Page 68 of No Strings Attached
I grin, heart full as I pick up the phone and accept the call. Brianna’s face fills the screen, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, eyes wide with excitement.
“Did you confirm with Mira about the fireworks?” my niece asks, skipping any kind of greeting.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Bri,” I reply dryly.
She laughs. “I’m sorry. Merry Christmas, Henny.So... did you?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, Brianna. We’re doing fireworks again, just like last year. What is it with you and fireworks, anyway?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. I just like flashy things.Sue me.”
I laugh, genuinely caught off guard by how much my niece sounds like a full-grown adult. “You really are your father’s daughter.”
I glance toward Amira. Sensing my stare, she turns with a grin that still manages to knock the breath out of me. She tilts her head, curls bouncing, and raises her brows as if asking,What?
I shake my head and smile to myself.
“Damn right I am,” Brianna says proudly.
Before I can respond, she blows me a kiss and hangs up.
I stare at the empty screen for a second, still smiling. Then I look toward the kitchen again, where Amira is now laughing with her cousins, completely at ease.
A year ago, I didn’t think I had it in me to fall again. To let anyone in.
Now, I’m spending Christmas surrounded by loud conversations in Arabic, smelling like cumin and garlic, sipping Arak.
This is what peace looks like.
This is whathomefeels like.
And as Amira walks back over and curls herself into my side, I realize something I’ve been thinking about for a while.
It’s time.
Amira
The scent of za’atar, sumac, and caramelized onions wafts through the house like a warm embrace. It clings to every surface, wrapping around garlands, twinkle lights, and that ridiculous reindeer centerpiece Mama insists on using every year. The whole house sparkles: red, green, gold—unapologetically festive.
Henson has his arm draped casually around my shoulders. He’s relaxed in a way that still makes my heart pinch a little. A year ago, the idea of him in this room, inmyworld, would’ve felt impossible. But now? He belongs here.
“Amira!” Baba’s voice booms from the dining room. “Yalla, come help me finish setting this table before your mother starts yelling!”
I grin and slide off the couch, giving Henson’s thigh a little squeeze, and head toward the noise. The dining room is a swirl of mismatched voices, Arabic and English bouncing off one another as cousins pass plates and someone sings along slightly off-key to Fairuz playing in the background.
Happiness hums in my chest.
After my breakup with Chad, the doubts, the quiet unraveling of who I was… having Henson here with me this Christmas feels like I finally chose right. Like I finally choseme.
My dad’s at the head of the table, fiddling with the linen napkins, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Your aunt folded these wrong,” he mutters. “She’s sabotaging my aesthetic.”
I laugh, stepping in to help.
As I fold napkins into tight little fans, my phone buzzes inmy pocket. I fish it out instinctively, half-expecting it to be a vendor update.
I’ve got two holiday events happening simultaneously tonight, and while my team is solid, I always keep an eye out just in case.
The New Year’s Eve party I threw for the Millers last year exploded online. One viral drone video later and my inbox has never been the same. I’ve got bookings well into next year and, for the first time, I’ve stopped questioning if I deserve this.
