Page 121 of The Rebel King

“Thank you for having me,” she replies, sliding her arm through the crook of my elbow. The claim she stakes on me is not subtle, but that’s something she’s never been. I’ve never needed her to be anything except who she was from the moment I met her—a bold, beautiful battle cry.

A wry grin of acknowledgment lifts one side of Dad’s mouth.

“You still take for-damn-ever, son,” he mutters, slides his hands into his pockets, and walks off toward the dining room. “Food’s getting cold.”

Lennix’s eyes follow his broad shoulders in the expensively tailored sports jacket when he walks away. From behind, not seeing the lines on his face or the gray at his temples, he could be me.

The last name she used to see as a curse I hope she’ll soon take. I haven’t revisited the proposal. I may not win, and the implications of the presidency are a bridge we may never have to cross. We could wait and see, but there’s something in me—everything in me, if I’m honest—that doesn’t want to wait. I want to be the risk she takes. I want us to jump off this cliff overlooking the water together, certain that as long as we have each other, we won’t drown.

“Ready?” she asks, a relaxed smile on her pretty red lips. I want to kiss her but don’t want to ruin it, so I press my lips to her hair, and we walk down the stairs.

My mother doesn’t do anything in half measures, especially not the holidays. The house is always fully decorated the day after Thanksgiving. On our way to the dining room, we pass one of several massive trees throughout the house, glittering with warm light. I pause, seeing not the empty living room but the floor littered with bright wrapping paper, two boys riding brand-new bikes into the hall, my father chasing us, my mother yelling for all the king’s men to come eat breakfast on Christmas morning.

I grip Lennix’s hand, struggling to master my emotions. Sheleans into me, but she knows I’m leaning on her. If this is hard for me, how difficult is it for my parents?

“I’m right here,” Lennix says, squeezing my hand back. “And I love you.”

I glance down at her, my spot of sunshine in the lingering winter of grief, and manage a smile.

When we reach the dining room, my mother crosses over and hugs me right away and tightly. When she pulls back, tears swim in her blue eyes. “It’s so good to have you home for Christmas, Maxim. Thank you for…” She bites her lip for a second before offering her warm smile. “Thank you for coming.”

Shifting her glance to Lennix, she reaches for her hand, her smile warming even more. “Thank you for coming, too. For bringing him home.”

“He wanted to be here,” Lennix says softly. “Thank you for having me.”

We make our way to the long table, and Lennix sits beside me. My father sits at one end of the table and my mother at the other. When my father picks up his fork, we all take that as our cue to do the same.

It’s silent for a few moments, the only conversation the clang of silverware with fine china. I glance up to find my father’s eyes fixed to the seat across from me, the empty one Owen always used to occupy. My fork freezes in midair, and the turkey turns to sawdust on my tongue. Dad swallows convulsively, obviously wrestling with demons dressed as memories. A single tear slides over one hard cheek, and his mouth goes tight and thin.

I’m at a loss. I’ve never seen my father cry. Not at the funeral or in the days that followed, even when I knew he was hurting. He’s never shown any weakness, and maybe that was always our problem. Too much strength, not enough vulnerability. Too much power without compassion. When I was growing up, he was a deity. When I was older, he often felt like a villain. But now, in my maturity, I see him as he truly is.

Human.

Not perfect. Not evil. Not a god or a devil. Just my father, with whom I won’t always agree but whom I’ll love however he comes.

My mother rises from her seat, plate in hand, and walks the length of the table to sit beside him. They share a long look, and what passes between them is familiar because I know what love looks like, but it’s foreign since they’ve rarely shown it this freely. He reaches for her hand and squeezes, and I know how that feels—to walk through life hand in hand with the woman you love, through good times and unimaginably hard ones. Their wedding rings glint in the glow of Christmas lights, and the longing to claim Lennix that way, to declare I’m hers that way, overwhelms me. I think we’re all overwhelmed, but no one tries to fix it—to pretend it doesn’t hurt or offer some stupid pat phrase that disavows the pain of the empty seat at our table.

We live in that silence, in that reality for a few moments, and then my father clears his throat, resumes eating. “So how’s the campaign going?”

“Great,” Lennix and I answer in unison. We share a glance and a laugh.

“It’s going well,” I say. “We’re anxious to see how I do in Iowa come February.”

“I think you’ll win Iowa,” Lennix says, slicing into roasted chicken.

“You could be a little biased.” I reach under the table to touch her knee.

“I don’t do bias,” she says seriously. “The numbers bear it out, and so does my gut. Millennials will break hard for you, and you’ll peel off some disillusioned Dems and moderate Republicans.”

“So you’re out on the trail with him?” Dad asks, a glass of wine halfway to his mouth.

“I’m, uh, helping a gubernatorial candidate right now,” Lennix says, glancing at me and then down to her plate.

My father’s eyes narrow at the small tell of her discomfort. “Why aren’t you running Maxim’s campaign?”

“As you know, there was a lot of gossip when our relationship came out,” I say. “Lennix and her partner, Kimba, didn’t want it to detract from the issues I want to focus on. I need to be taken seriously.”

“Who the hell wouldn’t takeyouseriously?” he nearly growls. “After all you’ve accomplished? This country is lucky you’re thinking about running it.”

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