Chapter 14 Jude
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jude
“I don’t know how we’re gonna do this.” The words come out before I can pull them back, low enough that only Ryker hears me over the soft morning chatter of the TV.
He doesn’t get rattled. Not by storms, not by broken piers, not by chaos. He just leans on the counter and gives me that small, steadying half-smile he saves for when I’m about to spiral.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, reaching for another piece of bacon like we’re talking about grocery lists and not the heaviness sitting under my ribs.
I glance over at Maisie. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked up under her, Rufus pressed against her hip like her personal fuzzy bodyguard.
She hums under her breath, eyes glued to the cartoon on the screen. Her stuffed rabbit sits on her lap like she’s supervising the whole thing.
She looks fine. Happy, even. And somehow that makes the pressure in my chest worse.
“You sure you’re okay heading to the site alone?” I ask Ryker, keeping my voice low.
He nods, chewing. “Yeah. I wanna check for any damage from the Halloween event anyway. Then I’ll meet up with Mayor Brighton. I’ll keep you updated.”
The way he says it—calm, easy, like this whole situation isn’t a ticking bomb—makes something inside me loosen.
Not much. But enough to keep breathing.
“See you later,” he says. Then he crouches by the couch. “Bye, bug.”
Maisie lifts her hand without looking away from the screen. “Bye, Ryker.”
He ruffles Rufus’s ears, earning a tail-wag thump against the sofa, then he’s grabbing his jacket and stepping out into the bright, freezing morning.
The second the door clicks shut, something in my spine goes stiff.
I pace. One end of the kitchen to the other, boots thumping against the floor, hands shoved into the pockets of my sweatpants like I can hold myself together that way.
I thought it’d be easy. I thought I could wrap this into a neat kid-friendly package.
But this is different. This is her mom.
This is a lie I can’t afford to screw up.
I glance at the clock. Almost eleven. I need to do this before she starts asking questions.
I stop pacing and wipe my palms on my shirt. “Hey, bug?”
She finally looks up at me, curls bouncing, Frida squished in her small hands.
“Yeah?”
“Can you come sit with me at the table for a sec?”
Something in her expression shifts—just a hair, just enough. She slips off the couch, shuffles over, and climbs into the chair beside mine.
“You hungry?” I ask, even though I know she just demolished a bowl of cinnamon cereal and half a banana.
She shakes her head. Her eyes are too sharp for eight. Too knowing. “Is it Mom? Did you talk to her?”
My throat tightens.
Alright. Time to lie.
“Your mom…” I start, then hesitate. “She got called up for a mission with Santa Claus.”
Her stare hits me like a brick. I keep my face neutral.
She blinks once, long and slow. “Santa’s not real.”
Fuck.
Right. Right. She’s eight, not four. She grew up a lot between the last time she stayed with me and now. I should’ve known better.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Okay. Yeah. Fair point. That was… dumb.”
Her brows pinch in. “Why’d you lie?”
Because I’m scared of breaking your heart. Because you’re a kid and you’ve already had too much uncertainty in your short life. Because the truth feels too heavy to hand to someone with glitter stickers on their backpack.
I swallow the answers and try again, this time with something closer to the truth.
“Your mom and Luke are going on a little trip.”
“Why can’t I go?” Her voice cracks. “Was I naughty?”
The hit is instant. Sharp and brutal.
I reach for her hand and place mine over it. Her fingers are so small against my palm. “Hey. No. Absolutely not. You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”
She stares at our hands, not convinced.
“They just…” I inhale through my nose. “They know this town is special during the holidays. And they want you to have the kind of Christmas that feels like magic. So you’re staying with me for a bit.”
She studies my face, searching for the seams in my story.
Then her shoulders slump. “Okay.”
Not enthusiastic. Not excited. Just… resigned.
Goddammit.
“I’m sorry I lied,” I say. “I didn’t want to confuse you. But the truth is, this place really is incredible in December. And I want you with me. I’m gonna make it fun for you. We’ll have a great time.”
She lifts Frida and shoves the rabbit practically into my face. “And Frida comes too.”
I manage a smile. “Obviously. I wasn’t about to leave Frida behind.”
She pulls the rabbit back and finally nods. A small one.
“Actually…” I lean back in my chair, “how would you feel about a little shopping today? You’re growing like a weed. We can get you some new clothes, then grab lunch, and take Rufus on a long walk.”
At the sound of his name, Rufus barks from the living room. Maisie giggles, the first sign of real brightness I’ve seen on her face all morning.
“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s do that.”
Crisis averted.
