After the dishes are done and the girls have had their cocoa and Mom has told them the traditional story about how Santa almost skipped Buckhorn in the winter of ’89 because of a blizzard, complete with dramatic pauses and hand gestures, the night starts to wind down.
“Come on, kiddo,” Boone says, stretching to his full height and scooping a yawning Ellie into his arms. “Time to get you to bed so Santa doesn’t pass us by. He’s on a schedule, you know.”
“Does Santa have a Google calendar?” Nash asks solemnly, zipping Wyatt into a fuzzy sleeper while Rose gathers up gifts to take over to the guest house.
“What’s a Google calendar?” Ellie mumbles into Boone’s shoulder.
“Something your Uncle Nash doesn’t know how to use,” Clay says.
Nash presses a hand to his chest. “I am deeply wounded by this attack on my organizational skills.”
“You don’t have organizational skills,” I say.
He points two fingers at me. “Exactly. Can’t attack what doesn’t exist.”
“Boys,” Mom cuts in warningly, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
Boone helps Rose into her coat, taking the diaper bag off her shoulder and slinging it over his own. He moves differentlythese days. Same big stride, same quiet presence, but there’s a lightness in his eyes that wasn’t there for a long time.
Watching him now, I feel my chest ease and pinch at the same time.
They’re happy. They fought for it and found their way. I’m not sure if that makes me more hopeful or more aware of the fact that I’m not there. Not anywhere close.
“Y’all go slow,” I say as Boone opens the back door.
He snorts. “It’s about twenty steps to the guest house, Dallas.”
“Yeah, well, ice is ice.”
Rose smiles at me over Wyatt’s hat-covered head. “Merry Christmas, Dallas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say, meaning it. “Text if you need anything.”
She lifts her phone. “Always do.”
They disappear into the cold, boots crunching on the porch. The door closes behind them with a soft thud that leaves the house feeling just a little quieter.
Clay disappears down the hallway a minute later, muttering about packing for an early run into town tomorrow. Nash stretches out on the rug in front of the fire, hands folded behind his head.
“You’re not sleeping there,” Mom tells him, standing and wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve got a perfectly good bed in your room.”
“This is your couch,” he says. “It’s like, a sacred holiday nap space.”
“Do I need to get the spray bottle?” she asks.
He sighs dramatically and hauls himself up. “Fine. But only because it’s Christmas and I respect tradition.”
“Mm hmm.” She leans over to kiss his forehead as he passes. “Goodnight, baby.”
“You can’t keep calling me that,” he protests halfheartedly. “I’m twenty-two.”
“You’ll be my baby when you’re eighty-two,” she replies.
He grins and shuffles down the hall, shoulders loose.
Mom turns to Lila, who’s slumped against my side, eyes half closed. “Time to get this one tucked in.”
Lila makes a soft noise of protest. “Not tired.”
