Chapter 32
JUDE
“Most of all, I’m thankful that every single one of my children managed to come home for Christmas this year, I—”
Dad swallows, holding a finger up.
Eli leans into me, rolling his eyes. “The old guy’s gonna cry again.”
It sounds heartless, but I can see the way my brother grips his fiancée’s hand on the table and looks up, blinking slightly, that he’s affected too. The guy is just as emotional as Dad these days, straight-up tearing up when he talks about their wedding coming up this summer.
Dad goes on with his epic toast, but his words fade out of focus. Everything’s been out of focus since Cap and I got back stateside three weeks ago.
Eli’s twin, Cass, on my other side past Cap, kicks my foot under the table, and I look up. “Yeah?”
“We’re waiting on you, son,” Dad says.
“Something you’re thankful for,” Chelsea says, bobbing her one-year-old, Kev, on her knee as he gurgles.
My stomach twists. “Didn’t we just do this at Thanksgiving?”
Dad looks personally wounded, and guilt washes over me like it does every other minute these days.
At least Coach is blissfully absent. He’s been gone ever since I told Nora about him.
“Jude,” Cass says. “You’re the one who came up with this tradition!”
“Yeah, since when do you not have something to be thankful for?” Eli asks.
I look down at my son, who looks stricken.
I wrap my arm around his head. “I’m grateful for Cap. My one and only guy. My best friend.”
My stomach twists, and Griff gives me the strangest look.
But Cap squeezes me around the ribs and Dad moves on to Chelsea, last on the list by age.
“Dad, you have to have a sip,” Cap reminds me when everyone’s lifting up their glasses.
“Right,” I say, holding up my glass of water. It’s been like this ever since we got home. I can’t remember how to fucking function.
After the cheers, I pull my phone out of my pocket for the five hundredth time. I texted Nora this morning. In the middle of the night, actually, when I knew she’d just be waking up.
Still no response.
“Dad?” Cap asks. He was asking me something. Guilt rockets through me. I shove my phone away.
“Sorry, buddy. I’m here.”
It’s been three weeks. I need to give it up.