Page 22 of Christmas With the Convict

“How can you stand for that?” I ask Chase, lip quivering to keep the tears back. “How can you let people treat you like that?”

In the kitchen, everyone is laughing. They’re right back into their perfect holiday.

Chase takes a deep breath, eyes closed as if each bout of laughter is a paper cut between his fingers.

“No man with a badge ever treated me right, Wendy. Not before, not inside, and not now.”

“It’s not fair,” I sniff and wipe my cheeks.

Chase nods.

“Nothing is.”

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, but I’ve lost my holiday spirit.

Everything feels tainted. The lights don’t shine as brightly. The giant tree in our huge living room feels imposing, like it’s about to collapse and destroy us all.

My family is undeterred.

They eat and drink and act merry, completely forgetting about today’s incident. Dinner is as noisy as ever, but I find myself floating in a fog. Only when I meet Chase’s eyes do I feel any relief. In his stoic face, set hard and defensive since this afternoon, I find solace and comfort.

I find all those things I used to feel in this house…

When I look across to the head of the table, at my father sitting in his chair like a king on his throne, I burn with rage. He laughs and smiles like he owns the world. He shoots filthy, split-second glances at Chase, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as if the man could snatch all the money from his bank account if he doesn’t keep an eye on him.

I read once that, at a certain point in life, all children must realize that their parents are not the people they knew. They are not the ideas we created, the Gods we relied on when we were young and confused.

I didn’t believe that when I read it.

Looking at my father now, I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time.

He’s not the man I knew.

For the rest of the night, Chase doesn’t say a word. No one speaks to him. Even the kids, who’ve been practically obsessed with him since he arrived, won’t look in his direction. My father’s accusation, even though it was baseless and proven wrong, has reminded everyone that their house guest is not one of them. Even in that borrowed cardigan, even without his leather vest and most of his tattoos concealed, all they see is the dregs of society.

They look at Chase and they’re afraid.

Do they even know thattheyare the ones that scare me now?

The drinks flow as the night gets colder. Less logs are thrown on the fire as my family slowly disappears off to bed. Chase heads to the basement early, and I wait impatiently until, finally, my drunk uncle heads upstairs, leaving me in the big, empty living room.

I set down the glass I haven’t touched for hours and creep into the basement.

Chase is on the couch writing in his journal.

He looks up at me with relief.

“Just me,” I say. It’s become our little password. “Everyone is passed out.”

He nods and continues writing.

My heelsclackon the steps, Chase’s eyes dart between my legs and the page. “I had a hard time not staring at you in that outfit.”

“You’ve got a thing for tight skirts and heels, huh?”

“I’ve got a thing foryou.”

I lean against the stairs in front of the couch, watching his pen scratch the page. His handwriting is messy like a doctor’s. He seems to be taking his time, writing slowly and purposefully, peeking at me to make sure I’m not reading it upside down.

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