“But Nanaaa, Santa would want me to,” a little voice argues.
Rusty barks. Something clatters. Nash swears softly, then corrects himself when Maggie snaps his name. Someone else laughs. Boone, I think, that low rumble like distant thunder.
My hand tightens on the edge of the doorway as I reach the opening to the kitchen and the living room beyond.
I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. Worst case, they stare. Ask questions. Maybe Maggie tells me politely but firmly that I’ve brought enough madness to this house, and it’s time to go. Maybe Clay says what he’s probably thinking: that I’m selfish and dramatic and haven’t changed a bit. Maybe Nash makes a joke that lands a little too close to the bone.
Best case… I don’t know. That’s the problem. My brain doesn’t have a picture of “best case” here.
I take a breath and step into the doorway.
The whole world is there.
Or it feels like it. The kitchen and living room bleed together, full of people and color and sound. The tree in the corner of the living room is lit up, tinsel glinting in the branches, a few ornaments clustered closer to the bottom where small hands clearly did most of the work. The floor around it is a sea of torn paper, opened boxes, and doll accessories.
Maggie stands at the stove, her Christmas apron on, spatula in hand. Boone leans against the counter near her, cradling a mug of coffee, his free hand resting lightly on Rose’s back whileshe slices food at the island. Nash and Clay sit at the table, arguing over something that looks suspiciously like the rules of a board game, the pieces spread between them. Rusty sprawls by the heat vent.
A little girl sits cross-legged on the floor with a plastic horse in one hand and a doll in the other, weaving an extremely detailed story involving a castle, a rodeo, and outer space. A toddler in a high chair next to the table bangs a spoon on the tray, shrieking in delight every time he makes an especially loud clang.
And at the far side of the table, turned half away from me, sits Dallas.
There’s a little girl on his lap.
Dark hair in two slightly crooked braids, a pink T-shirt with a cartoon pony on it, and the brand new horse book he was holding last night clutched tight in her hands.
She leans back against his chest like she’s done it a thousand times, his arms around her without him even seeming to think about it.
My chest twists. Sharp, sudden, and confusing. Like someone reached in and wrung my heart like a washcloth.
Maggie looks up first. Her eyes land on me, standing frozen in the doorway, and her whole face goes still. The noise in the room fades in ripples as one by one, everyone else turns to look too.
And just like that, every nightmare version of this moment rushes back in. Being glared at, being judged, being asked to leave.
But Maggie just takes me in. Head to toe. The too-big flannel, the sweatpants, my bare face, my wild hair. The fact that I’m clearly not okay. Her mouth softens, almost despite herself.
“Well,” she says. “Look who finally decided to wake up.”
Her tone is dry, but not unkind.
Heat rushes up my neck. I open my mouth to apologize, to sayI’m sorry for barging into your holiday and sleeping half of it away,but all that comes out is a croaky, “Hi.”
Real smooth, Faith.
Nash is the first one to move. He shoves his chair back with a loud scrape and stands up, arms already open like I’m a long lost cousin instead of the girl who vanished from their lives years ago.
“Would you look at this,” he says, grinning. “It really is a Christmas miracle. Hey, sunshine.”
The old nickname makes my throat close up. I step fully into the kitchen on legs that feel shaky and let him pull me into a quick hug.
“You look exactly the same,” he says when he pulls back, hands still on my shoulders.
“Liar,” I say automatically. “I look like I lost a fight with a snow plow.”
He barks out a laugh. “Okay, yeah, that too.”
Boone sets his mug down and comes over more slowly. He’s broader than I remember, more settled somehow. The years have rooted him deeper instead of wearing him down. Rose touches his elbow as he passes; it’s the kind of unconscious contact that says everything without a word.
“Hey, Faith,” he says. “Good to see you.”
