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“No, I am not.” I reach for little Steve’s hand and pull him from his hiding spot. “Come here. Tell me what’s happening.”
Bucky plops himself onto the blankets that were making up my bed just five minutes ago. “We do it every year.”
“Every year?” I mutter. “You were a baby not that long ago.”
Bucky ignores me. “Mom says we can’t wake up until six. We have to watch the clock in my room. But we can’t even go to sleep, so we definitely can’t wake up. So, after Santa comes—”
“I always hear him,” Steve says with a sniffle. I wrap one arm around him, feeling oh-so maternal with the embrace.
“After he comes,” Bucky continues. “And we’re sure Mom and Dad are in bed, we come out to see what he brought.” He beams in the dim light—as if he’s just reported a great accomplishment. “Wanna play with us?” My nephew’s brows waggle, and his eyes look like little twinkling Christmas lights.
Who could resist that?
After an hour of playing with Steve’s remote control King Kong and Bucky’s Marvel mini-figures, I am very much awake. It’s two-thirty in the morning and we aredoingChristmas!
I sit cross-legged on the floor, giving my nephews space to do their own thing. I was certain these boys had one volume level—ear-splitting loud. But they are quiet as church mice, ensuring they do not wake their mother.
“You’re pretty awesome, Aunt Annie,” Bucky says, digging in his stocking. Then he holds out his hand. “This is for you.” A plastic ring with a 3D Spiderman on the front sits in his palm.
Awesome? I’ve never in my life been called “awesome” by a child. “For me?”
“Yeah. He brings me one every year.”
I reach out and kiss my nephew on the head, then tuck his gift in my flannel pants pocket.
There is a strange swirling warmth inside of my chest, andfor a hot minute, I think I’m having a heart attack—but then I remember feeling this before, when Owen walked me onto that boat and told Stan and Carol that we were married. I’m not dying, I’m feeling the sweet sensation of love. Funny that the two are easily mixed up for me.
Love.
Without thinking or stressing, I pull out my phone and send a text to my favorite adult male on the planet.
Me: GOOD MORNING! Merry Christmas, sleepy head.
Me: Owen? Wake up, Owen! It’s Christmas.
I give him thirty more seconds, set my fingers to my phone—and then, Owen does not disappoint.
Owen: Annie?
Me: No. Kris Kringle has stolen my phone and he’s sending out prank texts.
Owen: You sound awfully awake.
Me: That’s because I am. The boys and I have been secretly playing with their Santa gifts for more than an hour.
Me: Come play.
Owen: Come play?
Owen: It’s the middle of the night.
Me: Wrong. It’s Christmas morning.
60
Owen
“C
