Page 31 of Elf-ish

I laugh, squinting into the bright sunlight. “Three. My older brother Dane, a younger sister, named Christmas.”

“Christmas? You’re kidding me.”

“I kid you not,” I counter, imparting a poor British accent. “And then my youngest brother, Beau.”

“So Dane, Angelica, Christmas, Beau. Sounds a little like a theme.” His lip crooks.

“My last name is Winter. There’s definitely a theme.”

Jude nods. Since he doesn’t want to talk, I can’t seem to help myself. “Our parents died within a few years of each other. Our Gran and Gramps took us in.” Narrowing my eyes beneath the glare of the sunshine, I add, “Gramps died a few years ago.”

I sense Jude glance at me but move on to the happier points about my family. “We also lived with my Aunt Gertie, who’s a bit of a Mrs. Havisham. Jilted lover. Proud fornicator.”

Jude snorts.

“She’s the reason I needed to go to the lingerie department at Ashford’s. Every year we do an adult gift exchange, and every year I get her.” I tilt my head. “Highly suspicious, if you ask me. But also every year, she asks for something provocative . . . her word, not mine.” I chuckle.

Who am I to judge if an older woman wants to feel sexy and provide herself special time?

“Anyway, they live in a three-flat. The bottom is a garden apartment for Gertie. The middle is our grandparents. The top was ours.” Talk about a close-knit, extended family.

“But the entire building was our home.” And a cramped one at that. “Now my sister lives on the top floor with her three kids.”

Jude remains quiet another second before stating, “My grandparents had a place on Prairie Avenue.”

“Fancy,” I remark about the historical millionaire’s row.

“But we had a place in the Gold Coast neighborhood,” he adds.

Equally swanky.

“My mom was an influencer before the term was born, and Tucker had been in a band.”

“That’s cool,” I interject, noting this is the second or third time he’s called his dad by his first name.

Jude scoffs. “Yeah, but he gave it up to marry my mom.” Jude squints, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I was always closer to her than him. And Julia, my younger sister, was always the apple of my dad’s eye.”

“That’s how it is with girls,” I smile, recalling how Christmas and I were close to our dad, especially after he took on the role of both parents for a few years.

“That’s how it is when she’s his, and I wasn’t.”

My feet falter, and Jude tightens his elbow to hold me steady.

“My family is complicated, like I said.” He purses his lips a bit.

I quietly ask, “Did he take that out on you? The not-being-his part.” The situation certainly sounds complex and difficult.

“No. I resented him. Like it was his fault I wasn’t his.”

My brows pinch. I’m puzzled by this statement as well as the relationship.

“So, you aren’t close with your father?” I clarify, which is all kinds of sad.

“My father . . . is dead. Tucker and I aren’t close.” Sadness layers his tone.

Maybe he could rectify the distance. He could open communication. Be the first to express a desire to connect. However, the tightness of his lips causes me to keep my advice to myself.

I’m not here to judge Jude’s upbringing. I don’t even need to understand it, but I’d like to understand him, and I often find that the root of a person’s personality stems from their childhood.