Chapter 31 #3
After the meeting, a few people come up to clap Davis on the shoulder or hug him. I stay back, feeling like an intruder in something sacred. Mrs. Miller squeezes my arm as she passes, like she wants to comfort the stranger standing here gawking at them all.
On the way out, Davis stares down at the chip they gave him.
“For whatever it’s worth, I think what you’ve done is really amazing, and you should give yourself credit for it, too.”
I duck my head, kind of embarrassed that I opened my mouth.
He studies me for a second, then nods once. “Worth more than you think,” he says. “Thank you.”
Back at the Miller house, Brody and his mom move around the kitchen layering noodles and sauce and cheese in a casserole dish that has apparently held The Christmas Eve Lasagna since Mr. and Mrs. Miller were first married.
It’s seen better days, has a few chips and spots where it’s been warped.
But it smells amazing, and I think it’s a really cool tradition.
Davis and I sit at the small table, ostensibly keeping them company, but mostly just watching.
“You cook?” Davis asks me at one point, lip quirking.
“Not at all,” I admit. “Beckett men don’t cook,” I say, putting on my most pompous voice. “I can make a mean protein smoothie though.”
“Brody’s a great cook,” Mrs. Miller calls over her shoulder. “I don’t even know what half the spices in our cabinet are, but he’s always been good at making something out of nothing.”
Brody blushes, which is frankly delightful. I totally get why he likes getting me all flustered.
The lasagna goes into the oven. Then Davis gets out an old copy of Monopoly that has clearly been played to death—most of the money is wrinkled and worn, corners frayed, the cards are bent, and almost all the game pieces are missing.
Apparently, finding your own game piece is part of the tradition.
In Brody’s room, I steal a kiss and one of his peewee wrestling trophies.
He chooses a matchbox car that was displayed on his shelf.
Mrs. Miller uses a tube of lip balm, and Davis uses his new chip.
I win, obviously. I’m relentlessly teased for it, but I don’t hate it.
Dinner is modest. Salad from a bag, frozen garlic bread, and the lasagna they made themselves bubbling in its dish. It is also one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
We eat, we talk, we laugh. They tell stories about the boys as kids and include memories of their dad. The whole time, they act as if I’m part of the family. Like I’ve always been here.
Once dinner is over and I’ve helped Davis clean up, since the other two cooked, I glance out the window a little forlornly. I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, but I really don’t want to go. I want to belong here, with these people. With this family.
Mrs. Miller puts a hand on my wrist. “Can you stay?”
“I’m sorry?”
Mrs. Miller gives me an assessing look. “Do you have plans for the rest of Christmas?” she asks. “Somewhere you need to be?”
The honest answer is no. My father’s house is not a place I need to be. It’s a place I’ve always shown up to for duty, obligation, appearances.
I shake my head, feeling overwhelmed.
“Then you stay here,” she says decisively. “We may not have much, but we always have room at the table. And I think it would make Brody really happy if you stayed. He was not himself when he got home. You seem to have brought the light back.”
Something in my chest swells, then cracks. “Thank you,” I say, because it means a lot that they’re willing to share their holiday with me.
We play another board game, then Mrs. Miller says she has to get to bed. She has to be up at some ungodly hour for her job at a diner. I’m surprised she has to work on Christmas morning, but it just shows my ignorance, I guess.
Davis decides he’s tired, too, and everyone wishes each other goodnight and starts towards their respective rooms. I shuffle awkwardly for a few minutes, waiting for instruction.
“What are you doing?” Brody asks, and gestures me over.
“Is it okay if I sleep on the couch? I don’t want to be in the way.”
Mrs. Miller rolls her eyes. “Is this the same man who mauled my son in the yard this morning? We’re all adults here, Beck. Brody’s bed isn’t large, but I’m sure the two of you can make it work.”
Davis doesn’t miss a beat. “Just try not to let the headboard hit the wall, yeah?” he says, scrunching up his face. “I don’t want to hear my baby brother getting railed.”
“Davis,” Mrs. Miller groans, smacking his arm. “Gross. Boys are gross. Why are boys so gross?”
“That’s his job, anyway,” I spit out. I’m mortified, but I don’t want Brody to think I’m ashamed of anything anymore.
