Chapter 2 #2
The thought of my dad sitting here alone in this house, heating up leftover takeout and falling asleep in that worn recliner because the upstairs floor has gotten too quiet after I’d gone off to college is enough to make my stomach twist.
“I…yeah,” I manage after a moment, forcing a small smile. “Table all set?”
Grant nods once.
“Great. Let me grab the garlic bread.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye while moving around the kitchen, studying the profile of his face—the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple, the way his brow furrows when he watches me move.
There’s something about him that feels settled.
Like he’s seen enough of the world to know exactly where he stands in it and isn’t afraid to show it.
I like that in a man.
He carries the pot into the dining room after I plate the garlic bread, the steam trailing after him in a thin ribbon.
The sound of his footsteps fade into the dining room, replaced by the low murmur of Dean and Callum’s voices as they pull chairs out and settle in.
Before following him, I turn back toward the pantry and tug it open.
I scan the rows until I spot a bottle tucked far into the corner, half-hidden behind a box of instant mashed potatoes and a jar of olives.
The glass is dusty, the label curling slightly at the edges, but the dark red liquid inside gleams when I pull it into the light.
I turn it in my hand, reading the name I don’t recognize: Cabernet Sauvignon.
Probably cheap.
Definitely old.
It had been gifted to Dad years ago during one of those raffle prizes from a local charity auction around Christmas time.
I still remember the day he brought it home, cradling the basket full of chocolates, a candle that made us both gag when we smelled it, and that single bottle of red wine.
We never opened it of course since I’d been underage then, and Dad’s never been much of a drinker anyway.
He’s always been the kind of man who nurses one beer during dinner before calling it a night.
I’m not much of a spirits person either myself, but fuck, right now I could use all the liquid courage I can get.
By the time I step into the dining room, Grant’s already halfway through serving the food, dishing generous spoonfuls of pasta into our bowls with the kind of focus that somehow makes the whole thing look like some serious operation.
Cal sits quietly across from him, folding a napkin neatly beside his plate, his eyes flicking toward me when I enter.
Dean lets out another low whistle as he surveys the spread. “Damn, this looks good.”
I clear my throat softly and hold up the bottle, trying to sound casual. “Anyone care for a glass?”
Three heads turn toward me at once.
Dean raises his hand immediately, that spark of mischief lighting up his expression. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Cal gives me a small nod, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, before standing. “Here, I’ll open it.”
I smile faintly and hand it off.
The cork pops with a soft noise.
The soft glug of the wine fills the brief silence as he pours us all a healthy glass, the dark red pooling like velvet under the amber lighting from the light above us.
When I’m handed a glass by Callum, his fingers brush mine.
The touch is fleeting but doesn’t fail to send a jolt of electricity racing up my arm.
I pretend not to notice, though the corner of his mouth twitching tells me he knows exactly what he’s done.
Oh, god. Am I being that obvious?
Thankfully by the time I’m halfway through my bowl of food, the wine kicks in.
I’m laughing more than I have in weeks listening to them talk and bicker.
Maybe it’s from the wine warming my veins or it’s just the way they’re so familiar with each other that I get swept up in their banter like I’ve always been part of their circle, but whatever it is I soak it up as much as I can.
As soon as my fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Pulling it out of my pocket under the table, my dad’s contact flashes across the screen.
I excuse myself to take it, stepping into the hallway just beyond the dining room.
“Hey, you doing okay? Thought you were coming home soon.”
When his voice comes through the other end, he sounds exhausted. “Hey, kiddo. Looks like I’ll be late. Half the apartment building got scorched and a few were injured. I’m at the site now helping the police catalogue everything. You doing okay?”
My heart jolts. “Shit, that’s scary. You know what happened yet?”
“Oh, yeah. Some idiot tried to deep fry a whole turkey in their damn kitchen. Place went up in flames instantly. Total shitshow. But don’t worry, everything’s getting sorted out. Just a long night ahead. Don’t wait up for me, okay?”
I blow out a breath.
It’s not exactly the news I want to hear, but then again it’s better than him calling me about going on a call himself.
