Page 109 of Take Me Home

“Nope. We’re just watching an old movie.Casablanca.”

“I loveCasablanca,” Hazel said.

Some silent understanding passed between Hazel’s father and Val, then Lucy. He squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “Ah. Your dad’s favorite.”

There was something palpably tender between all of them. The sudden, thick emotion enveloping them made her wonder, for the first time, about the history of this family before her father came into the picture. She’d assumed Val had gotten divorced, that Lucy and Raf split their time between her home and their dad’s, wherever that was. But the silence held too much gravity.

Then, Hazel remembered a photo in the curio cabinet among all of Val’s Peruvian art and alpaca figurines. Now, with asinking feeling, she was pretty sure she understood. And right there on the mantle over the fireplace was another photo of him, with a toddler in a white dress on his shoulders and one hand on a little boy’s back. She’d missed it every time she walked through here this week, caught up in her own little world.

Lucy said, “We’re only a few minutes in. We can start it over.”

—

The wedding took place in the backyard. Her father and Val stood under a plain wooden arch. Val held a modest bouquet of red roses, no larger than the white ones given to Hazel and Lucy. Tall heaters kept them from shivering through the short ceremony. Hazel, Lucy, and Rafael stood not in the traditional places, flanking the couple, but in a semicircle directly in front of them, so that altogether with the minister, who was a family friend, they made a closed ring. Afterward, the minister snapped the family photos Val had wanted.

It was all so understated, aside from the semiformal wear. Within a half hour, they were all back inside the house, cutting into a small, round cake. It didn’t have a topper on it, just a single evergreen sprig and each of their names piped in Val’s careful hand.

In the evening, they ate Christmas Eve enchiladas. Her father nearly fell asleep over his meal. Hazel was exhausted, too, and followed suit when he went to bed early. In the hall, he paused to pull her into another long hug and murmured, “Love you, kiddo,” before they parted ways. It was enough for now.

Finally, back in her bedroom, Hazel picked up her phone. She expected a sea of messages like yesterday, braced and hoped for something from Ash. But the only message was from her mother wishing her a“Joyeux Noel”from Paris. She echoed the same message back, then switched to her text history with Ash.

Before the string of his messages she’d ignored was the photo of the two of them curled up together in his bed from the night following Winter Fest. He’d asked for it right after she’d taken it. Then, with her right there watching him thumb the message in, he’d texted,You’re so pretty.“You’re a dork,” she’d said.

She started and deleted several messages—apologies, explanations. Then smaller missives—I’m back. I’m okay. I’m ready to talk.But typing them out made her breath come in short pants, her fingers go cold and tremble. If he didn’t respond, she’d be devastated.

Tomorrow. She’d find the right words tomorrow.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

On Christmas morning, it took less than ten minutes for Ash’s nieces to tear through their mountain of presents. When Cosette unwrapped her own house in miniature, she shrieked, “A dollhouse!” and immediately dug out from the mess of wrapping paper her new bounty of Barbies and My Little Ponies to put in it. Ash’s smile faltered only a bit at the worddollhouse—Hazel would have loved that no one else besides him would call it a model.

It ached that she wasn’t here. Though they hadn’t specifically made plans to see each other on Christmas, when he’d helped her leave her dad’s house, it felt like she’d spend the morning with his family. And all of that aside, she was justsupposedto be here. He felt it in his bones.

But she wasn’t. And she still hadn’t reached out, though her father had passed along that she was safe. No other details. That drove him pretty fucking crazy. But if she was safe and she was in contact with her dad, of all people, what did it say that she still hadn’t tried to contacthim?

It was creeping up on noon, and across the living room, Maggie checked her phone for the hundredth time, just like Ash had been doing, then pulled out knitting needles and green yarn.

“Any news?” Ash asked, joining her on the brick hearth. Nick’sflight had been delayed again. He had officially missed Christmas.

“He was on standby for a flight to Midland, but I don’t know if he got on it.”

“Since when do you knit?”

“Since I needed to feel like I was doing something when there’s nothing I can do.”

Ash nudged his knee against hers. Her hands paused as she dipped her head to his shoulder. She breathed in deeply then righted herself and resumed knitting.

His father pushed up from his recliner then, catching Ash’s eye. “We still doing this?”

Ash checked his watch. “Yeah.”

After their conversation yesterday, he’d skimmed some used car listings. He’d intended just to prepare himself for the eventual expense a few weeks or even months from now. But he’d promised he’dtry.And a local dealership was having a holiday sale. And suddenly he had his eye on an Altima with a bit of mileage, a moonroof, and a decent stereo. Most importantly, it wouldn’t be a constant source of worry.

He stepped into his boots and followed his father into the chilly, gray morning.

As Ash began to back his father’s truck down the driveway, another car pulled in beside them. It was white, like Hazel’s car, and absolute euphoria surged in his chest, only to crash a second later. It was an entirely different make and model than hers.

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