Page 69 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, hey, man.” Ethan set the box down. “Where are the Christmas stockings?”

I noted the word STUFF written with black marker on the side. “In that box you’ve got there.”

“That’s what I thought. Mostly because it was the only box not labeled mom and dad.”

I wasn’t much of a packrat. Neither were our parents. When they shifted their home base to Salt Lake City, Utah, they hadn’t left much behind. Most of it I had given away, and everything else fit in two boxes.

The box labeled “stuff” was full of odds and ends from Ethan’s childhood—the parts our parents hadn’t been around to witness. Christmas stockings, yearbooks, a couple programs from when he played the saxophone in the high school marching band. That sort of shit.

“Why do you want the stockings?” I asked.

He served me a look of disbelief. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

I snorted. “We haven’t put out stockings on Christmas Eve since you were eighteen. You told me you were too old for it, remember?”

“I remember.”

“So now you’re not too old for it?”

“Bro. It’s Christmas. Let me be nostalgic if I fucking want to, okay?”

“Okay. Damn.”

I shook my head as he dug through the box. Holidays were always a weird time for us, especially Christmas. Rather than traditional holidays, Mom and Dad tended to carve out a week or two in late spring to visit us in between their adventures. Winter in the northern hemisphere was summer in the southern hemisphere, so they usually spent Christmas in Patagonia. Ethan and I were on our own.

So maybe that’s what had Ethan all nostalgic. He was leaving for Asheville, and it wouldn’t be the two of us anymore.

“Two stockings.” Ethan pulled them out of the box and held them up. “You filled both of them every Christmas.”

Of course I had. Ethan had still believed in Santa Claus when our parents first started leaving us home with our senile grandma. I had filled stockings for both of us to keep up the ruse. An orange in the toe, some good chocolate, a toy from the dollar store, and then a little something special for him. Reeds for his sax, a book he wanted, whatever. Something small, because I couldn’t afford much.

Somewhere along the way, he knew Santa wasn’t real, but I kept up the tradition anyway. We had so few traditions it seemed important somehow. Until he turned eighteen and ended it. That had hurt more than I cared to let on.

“Not me. Santa.” I smirked.

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Whatever. This year, it’s on me.”

“Why?” I regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Is this about Bethany? Are you going to put coal in my stocking?”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules. Coal if you’re bad, candy if you’re good.” He grinned. “You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

“Gee. Thanks.” I had a feeling I was going to find a lump of the black stuff come tomorrow morning.

Ethan rifled through the box. “I can’t believe you kept this stuff. My eighth grade report card?”

I shrugged. “That’s what people do.”

“That’s whatparentsdo. You were never my dad, Luke.” He pushed to his feet and stood there, a stocking in each hand, and swallowed hard. “But you’re a fuckinggreatbrother.”

Well, shit. I hadn’t expected that.

“Shut up,” I said gruffly.

“Sorry I punched you in the face.”

“I know.”

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