5. Faith #2
My hand tightens on the edge of the doorway as I reach the opening to the kitchen and the living room beyond.
I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. Worst case, they stare.
Ask questions. Maybe Maggie tells me politely but firmly that I’ve brought enough madness to this house, and it’s time to go.
Maybe Clay says what he’s probably thinking: that I’m selfish and dramatic and haven’t changed a bit.
Maybe Nash makes a joke that lands a little too close to the bone.
Best case… I don’t know. That’s the problem. My brain doesn’t have a picture of “best case” here.
I take a breath and step into the doorway.
The whole world is there.
Or it feels like it. The kitchen and living room bleed together, full of people and color and sound.
The tree in the corner of the living room is lit up, tinsel glinting in the branches, a few ornaments clustered closer to the bottom where small hands clearly did most of the work.
The floor around it is a sea of torn paper, opened boxes, and doll accessories.
Maggie stands at the stove, her Christmas apron on, spatula in hand.
Boone leans against the counter near her, cradling a mug of coffee, his free hand resting lightly on Rose’s back while she slices food at the island.
Nash and Clay sit at the table, arguing over something that looks suspiciously like the rules of a board game, the pieces spread between them. Rusty sprawls by the heat vent.
A little girl sits cross-legged on the floor with a plastic horse in one hand and a doll in the other, weaving an extremely detailed story involving a castle, a rodeo, and outer space.
A toddler in a high chair next to the table bangs a spoon on the tray, shrieking in delight every time he makes an especially loud clang.
And at the far side of the table, turned half away from me, sits Dallas.
There’s a little girl on his lap.
Dark hair in two slightly crooked braids, a pink T-shirt with a cartoon pony on it, and the brand new horse book he was holding last night clutched tight in her hands.
She leans back against his chest like she’s done it a thousand times, his arms around her without him even seeming to think about it.
My chest twists. Sharp, sudden, and confusing. Like someone reached in and wrung my heart like a washcloth.
Maggie looks up first. Her eyes land on me, standing frozen in the doorway, and her whole face goes still. The noise in the room fades in ripples as one by one, everyone else turns to look too.
And just like that, every nightmare version of this moment rushes back in. Being glared at, being judged, being asked to leave.
But Maggie just takes me in. Head to toe. The too-big flannel, the sweatpants, my bare face, my wild hair. The fact that I’m clearly not okay. Her mouth softens, almost despite herself.
“Well,” she says. “Look who finally decided to wake up.”
Her tone is dry, but not unkind.
Heat rushes up my neck. I open my mouth to apologize, to say I’m sorry for barging into your holiday and sleeping half of it away, but all that comes out is a croaky, “Hi.”
Real smooth, Faith.
Nash is the first one to move. He shoves his chair back with a loud scrape and stands up, arms already open like I’m a long lost cousin instead of the girl who vanished from their lives years ago.
“Would you look at this,” he says, grinning. “It really is a Christmas miracle. Hey, sunshine.”
The old nickname makes my throat close up. I step fully into the kitchen on legs that feel shaky and let him pull me into a quick hug.
“You look exactly the same,” he says when he pulls back, hands still on my shoulders.
“Liar,” I say automatically. “I look like I lost a fight with a snow plow.”
He barks out a laugh. “Okay, yeah, that too.”
Boone sets his mug down and comes over more slowly. He’s broader than I remember, more settled somehow. The years have rooted him deeper instead of wearing him down. Rose touches his elbow as he passes; it’s the kind of unconscious contact that says everything without a word.
“Hey, Faith,” he says. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” I say, and this time it doesn’t feel like automatic politeness. “Congratulations. On…”
I gesture vaguely toward the high chair, the bedlam, the whole life he’s built.
A smile blooms under his beard. “Thanks. Took us long enough.”
Rose steps closer, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Hi, Faith,” she says. “Been a while.”
My breath hitches. We weren’t best friends back then. She was a couple of years older than me, and we orbited different crowds, but we logged plenty of time around the same kitchen tables and pickup trucks.
Rose, with her nose in a textbook at the McCoy counter. Rose, crammed in the back of Boone’s truck on late summer runs to Dairy Queen. Rose, sitting three rows down in the bleachers at every game I was at.
She was always somewhere near Boone. Everyone kind of assumed they were endgame… until they weren’t… and I guess they finally made their way back to one another.
“Hi,” I breathe, feeling oddly shy and too big for my own skin. “You’re… wow. You’re glowing. And your babies are perfect.”
Her smile softens. She looks grateful and tired. “The dark circles under my eyes would like to argue with you, but I’ll take the compliment.”
She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and nods toward where the two children sit. One on the floor, one kicking happily in the high chair.
“That’s Ellie,” she says, pointing to the chatterbox with the plastic horse, “and this little guy is Wyatt.”
Wyatt bangs his spoon again, delighted with himself. Ellie waves the horse at me as a greeting.
“Come sit,” Maggie says briskly. “You need to eat something before you fall over. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you down.”
“That’s just her, Ma,” Nash says. “She’s always looked like a stiff breeze could knock her down.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly.
“I mean that as a compliment,” he insists. “Delicate. Ethereal. Like a—”
“If you say snowflake, I am throwing hot coffee at you,” I warn.
He laughs again, hands up. “See? Same old Faith.”
Through all of this, I’m acutely aware of the fact that Dallas still hasn’t said anything.
I risk a quick glance in his direction.
He’s watching, of course. He doesn’t stop watching. But he’s stayed in his chair, one arm around the little girl in his lap, the other hand resting on the table. His expression is guarded. Not hostile, exactly. Just closed.
The little girl on his lap turns to look at me, curiosity bright in her blue eyes.
Blue.
My breath stutters. Up close, there’s no mistaking it. She has his eyes, that same intense blue, framed by dark lashes. She studies me solemnly, then leans up and whispers into his ear.
His mouth twitches.
“That’s Faith,” he answers quietly, but I still hear it. “She’s an old friend. She’s staying here for a little bit.”
The words hit me in two different ways at once. Old friend. Staying here. My stomach does a slow, uneven flip.
“You wanna say hi?” he adds.
The little girl considers this. Then she wiggles out of his lap and slides off his knee, feet landing with a soft thump on the floor. She pads toward me, socked feet nearly silent, her braids swinging.
“Hi,” she says, stopping in front of me. “I’m Lila.”
“Hi, Lila,” I say. My voice comes out softer than I expect. “I’m Faith.”
“I know,” she says. “Daddy said.”
My chest squeezes at that. Daddy.
So she does belong to Dallas.
She tilts her head, taking in my borrowed clothes.
“You were in the car,” she adds. “The one in the ditch. Daddy said you had an accident and we had to be quiet so you could sleep because your brain was tired.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s accurate.”
“Did it hurt?” she asks, straightforward in that small kid way.
“A little,” I admit. “But your daddy helped.”
Her gaze flicks back to him. Adoration lighting her face. “He always does,” she says.
The warmth that surges through me at that, not because of what it says about me, but about him, is so sharp it almost counts as pain.
“Lila, honey, why don’t you let Faith sit down?” Maggie cuts in, but her tone is gentler than I’ve heard it in a long time. “You can ask her more questions when she’s got food in her.”
“Oh.” Lila steps back, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I say quickly. “I like questions.”