Page 63 of All in December
Talked to Sam and it went well. He’s pumped about more sleepovers.
Nash:
I knew it’d go great. You still going to come over?
I glance toward the hallway, where I can hear Sam slamming his dresser drawers.
Yes, let me go get a bag packed. How did it go with Benji and Emma?
Nash:
They couldn’t be more excited either, baby.
I toss my phone onto the bed and grab my overnight bagfrom the closet, throwing in a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a phone charger. I pause when I get to my dresser, eyes lingering on the framed photo of Sam and me at the lake last summer. He’s holding a fish, and I’m squinting into the sun behind him, proud as hell. I can almost imagine a new photo of the five of us in that exact spot with even bigger smiles and so much more love.
“Hey, buddy?” I call down the hall as I zip my bag. “You ready?”
“Yes!”
By the time we’re in the car, I’m aware I should give Sam the heads-up that I’ll be staying too.
“Hey,” I say, glancing over as I back out of the driveway. “Just so you know, I’m planning to hang out with Nash tonight. I might sleep over there too.”
He looks up from where he’s fiddling with the zipper on his coat. “Oh. Cool. So like… a double sleepover?”
I smile. “Pretty much.”
“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “Can we have cinnamon rolls in the morning?”
“Yeah, I’m sure we can make that happen.” I laugh.
As we pull up to Nash’s place, the porch lights cast a soft golden glow over the snow-covered steps. Twinkling lights wrap around the railing and line his roof, and a wreath hangs on the front door, framed by a few simple fake Christmas trees on both sides. It’s cozy, festive, and homey.
The second we park, Sam’s already unbuckling. He grabs his backpack and bolts up the steps, full of energy, and knocks on the door.
Nash opens the door, already smiling. “Hey, you made it.”
“Hi! Yep!” Sam says, barging right in and kicking off his shoes.
“We did,” I chuckle at Sam’s enthusiasm as he runs toward Benji and Emma in the living room.
Nash leans in slightly, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You okay?”
I nod, more than okay. “Yes, and even better now.”
“Mmm, me too.” He brushes his hand lightly against mine in that small, just-us way. “Come on in.”
“So”—I grin, unzipping my coat—“Sam’s fine with me staying tonight, but I did promise him cinnamon rolls in the morning to seal the deal. What are the chances you’ve got some in the fridge?”
“Approximately zero.” Nash laughs, and so do I.
“No big deal,” I say, setting my bag near the bench by the door. “I was planning to order some to be delivered tonight or in the morning anyway.”
“Or”—Nash holds up a finger—“we could make them from scratch. Or at least attempt. I’ve got tons of baking stuff in the kitchen, and it could be a lot of fun.”
We walk toward the kitchen together while the kids play in the living room. Warmth seeps into my chest as I’m finally stepping into the version of my life I didn’t even know I was waiting for. I’ve never once had the impulse to make cinnamon rolls from scratch, but suddenly, nothing sounds better.
I look around his kitchen. It’s clean but lived-in with a couple of scribbled grocery reminders stuck to the fridge and the kids’ hand-drawn art. He’s got wood cabinets and granite countertops.
