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She pshawed. "They know not to take another woman’s gift." Her hand came up and flopped against my belly as she patted me. "Nice try. Sleep is better."
"We wake up, open our gifts, have pancakes—" At least, we usually did. "—then we go back to bed."
That had her growing still. "You lying to me about the sleep part?"
"Nope." I chuckled. Trust her to think that was the part I was lying about.
She grunted, then pretty much flung herself off the bed, grousing, "Okay, hurry up. I stopped waking up at this time of the night when I left TVGM."
Though I was just as tired, I got up, and grabbed my bathrobe from the back of the bathroom door and pulled on some boxer briefs. She dragged on some sweats and a sloppy tee, did this thing with her hair that was like a knot that pulled it out of her face, then held out her arms when I offered her the robe she’d brought with her.
Once covered, she yawned, then trudged out of the room, then braked to a sudden halt. Her eyes were wide as she made a move to turn back to my side, and we walked, slowly, to the stairs.
I hated that she saw my pain.
I fucking loathed it.
Even as I appreciated her sticking by my side.
Even as I loved her for not thinking I was weak.
"Aidan?"
"Yes, little one."
"Next year, my Christmas gift can be us going to the doctor’s and sorting out your knee."
I grimaced.
She scowled.
I grunted.
She sniffed.
"You going to wag your finger at me?"
"Maybe. Will it work?"
"Depends where you wag it."
Her cheeks burned up at that. "Shut up."
I grinned. "Make me."
She harrumphed, then tightened her fingers around my hand as we moved sedately into the family room, neither of us mentioning my knee even though I was pretty sure we both knew I’d do as she asked.
I was facing all kinds of shit this week. Memories, the past, lies and hard truths. Why not my irrational fear of hospitals too? Why not the fact that I struggled to read so when they plunked ten tons of shit in front of me, crap that I needed to understand, my brain—though it needed to focus—just wouldn’t process it.
I had Savannah now, though, didn’t I?
She’d help. If I admitted the truth to her.
"About time," Conor called out as we entered the living room where the large eight-foot-tall tree stood proud beside the TV and where he, as self-appointed gift adjudicator, was also standing, ready to hand out gifts.
The tree was decked with hundreds of ornaments, some new, a lot old and ones I remembered from childhood, and was a mishmash of colors. There was no theme, none other than ‘O’Donnelly.’ The string lights were on, and they were the only source of illumination in here apart from a few candles that made the place smell of mulled wine.
On the sofa, all around, there was my family. My brothers and new sisters, their kids, a sister-in-law, a family friend, even my folks who were looking worse for wear. We were exhausted, with only Conor not yawning and, for once, not looking strung out.
