“It’s how I see you.”
“Thank you, Darlin’,” I murmur, “Means more than I can say.”
I’m still staring at the painting, feeling ten kinds of mushy, when there’s a tug on my sleeve. Sammy’s there, messy blonde hair half-fallen from her Christmas bow.
“Uncle Nate? Can I see the picture Auntie Iris made?”
It takes me a second to realize what she called her.
When I do, I glance at Iris, and surprise flickers across her face, but I can’t help but grin. “Sure, kiddo.” I turn the painting so Sammy can see.
“Wow, it looks just like you!”
“Thank you, Sammy,” Iris says, painfully warm as the words hang between us.
Auntie Iris.
“Pretty special, huh?” Sammy nods, curls bouncing, then leans closer to Iris.
“Can you paint me next?” She asks Iris, who nods instantly.
“Of course, I would love to.”
Watching them, Sammy’s little hand clutching Iris’s skirt, looking up at her so happy, it means everything to me.
Iris belongs here with us.
And if Sammy wants to call her Auntie? Far as I’m concerned, she can call her that forever.
Iris
The living room is washed in the glow of the Christmas tree, giving it a warm, festive feeling.
I used to be comfortable here.
But tonight, there’s a knot in my stomach, twisting tighter with every step. Every second we’re alone together, Savannah’s voice echoes in my head.
He doesn’t know, does he?
Nate shrugs off his coat, and I notice his hair glistening with melting snow. He takes my coat from me and hangs them both up. “You okay, Darlin’?”
“Of course,” I say, and even to me, it sounds fake.
He looks at me for a long moment, like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me, steady and sure, and I let him, pressing my cheek against the cotton of his button-down shirt.
His palm settles on my lower back, fingers splayed wide, thumb brushing slow circles into my hips that should be calming, but only make my heart ache.
Tell him, my mind shouts.Before she does. Before it’s too late.
Nate pulls back enough to look at me. “I, uh,” There’s something nervous in his voice that makes my heartskip. “I got you something.”
I frown, “Nate, you already—”
“I know,” he interrupts, “But this one…” He slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a gold locket.
“It was my mama’s. She wore it every day. I always liked it, wanted to see the picture inside when I was real little.” He chuckles at the memory. “She told me she’d keep an empty spot inside. For a picture of me and the woman I’d marry some day.”
Suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe.
