Chapter 34 Patrick
The days drift by in a soft blur.
They’re cluttered with small, ordinary moments — Cade trying, in increasingly creative ways, to pry more information out of me… Jordan teasing me every chance he gets… the steady warmth that comes from being in a house where you’re known and wanted.
Cade corners me in the kitchen while the coffee brews. On the back porch, as we knock snow off the railing. During a grocery run, as Jordan disappears down the snack aisle.
“So,” he’ll casually say, like we’re discussing the weather, “about these rules…”
I deflect. I shrug. I offer vague half-answers that say nothing at all.
Jordan, meanwhile, has decided my supposed forbidden desire is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Uncle Pat’s got a secret lover,” he announces one afternoon, sprawled lazily across the living room rug.
“I do not,” I reply dryly from the couch.
“Ooooh, defensive.”
Cade doesn’t even look up from his book. “He’s been defensive since Saturday.”
They laugh. I roll my eyes.
It’s easy. Light.
And through all of it, Lottie is there.
Always.
She never ventures far from my mind. Even when I’m helping Cade string more lights along the banister. Even when Jordan insists on showing me some ridiculous videos on his phone. Even when we’re elbow-deep in cookie dough and flour dust hangs in the air like smoke.
She hums beneath everything. A constant, low ache.
Sometimes it spikes unexpectedly — a scent that reminds me of her, a laugh that sounds a little too close to hers. Other times it’s quieter, more like background music I can’t quite turn off.
Still... being here helps.
It doesn’t erase her — nothing could, but it softens the edges.
I get a small break from Lottie on Christmas morning.
It’s brief, but I’ll take it.
I wake early, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling and the pale winter light slipping through the blinds. The house is quiet in that heavy, anticipatory way only Christmas morning can be.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps down the hall. A muffled thud. Jordan’s unmistakable voice — trying and failing to whisper. “Dad. Dad. It’s morning.”
Cade groans. Loudly “It’s six am.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“That does not make six in the morning humane.”
I laugh quietly into my pillow.
More shuffling. A door opening. The creak of the stairs. The faint rustle of wrapping paper being adjusted, probably because Jordan couldn’t resist peeking at the tree.
I lie there for a minute longer, staring at the ceiling, listening to them move around downstairs. Their voices drift up the stairs, along with the low hum of the coffee maker.
For the first time in days, my mind isn’t immediately flooded with her.
I’m just here.
Listening to the sound of a father and son on Christmas morning in a house that smells faintly of vanilla and sugar cookies.
The kind of simple happiness that doesn’t demand anything from me.
I swing my legs out of bed and pull on a sweater before heading to the door. As I step into the hallway, the smell of cinnamon and fresh coffee drifts up the stairs, wrapping around me like something from childhood.
For a brief, fragile stretch of time, I let myself exist here.
Not as the man who wants something forbidden.
Not as the man wrestling with rules and consequences.
Just Uncle Pat. Just a brother.
Just someone lucky enough to be spending Christmas in a house full of love.
When I get downstairs, the house is already glowing.
The Christmas tree lights blink softly across the living room walls. Down here, the vanilla scent is stronger, mixed with cinnamon and fresh coffee.
Jordan sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the pile of presents like a five-year-old practicing patience.
He’s taller now. Broader. Old enough to be driving.
And yet.
I huff a quiet laugh under my breath.
No matter the age, kids will be kids.
He’s practically vibrating where he sits, eyes bouncing between one wrapped box to another as if they might rearrange themselves if he looks away too long.
He notices me a second later.
His head snaps up, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Dad!” he shouts toward the kitchen. “Uncle Pat is up — c’mon so we can open the presents!”
From the kitchen comes the clink of ceramic mugs and Cade's low voice. “It is still criminally early.”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “It’s Christmas!”
A moment later Cade appears, holding two mugs. He looks slightly more awake than he probably did five minutes ago—hair still messy, but his expression softened by amusement. He hands one mug to me without a word.
I take it gratefully. The warmth seeps into my hands as the smell of coffee curls up toward my face. It is early. Much earlier than I’m used to being functional. I take a careful sip and nearly sigh at the caffeine hitting my system.
“You’re enabling him,” I murmur to Cade.
“He’s been up since five,” Cade replies. “This is mercy.”
Cade drops onto the couch beside me just as Jordan springs to his feet and darts to the tree. He drops to his knees in front of it and grabs the nearest present, squinting at the tag like he’s conducting serious research.
“This one’s mine.”
He grabs another.
“This one’s also mine.”
I exchange a look with Cade over my mug.
Jordan reaches for a third. “Yep. Mine.”
It isn’t until the fourth—slightly bigger, wrapped in dark blue paper—that he pauses. “Hey, Dad. This one’s for you!”
He tosses it gently toward Cade, before continuing his sorting mission.
The fifth goes to me. The next two to Cade. Then another lands in my lap.
By the time he finishes distributing everything, Jordan has built himself a small mountain—about eight gifts stacked in uneven towers. Cade has four. I have three.
“Seems fair,” I comment dryly.
“I’m the child,” Jordan says solemnly, as if that explains everything.
Cade snorts. “Debatable.”
We start opening.
Cade and I take our time, carefully peeling back tape and folding paper instead of shredding it. I sip my coffee between gifts, listening to the crinkle of wrapping paper while Jordan provides running commentary.
Jordan, meanwhile, opens his presents like they might explode if he waits too long.
Paper flies. Bows end up in his hair. Every reveal is treated like a life-changing event.
“No way! Dad! This is exactly the one I wanted!”
He whoops loudly enough that I’m surprised the neighbors don’t complain. At one point he pumps his fist so hard he almost knocks over an unopened stack.
I laugh — really laugh — at his childishness. There’s something infectious about it. Something unfiltered and honest.
Cade watches him with that familiar mix of fondness and exhaustion, shaking his head as he opens his own gifts more calmly.
I unwrap a sweater from Cade. A new book from Jordan — one he insists I have to read because “it’s about science but also not boring.” A framed photo of the three of us from years ago, taken on some snowy afternoon that looks a lot like this one.
For a moment, it’s perfect. Warm. Bright.
And then, like a draft slipping under a door, thoughts of Lottie creep back in.
Uninvited.
Is she spending Christmas with her family?
I picture her in a living room somewhere else — different tree, different lights.
Is she sitting on the floor the way Jordan is right now?
How many gifts did she get?
Did she smile when she opened them?
Did she laugh?
Did she like them?
Is she thinking about me the same way I can’t seem to stop thinking about her?
The questions tighten something in my chest.
I imagine her hands untying ribbons. Imagine someone else standing close to her. The thought makes my stomach twist.
I shake my head sharply, as if I can physically knock the images loose.
Not now. Not here.
Jordan lets out another triumphant shout, dragging me back to the present. He holds up some huge flying gadget like it’s a trophy. “Uncle Pat, look at this! It's from Charlie!”
I force a grin and lean forward. “That’s impressive. You going to use it responsibly?”
“Absolutely not,” he says without hesitation.
Cade groans. “Fantastic.”
Laughter fills the room again, bouncing off the walls, mingling with the soft glow of the tree lights and the lingering scent of coffee.
I focus on that — on the warmth at my side, and the boy grinning in front of us, the simple joy of being here.
For now, that has to be enough.