Will and Callahan arrive last. I hear the truck on gravel and I'm at the front door before anyone else because I've been listening for it, waiting for the sound of that engine like it's the only thing that could make this day complete.
Will comes up the porch steps slowly, a covered dish in both hands, his good coat on, his hair combed differently than usual. He looks nervous in a way I've never seen fromhim before, this man who's always so steady and sure in his workshop, his kitchen, his world.
Callahan is behind him with a second dish and a bottle of wine, and he catches my eye over Will's shoulder. The look is brief, warm, private. I tuck it away like a gem in my pocket, something to hold onto later when I'm alone.
"Will." I take the dish from his hands and kiss his cheek. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, my sweet girl," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug that feels like it needs to last longer than it does.
His gaze moves past me into the house, and I see him taking in the noise, the people, the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. I know Will and Callahan have spent eleven Christmases together, just the two of them. And Anna, one way or another.
"Come on." I tuck my hand into his elbow and guide him toward the warmth. "Gran's already asking about you. She wants to know if you brought the good wine."
"I brought the only wine I own," he admits.
"Between you and me, all wine is good wine in Gran's eyes as long as she's the one drinking it."
The house absorbs him completely, easily, like he was always meant to be here. I watch him settle as the nervousness gives way to something easier. Nobody makes him explain or justify his presence or his absence from celebrations past. They just want him here, the way I want him here. The way Callahan has wanted him here every Christmas for years and could never get him out of that house.
I find Callahan across the kitchen, beer in hand, back against the counter, watching his father. Will is seated at theisland between Gran and Vera now. He looks comfortable. He looks happy.
Callahan's face is devastating. Grief and relief rolled into one expression, years of worry and hope colliding in the lines around his eyes.
I want to go to him. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him I know, I see it, I understand what this means. But I can't.
Dinner is loud, long, exactly right. There's too much food and too many opinions about the turkey, the stuffing, whether Beth's gravy is better than last year or if she's slipping. Ramsey opens champagne when Poppy demands a toast, the cork hitting the ceiling and making everyone jump.
"Amateur," Gran pronounces with a shake of her head.
"My work's lost on peasants," Rome sighs dramatically, and we all throw napkins at him.
Gifts are exchanged after dinner, wrapping paper everywhere, everyone happy, and showing off what they've received. Rome gives Erin a first edition of a book I don't recognize, something with a worn leather cover and gilt edges, and she stares at it. Then she kisses him so thoroughly that the whole room starts a slow clap that builds until they finally break apart, both of them flushed and grinning.
In the chaos, Callahan and I find each other across the room. His expression holds what I suspect mine does, too. I wish I could hand him a wrapped box and watch him open it and see his face when he realizes I know him well enough to choose exactly the right thing.
But I can't. For the sake of the secret, for the sake of the ending that's coming in a few months, we agreed wewouldn't exchange gifts. It's the right call. I know it's the right call.
I still need a minute. All I want is to curl into his side, and let myself have this one day without pretending, but I can't, so I need a minute to pull myself together before I do something stupid like cry in front of everyone.
The main house is big enough to disappear in for a while without anyone noticing. I slip away from the living room and wander through quiet rooms on the second floor, guest bedrooms and a study and a hallway lined with photographs I've looked at a dozen times before.
Poppy and Ramsey on their porch, younger, their whole lives ahead of them.
Beth and Vera with one arm around each other and the other holding a baby each, both of them smiling big at the camera. Gran looking imperious in a garden decades ago, wearing the exact same expression she wears now.
I stop at a floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall. The compound grounds stretch out below, dark except for porch lights and Christmas lights wound through the railings. I see the warm golden glow from the main rooms downstairs, hear muffled voices through the floor.
I press my forehead to the cool glass.
"Hey."
I turn. Callahan is in the hallway behind me, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he's been there a while.
"Hey.”
He closes the distance between us until there's only a foot of space left. More than we need. Less than is safe. We stand in the dim hallway while Christmas happens belowus, while our families have no idea we're up here, alone, the two of us in the dark.
One slow step and he's flush against me. He grabs my face like he always does, tilts it up.
