Page 23 of Ransom

She shakes her head, a smile playing at her lips. "You're silly, Uncle Ransom."

"That's why you love me," I wink at her.

The microwave beeps, and I carefully retrieve the steaming mug. "Now, where did John hide the spoons? And the marshmallows?"

Hours later, my apartment is silent, everyone gone to their own homes and their own beds downstairs. I designed this penthouse for family gatherings, and it's perfect, with room for everyone to spread out. But when I'm alone? It feels like a fucking museum.

I flick the lights off, one by one, bathing the whole space in darkness. Then, yawning, I take the steps upstairs one at a time. This floor is a little smaller than downstairs, but not by much. Nearly 10,000 square feet of 'private' living space. Not sure whatthe designer meant for me to do in all this private space, though. The loft TV room is where I spend a lot of my downtime. The couch is deep and massive, and as comfortable as my bed. And the TV takes up most of the wall, so it feels like you're right in the movie. There's even an old-fashioned looking popcorn maker in the corner that I didn't see the point of, but gets used all the time. That, the dishwasher, and the coffee machine are the only appliances I use here.

And the microwave. Can't forget about that little fucker.

Tonight, I head past the loft and down the hallway, passing doors to the private living room that I never use, the home office that I almost never use, three guest rooms,and my private gym.

I don't think I've ever stepped foot in there.

When we were all crammed together at the Knight Street garage when we were kids, all trying to live in that one small space, I would have done anything for a little breathing space. But here? Space is the last thing I want. This whole building was designed to bring everyone together, so why the fuck would I want to use this gym when I could use the one a few floors down and probably run into one of my brothers?

That's really been my strategy for the last decade: create opportunities for connection in the mundane. We collide at work. We collide in the hallways. We collide in the gym. We also used to wander into each other's apartments, but now that the women are here, that's not happening as much anymore.

But my door is always open.

Always.

That's why, if I'm working at home, I do it down at the kitchen island, so I'm available if someone pops by. If there's a fuck of a lot of work to get done, I stay at the office or do it up here late at night when everyone's sleeping.

My family comes first. Always.

Usually, after a day like today, filled with great food, laughter, and lots of kid time for me, I would go to bed happy. But tonight, I'm restless and feeling off. I wasn't lying when I told Janey this Christmas is everything I've dreamed of. My dreams now center around this family.

But I had dreams before. Dreams of forever. Dreams of Blair.

I thought I'd put them in the past. I thought I could let them go.

But lately, they're fucking haunting me. She's haunting me.

So I don't crawl into bed. She'll find me there. She always does.

Instead, I head back down the hall and drop onto the big couch in the loft, click on the TV, landing on the classics channel and some black-and-white movie, and stare blankly at the screen.

The squeaking a few minutes later isn't a surprise. Neither is the little body climbing my pant leg and settling into my chest. I carefully stroke the tiny hamster's back, enjoying the feel of her soft fur. "Hi buddy. What were you up to today?" She doesn't answer, of course. I'm not a fucking lunatic. I know hamsters don't speak. But she's been my secret little buddy for over a year.

We lost a few hamsters in here last year, and eventually, we found them. Except for this little one. She's smart and stays hidden during the day. Mia and I put food out for months, and it would be eaten, but otherwise, there was no sign of her.

But one night, right around this time last year, on another lonely Christmas night, she crawled up onto the arm of the couch and watched a movie with me. Within a month, she'd moved to sitting next to me. The month after that, she'd decided that I was safe enough to nap on.

I know I should get her a cage and keep her safe, but she's happy. She eats the food I leave her and seems healthy. Maybe I should be grossed out at the idea of her pooping around theplace, but I have a great cleaning crew, and besides, I lived in way worse conditions when I was a kid. I'm pretty sure battling the mice and bugs was a full-time job for my mom.

"Pretty sure she would have liked you," I say to my little friend. "You're really good company." She squeaks again and curls into my palm, falling asleep.

My eyes get heavier and heavier, and just before I fall asleep, I say a little prayer that Blair will finally leave me in peace.

8

BLAIR

Isit at the end of the table, my eyes fixed on Maggie. She's laughing at something Mr. Johnson said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. But I can see the fatigue etched into her face, the way her shoulders sag ever so slightly. The chemo's exacting a staggering price, and my heart clenches with worry.

The cottage buzzes with warmth and cheer. Twinkling lights drape the windows, casting a soft glow over the mismatched collection of chairs around our extended dining table. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner, adorned with handmade ornaments—mostly Max's creations from school. The scent of pine mingles with the aroma of various dishes brought by our neighbors.

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