Except it doesn’t feel like victory. Not really. The look she gave me when she asked if she was naughty carved a line straight through my ribs.
I clean up breakfast. I hear her humming in the bedroom, zipping her coat, stomping her boots to test them. It’s a small ritual she’s always done, and I cling to the sound like it’s a rope pulling me back from the edge.
She skips to the door as I clip Rufus’s leash. “Ready!”
I open the door and the cold sweeps in immediately, crisp enough to sting my eyes. Maisie steps out, breath puffing in little clouds.
She grabs my free hand without looking, like it’s automatic, like some part of her still trusts me without question.
We walk.
The snow that fell overnight crunches under our boots. Holiday lights already wrap the lamp posts, twinkling against the gray sky.
The bakery on the corner has its windows fogged up, the smell of cinnamon rolls drifting through the cracked door. Maisie looks up at them longingly, but she doesn’t ask. It kills me a little.
“We’ll stop in later,” I promise.
She brightens again, just a bit.
We pass Mrs. Healy sweeping her porch. She waves, eyes lingering on Maisie with softness. I know it’s only a matter of hours before everyone knows that my niece is here with me.
This town sees through cracks faster than you can patch them.
“You cold?” I ask Maisie.
“A little.”
“Come here.” I tug her closer, letting her tuck into my side. She fits there too easily, like muscle memory.
Rufus trots ahead, tail wagging so hard his whole butt wiggles.
The walk helps me breathe. Helps me settle. Helps me remember that I can do this. That I’ve done harder things.
I’ve worked double shifts during storms. I’ve pulled people from crashed cars. I’ve handled chaotic crowds and emergencies and panicked neighbors who swear the world is ending because a tree fell on their shed.
But this? This little girl’s trust sitting in my palm like something breakable?
It’s its own kind of terrifying.
We reach the shopping strip. The boutiques are already setting up Christmas displays—silver snowflakes, fake pine branches, red ribbons tied into bows so big they droop under their own weight.
Maisie presses her face against one window, eyes wide at a sparkly white coat she’ll probably beg for.
“You like that one?” I ask.
She nods without looking away.
“Then let’s go see it.”
Her smile ricochets through me.
Inside, the warmth hits in a rush. She wanders through racks, touching everything, asking if glitter is “too much for daytime” and if reindeer sweaters are “too babyish.” She lifts a pair of boots and shows them to Rufus like he gets a vote.
It’s easy here. Easier, at least. Watching her be eight. Watching the anxiety slide off her shoulders for a minute.
We end up with two coats, three sweaters, a pair of boots, and socks with tiny gingerbread men on them because she says they “look like little friends.”
As we’re checking out, she leans her head against my arm.
“Uncle Jude?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Are we gonna decorate your house too?”
I blink. “Decorate?”
“Like Mom does,” she adds softly. “With… everything.”
Ah. The ache returns. A slow, painful burn under the ribs. I haven’t decorated my house since Claire.
“We can decorate the whole damn house if you want,” I say. “Lights. Tree. Garland. A wreath the size of Rufus. Whatever you want.”
Her face splits into a grin so bright the cashier smiles too.
“Okay.”
We step back into the cold, arms full of bags, Rufus prancing like he saved us from something heroic.
And for the first time this morning, I feel like maybe I didn’t screw this up beyond repair.
Maisie swings our joined hands as we walk, humming under her breath again. Snowflakes catch on her hat and melt on her lashes.
She pets Rufus with her free hand, holding Frida under her arm like a queen surveying her kingdom.
This town really is magical this time of year. I didn’t lie about that part.
And maybe she’ll believe in that magic long enough for me to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
She looks up at me. “What’re we doing after lunch?”
I smile. “Whatever you want.”
Her grin widens. “Then can we build a gingerbread house?”
“Yep.”
“And watch a Christmas movie?”
“Yep.”
“And get hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
“Yep.”
“And—”
“Bug,” I laugh. “We’ve got all day.”
She nods, satisfied, skipping ahead just enough that the leash tugs gently between us.
I watch her small boots leave prints in the snow, see the bounce in her step, the comfort returning to her shoulders.
Yeah.
We’ll figure it out.
Together.
We end up at B&B for lunch, snow melting off our coats as we step inside. I’m never sure what their policy on dogs is, but Fallon takes one look at Rufus’s droopy face and immediately waves us in like he’s the damn mayor.
“Long as he doesn’t pee on anything important,” he calls, sliding menus across the table.
“He won’t,” I promise, even though Rufus absolutely looks like a dog who would pee on something important.