He blinks. “As in?—”
“Yeah.”
A grin splits his face, fast and bright. “No shit.”
“Language,” Mom calls.
“Sorry,” he calls back, then turns to me, lowering his voice. “Are we talking ‘stopping by for coffee’ here, or ‘full dramatic entrance with fireworks?’”
“Ran away from her wedding,” I say. “Hit the ditch. She’s sleeping in the back room.”
He whoops so loud, Rusty barks. “You’re kidding.”
I glare. “Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, still grinning. “Man, if fourteen-year-old you could see this… runaway bride literally falling into your lap?—”
“Nothing is falling into my lap,” I say through my teeth. “She’s here because she had nowhere else to go, and I’m not an asshole. That’s it.”
He lifts both hands. “I know. I know. I’m just saying, you always said if Faith ever came back?—”
“I said a lot of stupid things when I was eighteen,” I cut in. “Newsflash: people change.”
His grin fades, just a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “They do.” He studies my face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Go help the girls put batteries in something before they lose their minds.”
“On it,” he says, and slips back into the havoc, humming “Here Comes the Bride” under his breath until I throw a balled-up piece of wrapping paper at his head.
Clay is more predictable. When I tell him in the doorway between the hall and the living room, his eyes go flinty.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“What, pulling someone out of a ditch?” I say. “Yeah, Clay. Generally considered ‘good’ behavior.”
“You know what I mean,” he says. “You. Her. This house. On Christmas. People talk.”
“They’re gonna talk no matter what,” I say. “When have they not? At least this way, I’m not the idiot who left someone to freeze because I was scared of gossip.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I’m saying… be careful. For you. And for Lila.”
The mention of my daughter’s name softens some of the defensive prickle up my spine. “I know,” I say quietly.
He nods once.
“All right then.” He claps me on the shoulder, harder than Boone did. “Yell if you need me.”
“I always do,” I say.
Presents blur together after that. Dollhouse furniture for Ellie, boots for Lila, a new tool set for me that Mom pretends isn’t partly for her benefit. Rose unwraps a framed photo Nash snuck of her, Boone, and the kids at the fall festival; her eyes go shiny, and she has to put Wyatt down to hug him and then Boone.
Somewhere between the girls arguing about who gets to put the angel on the tree and Mom herding everyone toward the table for breakfast, I slip away.
The hall feels quieter than it did earlier. The noise from the living room hits an invisible wall and softens. I pause outside the guest room, hand on the doorknob.
This time, I let myself open it.
