Chapter 28
LILY
Christmas morning starts at Erin's shop, right outside my apartment, in the gray light of a December day.
Erin is checking her flowers one last time before closing for the holiday, moving through the buckets with efficiency and I follow her through the shop, adjusting stems, topping off water, doing the routine we've developed over months of early mornings and easy silence.
The shop smells like pine and eucalyptus and winter.
"Merry Christmas, Lil," she says, bumping me with her shoulder as we lock the front door behind us.
"Merry Christmas," I beam back at her.
She studies me in the early light and I know my cheeks are pink from the cold. I can feel the brightness in my own eyes, the way happiness has been sitting on my face for weeks now and refuses to leave.
"You look happy," she observes.
"I am so happy," I tell her honestly, because I am. Deliriously, terrifyingly, completely happy in a way I didn't know I was allowed to be.
Her smile spreads slow and warm, and she links her arm through mine as we start down Main Street. The storefronts are dark, closed for the holiday, but Christmas lights are strung between the lamp posts and the whole street glows soft and golden against the dark morning.
Erin has a Christmas morning routine, she told me. Places to go, people to see. She invited me along while Rome waits at home, and I said yes before she finished asking.
Our first stop is Ruth's place, a little house on a side street with a wreath on the door and lights wound through the porch railing. Ruth is expecting us but acts like we're the biggest surprise of the year, throwing the door open with her hands in the air and her face split wide with delight.
"Merry Christmas, Ruth." I pull her into a hug, and she grabs my face with both hands when I pull back.
"Merry Christmas, you gorgeous child," she declares, kissing my cheek hard. "Tell your brother he owes me a pie. He complained about mine last week and I told him to do better and he still hasn't delivered."
I scoff at that, shaking my head. "Rome doesn't bake."
"Then he should keep his opinions to himself," she fires back, and I snort because she's absolutely right.
Erin promises Ruth a pie from the two of them, and Ruth accepts with a graciousness that seems entirely unlike her. The magic of Christmas, I suppose.
Next stop is Mr. J's place, because he needs a ride to his brother's house on the other side of town and Erin has been driving him for years.
He sits in the passenger seat in a pressed shirt and a hat I've never seen before, and he's wearing cologne that's a little too strong, but I love him for it.
I love that this man who still works six days a week at his barbershop has gotten dressed up for Christmas morning like a gentleman in an old movie, like the day deserves his best and he's going to give it.
"You know," he muses, looking out the window as we pull onto his brother's street, "your brother stole my New Year's kiss last year."
I glance at him from the back, eyebrows raised. "What a douchebag," I tell him.
"My man Rome walked in on New Year's Eve looking like the world had ended." He lifts his hat, adjusts it over his short afro, puts it back exactly where it was. "Without my sweet Erin here, I am sure it had. I had plans for that midnight kiss, old men like me don't get kisses anymore," he jokes.
He lost his wife Mae years ago. They had a long, happy life together, decades of love and laughter and he misses her still. You can hear it when he says her name, careful with it, like he's holding something precious. The men in Harbor Hill love like no other, it seems.
"But you can't compete with a man in love," Mr. J continues, waving a hand philosophically.
I reach forward to hug him from my seat in the back, and he smiles at me sideways, pleased with himself.
"Save yours this year," he advises as we pull into his brother's driveway. "Your New Year's kiss. Don't waste it on just anyone."
"Who says I have someone to waste it on?"
He rolls his eyes as we exit the car, like I've said something ridiculous and he's too polite to call me on it.
Erin and I help him to the door, one of us on each arm, and his brother opens it before we even knock. The smell of cooking pours out, the sound of a television playing something cheerful, the warmth of a house full of family hitting us like a wave.
Mr. J squeezes my hand at the threshold and with one last kiss on his weathered cheek, he goes inside without looking back.
His nieces and nephews and all their children pour out onto the porch to wish us Merry Christmas, and suddenly I'm enveloped in hugs from people I've never met.
They don't care that they've never seen me before. They know Erin, so I'm automatically family. One grand-niece, no older than thirteen, bounces on the spot in front of me with barely contained excitement.
"Can I practice cornrows on your hair please?" she begs. "No one here lets me."
Her mother drags her inside with an eye roll and tells me over her shoulder that I've just been saved from pain like no other. I'm still smiling when we get back to the car.
The King/Edwards house is full when we arrive with Rome, every room warm and loud and exactly right.
Gran is in her chair at the head of the kitchen island, holding court in a red blouse with earrings that catch the light every time she moves. She looks like the queen of a very small, very chaotic kingdom.
"There she is," she announces when I come through the kitchen door, opening her arms wide. "Merry Christmas, my precious girl."
"Merry Christmas, Gran." I kiss both her cheeks and hug her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.
Beth and Vera are at the stove practicing magic, the kind that makes the whole house smell like Christmas. Roasts and herbs and something sweet baking in the oven.
Poppy is in the living room with Ramsey, her laugh carrying through the walls, the soundtrack of every family gathering.
Rome and Erin are on the couch with his arm around her shoulders and her legs tucked under her, a glass of something in her hand already. They look like a photograph you'd put on a mantel.
I've never celebrated Christmas like this. My parents never cared enough to make it matter, and when it was just me and Rome, we did the whole thing with a tree and presents, but Christmas with two people is nothing like this.
This is chaos and warmth and too many voices talking over each other and love so thick in the air you could choke on it.
I stop in the doorway and take in all of them, and I make myself a promise. No matter what happens with Hopkins or Stanford, no matter where life takes me, I will celebrate Christmas here, with my family, for as long as they'll have me.
