Page 175 of End Game

My thumb catches lightly against the back of his ear. “I meant what I said in there.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With your family or with me?

“Yes.”

He laughs softly, and the sound hangs between us in the cold air. “Good thing you don’t have to figure either one out tonight.”

I study him.

His face. His eyes. The fact that he doesn’t step closer even though I know he wants to. The fact that he lets me maintain control of the contact and the speed of what we’re doing. He understands that wanting and being overwhelmed are not mutually exclusive states for me. There are very few people who understand that distinction without requiring repeated explanations.

Micah does. Although, he did watch the incredibly slow progress it took to get Cami and me where we are.

I don’t kiss him.

I want to.

My fingers move once through his hair before I finally let him go.

Through the front window, I can see Cami moving around the living room while she talks to Griffin. The big tree glows behind her, while the smaller one in the front window continues displaying Dex’s obscene crocheted ornament to the entire neighborhood.

Our house.

Our Christmas.

Our ridiculous, complicated, imperfect family.

Chapter twenty

Holiday Loot Table

Griffin

A quiet Christmas Eve shift feels like a natural one pretending to be a twenty, which means I spend most of the night waiting for the universe to notice its mistake.

There are calls, obviously. An elderly woman falls before midnight and needs help getting off the floor. A kid has an asthma exacerbation around two. We transport a man with chest pain that turns out to be considerably less exciting than dispatch made it sound, which is about as close to a Christmas miracle as I’m willing to claim.

Nobody tries to die on me, though. Nobody vomits in the bus. Nobody punches anyone.

By the time relief comes in, I’ve even managed enough broken sleep in the station that I’m tired but functional.

Before I leave, I check my phone.

There’s a calendar notification.

Christmas morning—home. All five. Do not schedule shit.

Cami’s wording, obviously. I’ve looked at it several times, and every time it makes me smile.

When I pull into the driveway a little after seven, the trees in the front windows are glowing. So is the garland Cami insisted belonged around the porch and the multi-color lights on the bush. Dex’s inflatable dragon looks like a deflated balloon in the front yard, but the timer for it will come on in less than an hour.

I sit in the truck for a few seconds and just look at the house.

I’ve worked plenty of holidays. I’ve come home on Christmas morning to dark rooms, leftovers, and plans that already happened because EMS schedules don’t give a shit what day it is.