Page 10 of Christmas With My Ex

As soon as I say that, I wish I could take it back. Saying I wish I could spend this time with him is sure to push some buttons.

She glances at me, and for the first time, there’s something softer in her expression. Sympathy, maybe. She knows what Nicky means to me, knows how much I hate being away from him, especially during the holidays.

I stand corrected. Maybe time has finally put all of that animosity away. I can only hope the mention of my son isn't such a sore subject anymore.

“How is Helena?" she asks sincerely. She and my sister were very tight while we dated, but because Helena and I were so close, once things ended so badly, so, too, did their friendship.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Rives must not know. She hasn’t been part of my life for years. How would she?

“She was my rock,” I say, my voice quiet. “But we lost her. December of 2020.”

Her eyes widen in sympathy. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Nick. Was it Covid?”

I shake my head, the memory flooding back like it always does. “No. Car accident. Right after Christmas. Helena and Bobby had just gotten back in town and she and their son, Sammy, ran out to grab something when it happened.”

Rives’ hand stills on her drink. “Sammy?”

“Yeah. They had a fourteen month old at the time.” I pause, feeling the ache that never fully leaves. “He was in the car with her.”

“Shit,” she whispers. “I didn’t know they had a child. Helena always wanted kids so much. I remember how hard they were trying even back in 2018 when we were spending a lot of time together.”

“They finally did have one,” I say, managing a small smile. “They adopted. Sammy is such a great kid.”

Her eyes soften, and I can see the memories flicker across her face. She cared about Helena. I know that. And maybe this is hitting her harder than I might have guessed it would.

“You would love this kid. He is an adventure-seeker like you,” I continue, trying to break the heaviness of the moment. “Nicky and Sammy are only two years apart, so they’re growing up more like brothers than cousins. I help Bobby a lot since his family all lives in Florida. Sammy’s with me and Nicky a lot. He’s like a second son.”

Rives lets out a breath, the emotion still hanging between us, but there’s something else there now—understanding. Empathy. “He's lucky to have y'all like that,” she says, more a statement than a question. "Gosh, that is just terrible. I'm so very sorry, Nicholas."

“Yeah. I’ve worked hard to make sure Sammy knows who his mom was, even though he was too young to remember her. I remind him every day how much she loved him.”

She turns back to her beer, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. But it doesn’t feel as tense as it did before. Maybe this is okay. Maybe this is enough.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, searching for something to keep the conversation going.

The awkwardness seems to have waned, but we are both holding back, like we’re both trying to avoid stepping on old wounds.

Then it hits me—work. It’s always been the thing we could talk about easily. Maybe now it’s the way to bridge this awkward gap.

“So, how’s work going? Still a respiratory therapist, right?”

She looks up, surprised, but nods. “Yeah, still doing that. Moved out of the hospital, though—working more in outpatient now, which I really like. I get to know my patients and see them progress.”

“Outpatient, huh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Bet that’s a different kind of challenge.”

She takes a sip of her beer, nodding. “It is. Quieter, less of the life-or-death adrenaline rush. But I like it because it's more focused on long-term care. Patients stick around long enough for me to actually see them improve.”

I chuckle. “That’s the opposite of what I get in the ER. We patch people up and send them on their way. It’s rare I see the same person twice.”

She smirks. “Yeah, you’re the front line. I get them after the storm.”

The conversation flows easier now, the tension slowly fading as we talk shop—patients, tough cases, and the parts of the job that keep us up at night. It’s familiar, comforting in a way. We’ve always been able to talk about this stuff. Maybe it’s why we connected in the first place.

“Ever miss the adrenaline?” I ask, leaning back a little.

“You know I love that in every aspect of my life. Funny enough, work is the place I like calm, predictable, routine,” she admits. “But it’s a different kind of reward now. Getting to see someone actually get better, long-term, feels good. You?”

Very interesting that a little age is showing her that the things we fought about, my desire for more routine, less craziness, is something she actually craves now. Of course, I would never say that, but hearing her say that feels almost like a little bit of victory.

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