Will and Callahan arrive last. I hear the truck on gravel and I'm at the front door before anyone else because I've been listening for it, waiting for the sound of that engine like it's the only thing that could make this day complete.
Will comes up the porch steps slowly, a covered dish in both hands, his good coat on, his hair combed differently than usual. He looks nervous in a way I've never seen from him before, this man who's always so steady and sure in his workshop, his kitchen, his world.
Callahan is behind him with a second dish and a bottle of wine, and he catches my eye over Will's shoulder. The look is brief, warm, private. I tuck it away like a gem in my pocket, something to hold onto later when I'm alone.
"Will." I take the dish from his hands and kiss his cheek. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, my sweet girl," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug that feels like it needs to last longer than it does.
His gaze moves past me into the house, and I see him taking in the noise, the people, the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. I know Will and Callahan have spent eleven Christmases together, just the two of them. And Anna, one way or another.
"Come on." I tuck my hand into his elbow and guide him toward the warmth. "Gran's already asking about you. She wants to know if you brought the good wine."
"I brought the only wine I own," he admits.
"Between you and me, all wine is good wine in Gran's eyes as long as she's the one drinking it."
The house absorbs him completely, easily, like he was always meant to be here.
I watch him settle as the nervousness gives way to something easier.
Nobody makes him explain or justify his presence or his absence from celebrations past. They just want him here, the way I want him here.
The way Callahan has wanted him here every Christmas for years and could never get him out of that house.
I find Callahan across the kitchen, beer in hand, back against the counter, watching his father. Will is seated at the island between Gran and Vera now. He looks comfortable. He looks happy.
Callahan's face is devastating. Grief and relief rolled into one expression, years of worry and hope colliding in the lines around his eyes.
I want to go to him. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him I know, I see it, I understand what this means. But I can't.
Dinner is loud, long, exactly right. There's too much food and too many opinions about the turkey, the stuffing, whether Beth's gravy is better than last year or if she's slipping. Ramsey opens champagne when Poppy demands a toast, the cork hitting the ceiling and making everyone jump.
"Amateur," Gran pronounces with a shake of her head.
"My work's lost on peasants," Rome sighs dramatically, and we all throw napkins at him.
Gifts are exchanged after dinner, wrapping paper everywhere, everyone happy, and showing off what they've received.
Rome gives Erin a first edition of a book I don't recognize, something with a worn leather cover and gilt edges, and she stares at it.
Then she kisses him so thoroughly that the whole room starts a slow clap that builds until they finally break apart, both of them flushed and grinning.
In the chaos, Callahan and I find each other across the room. His expression holds what I suspect mine does, too. I wish I could hand him a wrapped box and watch him open it and see his face when he realizes I know him well enough to choose exactly the right thing.
But I can't. For the sake of the secret, for the sake of the ending that's coming in a few months, we agreed we wouldn't exchange gifts. It's the right call. I know it's the right call.
I still need a minute. All I want is to curl into his side, and let myself have this one day without pretending, but I can't, so I need a minute to pull myself together before I do something stupid like cry in front of everyone.
The main house is big enough to disappear in for a while without anyone noticing. I slip away from the living room and wander through quiet rooms on the second floor, guest bedrooms and a study and a hallway lined with photographs I've looked at a dozen times before.
Poppy and Ramsey on their porch, younger, their whole lives ahead of them.
Beth and Vera with one arm around each other and the other holding a baby each, both of them smiling big at the camera. Gran looking imperious in a garden decades ago, wearing the exact same expression she wears now.
I stop at a floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall. The compound grounds stretch out below, dark except for porch lights and Christmas lights wound through the railings. I see the warm golden glow from the main rooms downstairs, hear muffled voices through the floor.
I press my forehead to the cool glass.
"Hey."
I turn. Callahan is in the hallway behind me, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he's been there a while.
"Hey.”
He closes the distance between us until there's only a foot of space left. More than we need. Less than is safe. We stand in the dim hallway while Christmas happens below us, while our families have no idea we're up here, alone, the two of us in the dark.
One slow step and he's flush against me. He grabs my face like he always does, tilts it up.
"We shouldn't be here alone," I whisper, but he doesn't listen.
"Does it make you feel good?" he murmurs, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones.
"What?"
"Knowing that I'm defenseless." His voice is against my mouth. "Every fucking time you just look at me."
His gaze moves across my face like he's cataloging every detail, storing it somewhere safe, and my heart is so full I can feel it pressing against my ribs, demanding more space than my body can give it.
I kiss him, quick, just the press of my mouth to his before I pull back.
"Stop tempting me when I can't have you," he begs.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"How?"
His green eyes are half-lit by the glow from downstairs, completely serious.
"You exist."
He leans his forehead against mine, and I feel his breath warm on my lips.
"Gently," he whispers.
"So you don't bruise my mouth for everyone to see," I whisper back the words he once told me.
He kisses me gently, like he promised. He kisses me like we have all the time in the world. His thumb traces my cheekbone, his eyes searching mine for answersI hope he finds.
"Merry Christmas, Callahan," I murmur.
"Merry Christmas, Lily," he murmurs back.
His hands drop from my face. He steps back, one foot, then two, and turns and walks down the hallway toward the stairs.
I watch him go until he disappears around the corner, until I hear his footsteps on the stairs, until I'm alone again with the window and the dark and the sound of my own heartbeat.
I stand at the window another minute, letting myself feel all of it. Tonight is Christmas, and I am home. So I wipe my eyes, fix my face, and go downstairs to my family.