Brody chokes and turns red. Davis doubles over laughing and lifts his hand for a high-five. Mrs. Miller throws her hands up as she walks down the hall.
“Oh great,” she calls back. “Now there’s three of them.”
Later, in his room, with the door closed and the house quiet, we climb onto his bed fully clothed. Then less clothed, but still not naked. We kiss, slow and unhurried, mouths exploring, hands roaming over familiar skin with new reverence.
But we don’t go further than that.
We just lie there together. Chest to chest, legs tangled, his hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades like he’s keeping me in place.
“You’re really here,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my throat.
“I’m really here,” I whisper back, and fall asleep in his arms feeling more content than I can ever remember being.
The entire holiday at the Miller’s is nothing like Christmases I’ve grown up with.
There are no mountains of wrapping paper.
No carefully curated tree with matching ribbon and glass ornaments.
No midnight mass or getting dressed for a family meal like it’s a formal affair.
No empty gestures in the form of sparkly things that cost too much money and mean less than nothing.
There aren’t even any presents under the small artificial tree in the corner. Just a string of lights and a chaotic assortment of mismatched ornaments, mostly handmade from when Brody and Davis were kids.
We sleep late and make a mess of the kitchen making pancakes from a box mix, topping them with artificial blueberry syrup and margarine. Then we have a bubble fight while we hand-wash the dishes because the dishwasher doesn’t work.
When Mrs. Miller comes home from the diner, she holds a small ham in one hand and a pie in the other, gifts from her employers at the diner.
When she sets her purse down and heads back for a shower, I clear my throat.
“I can head out for a while,” I tell Brody.
“Give you guys some family time.” I think about finding a store that’s open to get a few things to go with that ham, not that I know anything about cooking.
Brody doesn’t even hesitate. He hooks two fingers in my belt loop and tugs me back towards the couch. “You are family now,” he says quietly. “Stay.”
I don’t argue. I lay on the couch with him and watch Die Hard, because I’ve never seen it and apparently that’s sacrilege. Mrs. Miller and Davis join us.
Brody heats up the ham for a late lunch and whips up mashed sweet potatoes to go with it.
After we eat, Mrs. Miller pulls a framed photo of a man who looks a lot like Davis from a shelf near the television.
She dusts it off with the sleeve of her shirt, kisses the corner of it, and then sets it in the center of the coffee table like a centerpiece.
I hover awkwardly near the edge of the room. Brody pulls me over to the couch to join them. “Come on,” he says. “This is the good part.”
I sit. Mrs. Miller pats my leg and explains that when the kids were little, they did a few wrapped gifts, but she and her husband never exchanged gifts.
Not the material kind, anyway. When the kids got older, it became a tradition for the whole family to sit around the photo of Mr. Miller and just talk.
Mrs. Miller starts. She rests her fingers lightly on the frame.
“I’m grateful for another chance with my oldest son,” she says, looking at Davis. “I’m proud of you. So proud. I know how hard it is. I know you could have chosen the easier path, and you didn’t. That means more than you know.”
Davis ducks his head, brushing his thumb over the coin in his palm.
“I’m grateful Brody came home,” she continues, turning to him. “Even though I didn’t want to hold him back. I wanted him to have that space. That fresh start we couldn’t give him here. But having him closer…” Her voice wobbles. “Selfishly, I’m glad.”
Brody leans over my lap to hug her, because I ended up between them.
Davis goes next.
He talks about six months again, but this time it’s less about the drama and more about the daily grind. About being thankful his mother didn’t kick him out. About being thankful his little brother still texts him a lot.
“I’m thankful neither of you gave up on me,” he says, eyes bright. “Even when I deserved it. Your support makes me strong enough to handle this.”
The weight of those words lands heavy in the room. I feel like I’m seeing them through new eyes. This tiny, worn-down house is full of people who keep choosing each other, over and over, even when it hurts.
Then it’s Brody’s turn.
He sucks in a breath, staring at the photo of his dad for a long moment. Then he looks at Davis.
“I’m thankful I get to have my brother back,” he says. “I’m proud of you. So proud. Seeing you fight for yourself every day… it’s helped me more than I know how to say. If coming home was the price for that, it was worth it.”
Davis blinks hard, jaw clenched.
Brody turns to his mom. “I’m thankful for you,” he says.
