Page 63 of My Secret Santa Clayton

I nodded. “We were all hurting. I get it.”

She shook her head. “No, you don't understand. I want something good to come out of this mess. You and Grace...you should try to make things right. It's clear you were meant for each other.”

Her words sank into me, heavy with regret. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to sprint right back home to Grace. Dog food could wait; we could improvise.

I needed to be with her right now.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said, stepping back, ready to leave. “I need to go. I left Grace waiting.”

“Wait,” Sierra called after me. “Your dad, he was looking for you. I saw him at the diner.”

I paused, the unexpected mention of my father stopping me short. “He was?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “He seemed like he needed to talk.”

Well…that was worrying.

Probably drunk again.

Damn it, I didn’t need this today.

I left Sierra behind, her booth now just another part of the Christmas hustle that I had no business with. Her revelation festered, but it was the mention of my old man that put me off balance. We’d barely exchanged more than two words since...hell, since before I enlisted. Avoiding him had become second nature, a reflex I didn't even think about anymore.

But today, of all days, he wanted to see me?

The diner's windows glowed with warm light, mocking the chill in my bones. I pushed through the door and scanned the familiar place until I spotted him. Dad slumped in a booth, his head bowed in that way that made him look smaller than life. He looked pitiful, and it twisted something in my chest.

“Clay,” he said as I slid into the seat across from him. His voice sounded rough, like gravel and broken glass.

“Didn't think this would ever happen,” I said. My tone stayed flat, careful not to give anything away. “Heard you were looking for me.”

He nodded, unwilling to meet my eyes. “I was.”

The waitress came by, her movements brisk and efficient. She poured coffee into the two mugs on the table, steam rising up between us. I wrapped my hands around the warmth, welcoming the simple comfort it offered.

Thank goodness Betty wasn’t here, or I would be drowning in gossip within an hour.

I stared at my father, the steam from the coffee blurring his features for a moment. “What are you even doing here?” I asked. “Are you drunk?”

“No…no, I’m three days sober,” he said, then scoffed. “As if that’s some kind of accomplishment.”

I just stared at him, keeping my distance. I didn’t trust this. Not one bit. “So what do you want?” I muttered. “I have places to be.”

He shifted in his seat, and I could see the years weighing on him. “I had a dream,” he said, his voice low. “About Michael.”

The name hung in the air.Michael.My twin brother. The one we lost too early, the one whose absence shaped our lives like a river cutting through rock.

I hadn't heard Dad say that name in so long, and it hit me hard, right in the chest.

“Michael,” I repeated, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

Dad didn’t say anything.

I couldn't sit there, not with the weight of all those unspoken words between us. So I started to slide out of the booth, suddenly anxious to get the hell out.

But Dad's hand landed on my wrist. His grip was firm.

“Sit down,” he said, and his voice held a note of something I hadn't heard in years.

---