze drops to his plate. When he finally nods, it’s small.
“Thank you,” he says. “That means a lot.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, wondering, not for the first time, if his parents have ever said that to him.
Deep down, I know they haven’t. And suddenly a lot of things make more sense.
The pressure he carries. The way he doubts himself even when he’s playing out of his mind.
The fear that no matter how well he does, it will never quite be enough.
Irritation simmers beneath my skin on his behalf. It doesn’t last, though, because Nathan smiles, shifting the conversation effortlessly, and I’m swept away with it. I’m determined to keep him smiling for the rest of the night.
Dinner rolls on with stories from Emma about her freshman year and from Dad about his physical therapy.
I’ve never filled Nathan in fully about my family, but he doesn’t show an ounce of surprise, rolling with the conversation comfortably.
Instead of the anxiety that usually strikes when I think about Dad’s health, I listen without spiraling.
Nathan fits into the rhythm without forcing it, answering when asked, listening more than he talks, and making Emma laugh hard enough to snort at least once.
After we clear the table, Emma disappears and comes back with the Taboo box like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“Teams,” she declares. “Wesley and Nathan versus Dad and me.”
Nathan looks at the box skeptically. “I should warn you, my family never really played games.”
Emma grins, tossing her long hair dramatically. “Perfect. Fresh meat.”
I take the box from her and explain the rules, leaning closer than necessary to point at the cards and whisper examples. Nathan listens intently, brows furrowing with focus.