Page 55 of Christmas Criminal

That, and the math teacher. Why the hell is the math teacher touching his daughter?

Or at least, the woman who used to be his daughter.

My dad spies Hank in the back of the hut. "Hank, nice to see you."

Hank grunts, and I turn to give him the most confused look I can muster while fixing my face for when I turn back to my dad.

My dad clears his throat, running a hand over his hair as he puts an arm around his closest daughter, who is muchmore interested in her phone than she is in our conversation.

I don't blame her.

In the few seconds of silence between us, my dad decides to speak. "Hey, uh," he starts, "I wanted to say I'm sorry about Thanksgiving. I didn't know Christina was coming over, and Ididn't realize when she called me that her leg was broken. I thought she was... I don't know, just upset."

Iknowthis conversation has the potential to derail me. I'm betting Hank and Nick know it, too.

I clench my jaw, trying my best to remain level-headed. "Don't you think it's worth showing up even if your daughter isjustupset?"

He blinks. "Well, of course. I just meant that I didn't realize how serious it was."

"So to be clear, you're teaching your two replacement daughters that you're not going to show up for them unless they have a broken leg to prove that something is wrong?"

The small one blinks up at me, her eyes finding mine. I'm struck for a moment how much she looks like me. There's no more of that little kid playfulness–she has that discerning teenager eye now that tells me she's sizing me up right now as much as I'm skewering our shared sperm donor.

"No one is replacing anyone," he says, holding a hand up to stop me. "I was trying to teach them that I'd be there for them during the holidays. No matter what. And I was."

And I go off the deep end. Dad: 1, Calm Noelle: 0.

"Ugh, that's such bullshit. A holiday means nothing if you don't show up otherwise. It's a stupid day where everyone decides to shove pie up their asses and pretend they're one big happy family. Yet the family that actuallyneededyou to show up was left lying on black ice in your driveway."

The taller one raises her eyebrows. I get the feeling she didn't know how Christina's leg was broken.

My dad shakes his head. "Alright, I'm not getting through to you," he says. He wraps an arm around each of the girls' shoulders. "I'm not trying to be an asshole. I was trying to apologize."

"Apologize by proving you can show up when you need to."

He turns, tugging the girls along with him. I shout after them. "And by the way, you two small fries," I call, because of course I'm blanking on their goddamn names. They turn, despite my dad's best efforts to face them forward. "Just because he doesn't show up at the right times, doesn't mean that you don't deserve someone who does!" I'm fully aware I'm making a fool of myself, but along with the anger my dad is inspiring, I feel a certain amount of kinship with these girls.

When you don't have someone to teach you what you deserve, you end up looking for validation in all the wrong places. My sister and I figured it out, thanks in large part to my mom swiftly kicking my dad to the curb when she found out about his second family.

But if you don't have anyone to correct your course–to listen when you need an ear orplain show upwhen you need them–it's a recipe for disaster.

I don't want them to have to claw their way back the way I did.

Before I can stop myself, I'm screaming over the crowd of people closing in between us. "And if you're ever upset and you need somebody to talk to who willlisten, you come find me! I'll listen to you!"

The small one's eyes catch on mine, and I nod as if to reaffirm this, before she's tugged away by my dad and disappears into the crowd.

Nick's hand moves against my back. "You okay?"

I blink, reorienting myself to the space around me. "Yeah. Sorry." I cringe. "Oh god, I think I need to get into the fetal position for a while. Jesus Christ, I can't believe some of the things that come out of my mouth sometimes."

Nick laughs, his hand pressing into my back a little harder through my coat, like he can sense I need that comforting touch.

"Good for you, Noelle," he says as the blood rises in my cheeks.

He doesn't move his hands as I spin slowly toward him, and they come to rest on my hips. His eyes are on mine, his eyebrows raised as if he's waiting for me to combust or derail or otherwise spin out of control.

All Iwantto do is press my face into his chest, feel his warm hand on the back of my neck and his breath darting across my face. I want to feel his hands in my hair and hear the way his voice dips when he's speaking only to me.

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