Don't Kiss the Bride

She sees her therapist twice a week now, and I found out she’s upped her anxiety and depression meds. Lately she’s been nibbling on bread again, which is a step back because she was doing great eating new foods and going to restaurants to eat things out of her comfort zone.

“It’s Christmas, Lucky. A time for cheer! I’m sad about Erin, too. I cried myself to sleep every night for days after you told me what happened. But we have to keep going. Life is for living.”

“I’m not feeling cheery.”

“You will once you get here. I let you off the hook for not coming on Thanksgiving, but you have to come for Christmas. I’ll make all your favorite things. And we have presents for you.”

“I’m too old for presents,” I grumble.

“You’re never too old for presents. You’re bringing Skylar, right? We have presents for her, too.”

I walk across the demo’d second level and stare out the window. “I really don’t know, I’ll have to ask her. She might have plans of her own.”

Actually, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have any plans. Other than me and Megan, who does she have? Does she spend her holidays with Megan and her family? I’d say probably not. If I had my guess, I’d say she sits home with Gus in fuzzy pajamas watching Christmas movies.

And now, with that visual stuck in my head, all I want to do is exactly that with her.

Pots bang on the other end of the phone. “She’s your wife. Uncle Al and I would like her to come.”

“I’ll ask her tonight.”

“Promise me you’ll both come.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll be there.

“This could be my last Christmas. I’m old, you know.”

“Stop it. You are not dying. You’ve been pulling that since I was seventeen years old.”

“Well, I’m definitely getting closer.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Come by during the week and help your uncle drag the tree upstairs. You can tell me what Skylar likes to eat then. Oh, and I’d like an air fryer, and a parakeet for gifts.”

I run the back of my hand across my forehead. “Please tell me you’re not planning to air fry the parakeet.”

“Of course not. I’ve always wanted one—they sing and chirp. I want a pale-blue one. Not green.”

“Anything else?”

“No, just my favorite nephew and his beautiful wife. And a parakeet. And the air fryer. That’s all,” she says cheerfully.

“Okay,” I say, too exhausted to argue with a determined seventy-something-year-old. She always wins.

After we hang up, I decide to go to the boutique to surprise Skylar with lunch. On Fridays she goes to school ’til eleven, then works the rest of the day, so the timing is perfect.

I tell the guys I’m heading out for a break and stop at the deli on my way to the boutique to get Skylar a cup of vegetable and white bean soup—perfect. Nothing too squishy, chewy, or chokey.

Her eyes light up with surprise when she sees me walk into the store, and I finally get a glimpse of that beautiful smile I’ve been missing all day.

“Lucky,” she says, beaming. “What are you doing here?”

I put the small, white bag on the counter between us. “I brought you soup.”

She takes the bag and gives me a teasing side-eye. “You want cookies, don’t you? Is this a trade?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Nope. I just wanted to see you. I heard you coughing this morning, and I thought, if you’re getting a cold, soup is good.”

“That’s so sweet. Thank you.” Her smile just about makes my heart stop. “You can take some cookies,” she adds. “I mean, since you’re here.”

I lean my elbows on the counter. “What are you doing on Christmas Day?”

Her eyebrows knit together. I try not to look at the pink scar on her forehead because it throws me into an instant inner rage when I do.

“Um… I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” She pushes her hair back. “Usually I’m just home.”

I was right. She stays home with the cat.

Not that I’m any better. Every year after I have dinner with Aunt Suzy and Uncle Al, I go home and hang out with my dog.

“Aunt Suzy and Uncle Al want you to come for Christmas dinner. With me.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. She opens the bag and pulls out the small container of soup and plastic spoon. “Wow. That’s really nice. Do you want me to go?”

“Yeah. I want you to come with me.”

Her top teeth edge into her lower lip, as if she’s trying to bite back a smile, but it slowly wins, tipping her mouth up. Big, bright-blue eyes steal a glance at me as she stirs the soup.

“Then I’d love to go,” she says.

“I can’t pass up the chance to see what kind of crazy Christmas sweater you’re gonna wear.”