Page 85 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
The corner of his lips curves up, reluctant but real. “You better believe it.”
I slide off his lap, legs a little shaky, and run a hand through my hair, trying to look less… thoroughly kissed. When I open the door, my sister’s standing there, all grins and chaos, and Max is still on the bed behind me—shoulders tense, eyes dark, looking every bit like a man who doesn’t want to stop but knows he has to.
And even as my sister barrels into the room, all chatter and questions, I can stillfeelhis fingers ghosting at the back of my neck. A silent promise that tonight, when the house is quiet again, we’ll finish what we started.
Dinner smells like home—garlicbread, roasted vegetables, the kind of slow-cooked sauce my mom insists can’t be rushed. By the time Dad walks through the door, the house feels full in that way it always does when we’re all together—voices overlapping, music from the kitchen speaker, the sound of my sister humming as she sets out plates.
“Hey, there’s my goalie!” Dad’s voice booms through the hall before I even see him. I barely have time to stand before he’s pulling me into a hug that lifts me off the floor. His cologne smells the same as it did when I was a kid—clean, woodsy, like freshly cut lumber and aftershave.
“Dad,” I laugh, half choking as he squeezes. “You’re gonna crack a rib.”
“Good, means you’ve still got one to spare.” He sets me down and then looks past me—toward Max. “And you must be the famous Calder. I’m Brett.”
For a second, I see Max brace, shoulders tight like he’s waiting for a punchline that might hurt. But my dad justextends his hand with a grin that’s all warmth. “Welcome to our madhouse. Hope my boy hasn’t driven you insane yet.”
Max’s mouth curves into something small and uncertain before he takes the handshake. “Not yet, sir.”
“Give it time,” Dad says, clapping him on the shoulder like they’ve known each other forever. “You play?”
“Used to,” Max answers, and there’s something in his tone that makes my chest ache. Not sadness exactly—more like the shadow of it.
“Well, we’ll get you out back to toss a ball around then,” Dad says with a wink, tugging his coat off and hanging it by the door. “Still got the old net up. Probably full of pine needles, but it’ll do.”
Mom laughs from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to relive his glory days from the neighborhood rec league. Dinner’s ready, boys—wash up before you sit down.”
Dad grumbles good-naturedly, muttering something aboutnever being too old for a comeback,and Mom swats him with the towel as he passes.
We gather around the table, the four of us plus Max, and for a while, it’s just noise and clinking silverware and the occasional groan from my sister when Dad tells one of his old jokes. It’s easy. It’shome.
But when I glance across the table, Max isn’t eating. Not really. He’s watching—Mom passing Dad the salad tongs, Dad brushing her hand as he takes them, my sister smuggling an extra roll onto her plate while pretending she didn’t. His eyes move from one to the next, softening just enough for me to see it. The awe. The disbelief.
And suddenly, I get it.
He’s never had this. Not like this—this easy kind of love that fills the space between sentences and sits down at the table with you.
My chest tightens, and I nudge his foot under the table. When he looks up, I give him a small smile. Just something to anchor him.
He blinks, and then his hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers brushing once before stilling. So I squeeze back, silent but sure, and keep the conversation moving. About hockey, about the flight, about anything normal.
Because if I let myself look too long at how his eyes keep darting to my parents, like he’s trying to memorize what love looks like when it’s loud and unhidden, I’ll lose it.
And I can’t. Not yet.
THIRTY-TWO
MAX
Eli’s handfinds mine beneath the table, fingers squeezing once before he lets go. The gesture is small, hidden, but it’s enough to anchor me.
The house hums around us—silverware clinking, laughter spilling from one end of the table to the other. His mom moves in and out of conversation like she’s hosting a talk show, his dad cracks jokes that make his sister roll her eyes, and somewhere in between it all, I remember what it feels like to breathe.
I pick up my glass, take a sip of the sweet tea she poured me, and nearly choke. Jesus. That’s not tea. That’s liquified sugar with a personality crisis.
No wonder Eli’s got a sweet tooth. He was raised on this stuff.
He catches my expression and grins, eyes dancing with mischief. “Good, right?”
“It’s… potent,” I manage, and that makes his mom, Ava, laugh.
