Chapter 114
Ellie's POV
"Ellie?" Mom was watching me closely. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." I realized I'd been staring at my plate. "I'm fine. It's just... I guess I don't really care anymore? About Lucas, I mean. Is that bad?"
Mom came back to the table and sat down, reaching for my hand again. "No, honey. It's not bad. It's healthy. You're moving on."
"I just—" I struggled to find the words. "Sometimes I think what Lucas did wasn't that terrible, you know? Like, he fell in love with someone else. That happens. People change." I looked up at Mom. "But then I remember everything else. How he tried to control who I spent time with. How he destroyed Grandma's pendant. How he always put Samantha first, even when it meant hurting me or endangering our secret." I shook my head. "He's an adult. A werewolf who should know better. He has to face the consequences of his choices."
"That's very mature of you." Mom squeezed my hand. "And you're right. Lucas made his choices. Now he lives with them. That's not your responsibility anymore."
The front door opened, bringing a gust of cold air and Dad's voice: "Little help out here?"
We spent the next hour getting the Christmas tree into the house. Dad had picked a beautiful Douglas fir—full and perfectly shaped, with that fresh pine scent that immediately made everything feel more festive.
"Think it'll fit in the stand?" Dad asked, eyeing the trunk.
"Only one way to find out," I said, grabbing one side while he took the other.
It took some maneuvering, and Mom provided running commentary ("A little to the left—no, your other left, David!"), but eventually we got it upright in its usual spot by the front window.
"Perfect," Mom declared, hands on her hips. "Now comes the fun part."
The fun part, apparently, meant three hours of untangling lights, hanging ornaments, and debating the proper garland-to-tinsel ratio. Dad put on the old Christmas vinyl records—Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, all the classics. Mom made hot chocolate. I found myself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of it all.
This was home. This was family. This was what I wanted Jackson to experience.
Around 11:00 AM, my phone buzzed. Jackson's name lit up the screen.
Jackson: Morning. How are you feeling?
I smiled, typing back: Better. We're decorating the tree. How are you?
Jackson: Good. Working on a paper. Thrilling stuff.
Jackson: Actually, I'm procrastinating. The paper's boring.
What's it about?
Jackson: Emergency response protocols. Riveting, right?
I bit back a laugh. Absolutely fascinating.
Jackson: How's the decorating going?
I looked around at the organized chaos—Mom debating between two different tree toppers, Dad wrapped in tangled lights, ornaments scattered across every surface.
Chaotic. But good. Very... Christmas-y.
There was a pause before his next message.
Jackson: That sounds nice.
Something in those three words made me frown. I glanced across the street again at the dark, empty Miller house, then back at my phone.
Are you and your uncle doing any decorating?
Another pause. Longer this time.
Jackson: Not really. It's just the two of us, and Miles isn't really into the whole Christmas thing.
My chest tightened. No tree. No decorations. No family traditions. Just Jackson and his uncle in that big house, pretending it was a normal day.
That's... sad.
Jackson: It's fine. I'm used to it.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? He was used to it. Used to holidays without warmth or celebration. Used to being alone.
Not anymore.
I typed quickly: I'm really glad my parents invited you for Christmas Eve. I was worried it would be awkward for you, or put you in a weird position. But now I'm just glad you'll get to experience all of this. The tree, the food, the whole family atmosphere. You deserve that.
This time, his response came immediately.
Jackson: Ellie.
Jackson: Thank you. Really.
You're welcome. And Mom says you can come over early if you want. Like, afternoon instead of evening. She wants you to feel like family, not just a guest.
Jackson: I'd like that. A lot.
Jackson: Tell your mom thank you.
I will.
I looked up from my phone to find Mom watching me with a knowing smile. "Jackson?"
"Yeah. He's... they're not really doing Christmas stuff at his place. It's just him and his uncle." I pocketed my phone. "I told him he could come early on Christmas Eve. That okay?"
"More than okay." Mom's expression softened. "That poor boy. Losing his parents so young, and now just rattling around in that big house..." She shook her head. "We'll make sure he has a proper Christmas."
Dad came over, finally free of the light tangles. "We talking about Jackson?"
"He's coming early on Christmas Eve," Mom told him. "I want to make sure he feels welcome."
Dad nodded thoughtfully. "Good call. Kid needs family."
We broke for lunch around 1:00 PM—sandwiches and Mom's homemade soup. Through the kitchen window, I could see the Miller house, still dark and silent.
The afternoon passed in a blur of decorating. We hung garlands on the staircase banister, wove lights through them, and added red velvet bows at intervals. Mom brought out the nativity scene from the attic—the one that had been in her family for three generations—and we arranged it carefully on the mantel.
I strung cranberries and popcorn for the tree while Dad hung the outdoor lights. Mom made her famous gingerbread cookies, and soon the whole house smelled like sugar and spice and everything Christmas.