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And Brendan, he was hers.
He sat on a dusty old chair, a cardboard box on his lap, alone in his basement. Katelyn was upstairs in the kitchen, making dinner out of Thanksgiving leftovers, while Brendan dug out boxes of Christmas stuff that hadn’t been opened since they died. The box was tattered and worn from age, the packing tape that sealed it stiff and cracked. His hands rubbed gently over the top, reverently touching the surface his mother once had.
He missed her.
He tried not to think about her too much. Fourteen years hadn’t dulled the pain of their loss. When he thought of them, remembered them, it was as sharp as ever. It seared into his gut as if he stood in the rain just yesterday. Flares burning on wet pavement. Twisted metal. It was easier not to think of them.
But things were different now.
Now he had Katelyn to think of.
He wanted to share a life with her. He wanted to share his life with her, and he couldn’t do that if he kept the first eighteen years of it sealed up in a box. Katelyn would never really know how fucking amazing they were. She wouldn’t come to know them at all if he didn’t share his memories with her. Even the ones that hurt.
Uncle Charley had a quote for everything. He loved to throw sage wisdom at you like he was Confucius. Not too long after the accident his uncle said to him, “Brendan, sometimes your world is such a dark place you might think you’ve been buried, but you’ve actually been planted. Trust me, son. Good things will grow.”
Brendan wasn’t sure who actually said it first, or what his uncle meant by those words at the time. He thought perhaps he got it now.
He stacked the old Christmas boxes to take upstairs.
Then he added one more.
Because his aintín was right.
Katelyn wasn’t in the kitchen when he came up from the basement. Something sure smelled good, though. He carried the boxes to the family room where the tree stood naked in its stand by the fireplace and he couldn’t believe what else he saw there.
She’d built a tent—a childlike fort of sorts—out of blankets and pillows and sheets, and strung it with white Christmas lights. Their dinner was on a tray on the coffee table beside it, along with a bottle of his Glenlivet, and champagne Linnea had brought over yesterday chilling in a silver bucket. He chuckled to himself and grinned.
Where is she?
“Sweetheart?” He put the boxes down by the tree. “Katelyn?”
“I’ll be right there.” Her sweet, gentle voice came from upstairs.
Brendan added a log to the fire and sat on the floor. She was barefoot, her toes painted burgundy. Plaid lounge pants tied at the waist. One of those tiny tops she wore to bed. It was white. He could make out pink areolae through the fabric. Beaded nipples. Wheat-blonde hair hung in loose waves to her breasts. He looked up at the face of an angel, his angel, smiling down at him.
He smiled back. “What’s all this?”
Katelyn took a seat beside him on the floor. “My mom calls it Thanksgiving leftover pie. It’s kind of like a pot pie, or a shepherd’s pie,” she explained. “I made fried mashed potato balls too. You dunk them in the gravy. Sooo good…”
Brendan was almost speechless. This girl. What had he ever done to deserve her?
“…and there’s still plenty of cheesecake and pumpkin…”
He grabbed her and kissed her. Fuck, he was starving and not for dinner.
“All this.” He gestured to the pillow fort.
“Oh, that.”
She glanced down at her lap and shyly smiled with a shrug. Then she looked up at him again. Twinkling white lights danced in liquid pools of aquamarine. Cheeks tinged with pink. God, he was so fucking in love with her.
“Well, every year after we finished decorating the tree, me and Kev watched Christmas movies in a tent we built in the living room. So I thought…”
“I love it, baby.” He did. “Let’s eat some leftover pie and get that tree done, yeah? What’s your favorite Christmas movie?”
“Miracle on 34th Street,” she answered as she made him a plate. “You?”
“Um, it’s a tie between Chevy Chase and Macaulay Culkin. Christmas Vacation or Home Alone—the first one.”
