Page 25 of Christmas Angel

“But you usually have them back on Sunday evening, so you’d still get them for Christmas Eve night, right?”

I shake my head. “He asked to keep them until after the holiday meal at his mom’s on Monday. And he told me he has to switch back because he’s moving to Alberta after the holidays. He threatened to go after custody if I make a fuss.”

Saint stills my cookie-crumbling fingers by placing his warm palm over my hand and pressing it to the table until I look at him. “Angel, there is no way in hell a court is going to give him custody.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Are you kidding me?” The look Saint gives me makes me feel small and clueless. His entire demeanor softens, his eyes locked onto mine. “Angel, I know you’re scared because that sniveling amoeba knows how to hit you where it hurts. But—and you know how hesitant I am to make any promises about litigation—I swear to you, that will not happen.”

I stare at Saint, because he’s told me in the past that he can’t make that kind of sweeping promise. Honestly, though, in this case, he’s probably right. I don’t even think Trevor would actually try it. He wants to hurt me, but he’s never had the patience for the actual work of parenting. Trevor wouldn’t burden himself with that kind of responsibility just to punish me for the perceived slight of choosing Saint over him. Or whatever he’s twisted the situation into in his head.

Besides, Saint is just a friend. A really good friend. Probably the best friend I could imagine, honestly.

“Yeah?” I choke out, past the fear clogging my throat.

“Yeah.” Saint sounds so confident, and I’m desperate to trust in his promises. He ticks off his points on his fingers. “Trevor hasn’t paid his child support in ages. He makes a habit of missing visitation, which you have documented extensively. He’s planning to move across the country to a different province, which would complicate visitation. And if this is the first you are hearing about a move that’s less than a month away, then he’s already in violation of the Divorce Act. He needed to give you at least sixty days of formal notice for a relocation. Plus, the kids are established here. They have family ties, school, activities, and you’ve always been their primary caretaker.”

I bite my lip, still shaky with nerves and not quite ready to dismiss the worst-case scenario.

“Andif he actually tries it, I will absolutely be representing you. Pro bono, because I won’t sit by and watch that asshole try to take your kids away while there is still breath in my body. You got me?”

“Yeah.” I take a shuddery breath and try to let myself believe Saint. “I told him yes to Christmas.”

“Are you okay with that?” Saint’s piercing gaze tells me he already knows the answer.

I’m not. Not really. I’m going to miss the heck out of my kids. It will be awful, sitting in my empty apartment staring at the presents Saint helped me put under the tree, despite my reservations.

“I want them to have one last memory before he goes, something to make them feel loved when he’s gone. He said he doesn’t want to bother with visitation once he moves. How the fuck do I tell my babies that he doesn’t want them anymore?”

That’s the thing that’s going to break me. I am intimately familiar with what it’s like to be thrown out like that. Trevor has my blessing to fuck with me as much as he wants, whenever he wants, if it would spare them that hurt. I stayed with him for years to spare them that hurt. Until I figured out that nothing I did was ever going to change my ex or his hot, then cold indifference to the kids.

Saint comes around the table to hold me while I crumble under the weight of the pain I can’t spare Meg and Owen.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay, Angel. They’ll be okay. You’ll make sure of it.”

His lips brush my temple as he murmurs meaningless platitudes. And I let him comfort me. He’s the only one I let in like this. My safe space. The one who gets to see me broken open and scooped hollow. When I finally get myself back under control, he reheats my cider for me and we sit there in companionable silence, sipping our drinks.

“Come over on Christmas?” Saint offers.

“You sure?” I didn’t expect that from him. We spend a lot of my kid-free nights together lately, but that’s about sex. An invite to spend a holiday together seems big. Like we’re something to each other. More than casual friends who sometimes fuck. Well, duh. I suppose buying my kids pricey electronics isn’t particularly casual either. Except to him, it sort of is?

Saint hesitates, then he nods. “Yeah. You shouldn’t have to be alone. Carl and I usually make cinnamon buns or something and eat ourselves into a sugar coma on Christmas morning.”

“Mm. Sounds delicious.” I can’t help a twinge of disappointment that Carl is part of the plan. Like Saint needs to remind me that this is a friendly gesture, nothing more, and I shouldn’t read anything into the invitation. I wouldn’t, but he seems so convinced I will whenever I lean on him for support. It’s a bit infuriating that he thinks I’m—what? Hiding some massive crush? I’m over the concept of romance, and my stance on that won’t change just from him being a good friend to me.

“We can make extra for you to bring to the kiddos.”

Though, if he was trying to score boyfriend points, he couldn’t do better than offering kindness to my kids.

“They would like that.”

I’m no closer to having answers about what to do, but Saint makes me feel like I don’t have to face it alone. I’ll have to take the Trevor situation as it comes. It might be time to look at going back to that family counselor we went to during the divorce proceedings. She might have answers on the best course forward for the kids. If I can get an appointment, I’ll figure out how to cover the costs later.

“Ready for bed?” Saint asks as I nibble at the remains of my destroyed cookie.

“I’m not really in the mood.” I hunch my shoulders, hoping he doesn’t push. So far there haven’t been strings on his friendship. But I showed up out of the blue and snotted all over him tonight, so if he expects…

“To sleep, Angel. I can read a room.” Saint nudges me and I flush in embarrassed relief. Saint isn’t an asshole. Someday I might get that memo and stop assuming everyone is like Trevor.

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