Page 74 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Me too,” she says, stilling when I don’t entertain her movement. She runs her fingers gently against my hand as I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the feelings threatening to puncture my skin, utterly incapable of uttering a single word to her to describe what she makes me feel. But for the first time in my life, wanting to. Fisting my free hand, Serena holding the other, securing her to me, she turns in my arm, giving me the very look Ruby is openly giving her husband.

She loves me.

Warring emotions strangle me mute as she looks up at me, her profile lit. This girl who doesn’t see any of my mistakes or the glaring differences between us. Mistakes I’ve purposely kept her blind to. Concealed from her to steal more nights away and as many blistering kisses as we can before I’m forced to leave her.

“You know what else I love?” She asks.

I swallow and swallow again. It takes every bit of effort for me to slowly shake my head. Heart on fucking fire, I wait on bated breath for what’s coming.

No part of me wants to run away if she gives me the words, but no part of me thinks she’s anywhere near a place where she can align herself fully to them—align herself to a guy like me. She may love what we have hidden away from reality, but she would fucking hate ours if she knew what being with me consisted of—of the condemnation. The price and consequences that come with choosing me. But even as I think it, I’m swept in by the softness in her rich brown eyes, by her touch as she palms my jaw, and I close mine briefly. By her scent as she surrounds me in a warmth I never knew existed. Utterlyfucking gone for this girl, I feel myself holding my breath as she leans in, and I close my eyes in anticipation.

“Ham. I love ham,” she says, giggling as she rips all fucking hope from my chest and drags me into the kitchen.

Glancing over at her now, all these years later, I catch her eyes already on me. The same litter of colorful lights dance along her profile as she gazes back at me, and without a doubt in my mind, I know she’s lost in the very same memory. This sweet spot, in the here and now, has my chest stretching, tightening with gratitude. Gratitude I felt then and still feel thanks to the crystal-clear love reflecting in her eyes as she mouths “I love you” just as the song finishes.

Serena and I remain in an eye lock as we both start to clap. Just after, I pass Wyatt off to his mother and stand. Serena frowns at my unreturned sentiment, and I feel her gaze on me as I walk over to where Whitney sits next to Eli, Peyton in her lap. Bending, I whisper my request to my wife’s sister, and Whitney looks back at me, giving me a grin and a quick nod.

Minutes later, the opening notes of Open Arms start to play as Brenden fake gags before he’s struck stupid by a Kleenex box, thanks to Ruby.

As Whitney, the most incredible of songbirds—her voice literally one of an angel—begins to rival Steve Perry’s delivery, I catch my wife’s eyes and walk over to offer my hand. Serena stares down at it, a rare blush warming her cheeks as she hands Jameson off to her brother before taking it. Ushering her from the couch, I walk her in front of the Christmas tree and pull her into my arms, and after twenty-two years, I dance with her.

We’ve probably danced twice in our entire marriage. Both times at our weddings, but I dance with her tonight not out of obligation or because it’s expected but, in truth, because I fucking want to. Like I did all those years ago. Because when I saw Ruby and Allen dancing that night, Serena’s want becamemy own. It became my hope for us, even if I was terrified to both want and admit it.

And so, as I stare into my wife’s watering eyes, I gaze upon her with the same love in remembrance of the exact moment I knew I did. It’s then that I find the words I couldn’t back then and bend to whisper the return sentiment. The way I wish twenty-year-old me had the moment I felt it all those years ago. But I decide it’s better late than never. And though I’ve said it a thousand times or more after that night, I make sure it rings clear for the time I felt it and failed to use the words.

“I love you, Serena Collins.”

Sniffing, I feel her nod for not using our shared last name because she knows.

“May the Lord be with you,” the priest finishes.

“And also with you,” the congregation replies in unison as the music begins filtering in, concluding midnight mass. The crowd begins to disburse, and Gracie and Serena file out of the pew along with the rest of the family. Searching for my son, I find Peyton standing in the middle of the aisle, blocking traffic, staring at the priest who’s greeting people before they start filing out of the church.

“Come on, Peyton,” I usher as he keeps his eyes glued to the priest, his intrigue confusing me. He turns to me suddenly, wide green eyes earnest.

“Daddy, I need to speak to him,” Peyton says. “Okay, Dad—er, Sir?”

I bite away my grin at the way he’s addressing me as I look over to see the priest surrounded.

“I mean,” I swallow, “He’s pretty busy. So you might—”

Peyton turns as if on a mission, and I’m on his heels when he stops a good five feet away and turns back to me. “Daddy, is I respect you if I ask you not to come?”

“What?” I cringe at the idea of my four-year-old son approaching a Catholic priest, which starts to sound like an opening line for a joke, with a punchline I’m pretty sure will humiliate me.

“He’s busy. Maybe I can help you?”

“No, no,” Peyton shakes his head adamantly. “Can you twust me, Daddy?”

“Uh.”No, no, no, please, no, not in your house, God.

But it’s my son’s shaky voice and wide eyes that have me hesitantly giving in. “Okay, but please mind your manners.”

He’s already turned again as he walks over, his voice nowhere near church level as he instantly starts to yank on the priest’s robe.

“Excuse me, Sir. Please, Sir, are you Jesus’s friend?” Peyton asks, glancing back at me to make sure I’ve kept my respective distance as I sink where I stand. My gut tells me to stop this as my son’s eyes plead with me to let him go through with whatever exchange is about to happen.

Most of our family is already out of the cathedral, and I can feel Eli’s eyes on the two of us—forever the protective, doting uncle, even from where he idles far enough away to give us this moment. As the church continues to empty, Peyton’s voice carries more clearly back to me. Dressed in a suit that Eli got him as a present, I can’t help but notice how adorable he looks. Eli even styled his hair tonight, slicking it back in a modern-day Pompadour. As I admire his dress, my nerves fire off as my heart starts to gnaw at me for the things I’ve done in the last week. The fear is real that I’m about to get in trouble in the house of the Lord if my kid rats me out. The feeling sucks, and maybe I deserve it. I don’t have long to mull it over when the man iscut abruptly from his well wishes by the blunt and overly polite demands of my loud kid.

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