Page 115 of With the Assist

My fingers tighten on the phone as my mind races through what this could mean.

I should say no.

I’m wound tight. I’m angry and one bad comment away from snapping.

But the image of Wesley in her element forms anyway. The opportunity to meet the people that she puts above herself. The people who love her without conditions.

The pull is too tempting to refuse.

I type before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: I’ll be there in twenty.

31

Wesley

Christmas at my place is cozy in a way that makes me yearn for my family to live closer.

Growing up, Christmas always came with a shadow. Even years later, even after the casseroles and grief settled into something manageable, the ghost of my mother still seemed to linger whenever we were in the old house. She was tucked into the corners of the dining room and threaded through every recipe card written in her looping handwriting. There is always a sense that we are honoring something fragile there, protecting it, and measuring ourselves against it.

I don’t know how they do it every single day.

But here, in my apartment, there is no shrine to memory, no careful choreography around absence. It’s just us. My dad. Emma. Me. Loud and imperfect and alive in the present tense.

The kitchen is already too warm, the oven humming as pots crowd the stovetop and jockey for space. Steam is fogging the windows, carrying the smell of garlic and butter through the entire apartment.

My dad moves between the sink and the counter with comfortable efficiency, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes as I use them. Emma drifts in and out, stealing pieces of food and offering wildly unhelpful commentary.

They both look at home here, which does something strange to my chest. My apartment has felt lonely this past week, but right now it feels like a real home.

We did gifts this morning in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the rug. We don’t exchange anything expensive, just small, deliberate things that say I saw this and thought of you. A framed photo of the three of us from a summer trip years ago. A mug in Emma’s favorite ridiculous color. A cookbook for Dad with handwritten notes tucked inside.

A few years ago, we stopped doing big gifts after it started feeling like a performance review instead of a holiday. Without that pressure hanging over it, the day has become lighter and more centered on time together instead of transactions.

I cannot imagine choosing to be alone on a day like this, which is probably why I invited Nathan without thinking through the very obvious emotional landmines attached. It’s not my job to rescue him. It’s not my responsibility to patch the cracks in his family or make up for their lack of support. But the idea of him sitting somewhere by himself, feeling unwanted on Christmas, lodged under my ribs and refused to budge until I did something about it. So I did. Impulsively.

A month and a half ago, I would’ve said there was nothing impulsive about me, but now I’m not so sure. When it comes to Nathan, it seems reason evades me every damn time.

Now, I’m at the counter chopping vegetables with more force than necessary, trying to keep my hands from shaking. In two weeks, we break up and go our separate ways. Introducing him to my family makes the line harder to walk.

Emma is perched across from me at the bar, chin in her hand, watching me with the delighted curiosity of someone who smells gossip.

“Hey,” she says. “Those carrots didn’t do anything to you.”

“I’m just focused.” I don’t look up.

“Focused,” she repeats, eyes dropping pointedly to my bouncing foot. “Is this about Nathan?”

“Why would it be about Nathan?”

“Because five minutes ago you announced that your extremely hot boyfriend is coming over for Christmas dinner and now you look like you’re about to either pass out or commit a felony with a vegetable peeler.”

I plant my foot flat on the floor and will it to behave. “He’s just coming by.”

Her grin widens. “Just coming by. On Christmas. To dinner. With your family.”

Before I can build a defense, Dad looks up from the table he’s in the process of setting. “Boyfriend?”