I’ve had my fair share of scares from him over the years—waking up to voicemails with the truck’s sirens screeching in the background as he told me he wouldn’t be back till the morning, texts halfway through my school periods letting me know not to check the news because it would scare the hell out of me.
When Dad finally retired, I thought I’d get a break from feeling my heart in my throat every other day.
I figured the adrenaline of the late-night calls and the gnawing fear that he might not come home one day would all finally ease up.
But I guess the universe had other plans for his so-called retirement.
“Be careful,” I tell him quietly, shifting the phone against my ear. Then, before I can think better of it, I add, “And don’t worry, I’ll keep your friends entertained.”
He laughs, the sound warm and a little wry. “Good. Lord knows they need babysitting. I’ll hopefully see you in the morning. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I say, smiling despite the worry pressing in around my ribs.
When the line drops, I lean back against the wall and let out a soft breath that’s half a laugh.
“Oh, if only he knew,” I mutter, shaking my head.
If only he knew that his grown daughter was standing here trying to keep herself from doing something monumentally stupid like jumping over the table and crawling into one of his friend’s laps.
A part of me wants to blame them for looking like they just stepped out of one of those vintage Christmas commercials with the ruggedly handsome-as-sin actors playing the parts of the three potential love interests, while another part is convinced I need to find myself a chastity belt before it’s too late.
Pushing off the wall, I make my way back toward the dining room to relay the news.
“Dad’s not coming home tonight,” I announce as I enter, tucking my phone into my pocket. “He said there’s a fire situation that’s still going, so they’re keeping everyone overnight.”
Grant sets his fork down, muttering something that sounds sympathetic under his breath. “He should be taking it easy and stop running himself so ragged.”
“I don’t think he knows how, honestly,” I reply.
Cal gives a slow nod, his expression thoughtful. “That’s your dad, though. That man has never known how to sit still.”
Dean claps his hands together, grinning widely. “Well then, looks like the night’s ours. What’s on the agenda, Noelle? Anything fun?”
I laugh, settling back down into my seat. “Honestly, I was planning to just relax. Well, before you guys came over.”
“Boring,” Dean declares immediately, flashing me that mischievous grin again. “You can’t just leave us unsupervised. We’ll get into trouble.”
I shake my head at him.
Eventually, “what’s next” turns out to be something I hadn’t planned at all: taking the boxes of Christmas decorations down from the attic.
It starts as a joke, with me mentioning how bare the house looked when I got in and somehow ending with the three of them insisting they help me retrieve the decorations and set them up for my dad to come home to.
I protest at first, insisting they don’t need to do all of that considering they’d come here on a vacation, but I should’ve known better.
Ten minutes later, I find myself standing at the bottom of the rickety steps leading down into the crawl space while they fish around it with flashlights.
Three dusty boxes emerge in their hands, along with the faux tree carried under Grant’s arm.
We dig through the boxes when we get them to the living room.
Tangled lights, ancient ornaments, half-melted candles, and old decorations from when I was little sit inside the boxes untouched from the year before.
Callum finds an old plastic angel with one broken wing and holds it up like a sacred relic.
“Hey, look.”
Dean, naturally, is the one that turns putting it on top of the tree into a performance.
He holds the angel over his head as he delivers his speech to an invisible crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to resurrect this fine, heavenly creature who’s survived more Christmases than any of us combined.
Let us give thanks to this magnificent artifact and bestow its Christmas joy onto all of us. ”
“Put it down before you break it,” Grant cuts in, his tone dry but his mouth twitching.
Cal snorts, still kneeling on the floor beside me as he works on a knot of lights. “If you break it, you’re gonna have to beg forgiveness for your sins to Richard. Or console Noelle when you make her cry.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up my throat. “Yeah. You don’t want to see that. I’m an ugly crier.”
Dean shoots me a wink before carefully setting the angle on top of the tree. “Ta-da!”
The terrible Christmas movie he eventually puts on the TV as background noise is some overly dramatic romance with fake snow that falls in almost every scene with an animated elf that looks somehow both cheerful and terrifying in every scene it’s in.
Still, I find myself not being able to look away from it as we decorate the tree.