“For always accepting us as we are. I know we don’t have a lot to show for how hard we all work, but I also know I’d rather have what we have than all the money in the world.
And I know I don’t need a fancy degree from some prestigious school to succeed.
” He swallows. “One way or another, I’m not giving up on my dreams. Because you taught us to believe in ourselves. ”
Mrs. Miller presses her fist against her mouth, eyes shining.
Then, to my utter shock, Brody looks at me.
“And I’m thankful for this infuriating, stubborn, uptight guy,” he says.
I fake a scoff. “Rude,” I mutter, but my heart’s pounding.
He gestures to my button-down shirt. “You’re wearing a button-up in our living room with only one button undone at the top, Becky. Loosen up a little.” He flicks the collar.
Then he looks up at me through thick blond lashes and smiles.
“I can’t help feeling like everything that’s happened led me to you,” he says quietly.
“In the beginning, you annoyed me and pissed me off. Then I thought you needed me. I thought you were just fun to play with. But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with your pretentious ass.”
My lungs forget how to function.
He swipes at his eyes, cursing under his breath.
“I think I’ve cried more in the last week than I have my entire life,” he grumbles.
“But I don’t care about anything else, not really.
Knowing I didn’t lose you, that’s the only thing that matters right now.
” He looks down at his hands. “I’ll work hard and do my best to be patient.
And for the record, I don’t expect you to come out.
Not for me. I know you can do better, you deserve—”
I don’t let him finish. I’m already moving before I realize I’ve decided to. I slide off the couch and onto my knees in front of him, cupping his face in my hands, and kiss him. He makes a soft sound in his throat and leans into me, hands clutching at my wrists.
When I pull back, his eyes are wide and wet and fixed on mine.
“You’re the one who deserves better,” I tell him. “You’re hardworking and kind and generous. You make me a better man. You’ve been so patient with me—too patient—while I was an unkind, scared coward too afraid to show what I thought was weakness.”
I take a breath that feels like it opens up a new chamber in my chest.
“I’ve realized something, though,” I say. “Loving you is the strongest thing I’ve ever done. It feels like gaining a level of strength I didn’t know existed. I am proud to belong to you, Brody. To be yours. And I don’t care if everyone knows it. I’ll wear a collar if it makes you happy.”
His jaw drops a little, then he chuckles. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he whispers.
I laugh a little too excitedly and kiss him again. We get so caught up in each other that I don’t notice Mrs. Miller and Davis quietly getting up until I hear the creak of the floorboards near the doorway. I break the kiss, blushing so hard my ears hurt, and glance over my shoulder.
Mrs. Miller is standing with her hands on her hips and a smirk that looks suspiciously like the one her son wears when he’s planning something wicked. Her eyes are damp.
“Don’t let us stop you,” she says. “We’re going to the Christmas meeting. We’ll be home around four.”
Davis gives Brody a look that is equal parts I’m happy for you and I’m never going to let you live this down.
And suddenly, we’re alone.
The house is quiet. The winter light filtering through the blinds casts soft stripes across Brody’s face. My knees ache a little from the rough carpet, but I don’t move.
“I mean it,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hide. I don’t really know how to come out, but I already told my father.”
He looks at me as if he might have heard me wrong. “You did not.”
“I did,” I say, chuckling. “It was pretty epic, actually.”
“How’d he react?”
“Surprised and confused, but I’m not sure if that was because I came out or because I stood up for myself.”
“That’s huge,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around my neck. “I’m really proud of you.”
“I’m kind of proud of me, too, actually. Not sure I’ve ever felt that before.”
“Well, then we’ll just have to make sure you do more of whatever it is that’s getting you to come out of your shell.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, biting my lip.
“Mmhmm. We’ve got about two hours if you want to work on your confidence a little.”
I can’t decide if that’s corny or sexy. Or maybe a confusing mix of both. So I kiss him and nip his bottom lip to let him know I’m ready.
“You can start by unbuttoning that ridiculous shirt,” he says, then leans into me. “Then you can go to my room, take off everything else, and wait for me on your knees.”
I’d like to say I stand up and walk out of the room in a very dignified manner, but I don’t. I snap half the buttons off my shirt and trip over my pants trying to run and strip at the same time.