Page 12 of Seeds of Christmas
My phone buzzes with a text from Dad about thirty seconds later. He was probably listening in to the phone call.
Dad:
Your mom told me about the research trip. Disappointed we won’t see you, but Dominic would be proud and jealous. Stay safe, son.
Dominic would be proud.
I pocket my phone and start walking again, faster this time, like I can outpace the guilt clawing up my spine.
The thing is, they’re not wrong. Dominic would be proud. He’d probably have volunteered for something like this himself—not to escape, but because he genuinely loved that stuff. Research, data, contributing to scientific knowledge. He had his whole plan set out. He knew exactly who he was and where he was going.
And then he drove home from UMS for Thanksgiving last year and some asshole ran a red light, and suddenly he was just… gone. Twenty-three years old. Dead before the ambulance arrived.
What I remember most isn’t the crash. I wasn’t there for the impact. I wasn’t there for the sirens or the cops or the chaos.
What I remember is the sound.
Dominic’s ringtone—some stupid, upbeat song he set on my phone because he said I needed “more pure joy in my life.” That’s what was blaring through my room the night it happened, obnoxiously cheerful, vibrating across my desk. I answered on the third or fourth ring, annoyed, brushing crumbs off my pants.
Then Dad’s breathing. Shallow. Wrong.
And my mom in the background—this sound I didn’t recognize, something between a scream and a sob, like the whole world had cracked open.
That’s the moment everything split. Not the funeral. Not the hospital. That sound. Mom’s voice breaking apart. Dad’s breath.
Sometimes I still hear it—bright music and shattered noise tangled together. It lives somewhere between my ears and my ribs, always ready to replay.
I was supposed to go with him that weekend, but I had a party I couldn’t miss. So I wasn’t there. Wasn’t there when Dad got the call, wasn’t there when Mom collapsed in the kitchen, wasn’t there for any of it until two days later when I finally made it home to a house that felt like a bomb had gone off inside it.
And everyone looked at me like I was supposed to fix it somehow. Like I was supposed to step up and fill this massive, gaping hole.
But I can’t.
I’m not Dominic. I’ve never been Dominic.
And trying to be him is fucking killing me.
That afternoon,the apartment is cold and too quiet when I get back. Jake left earlier, practically vibrating with excitement about skiing and family and all that normal holiday shit.
I drop my backpack and stand in the middle of the living room, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.
I should pack. The trip starts tomorrow, and I have no idea what you even bring for winter fieldwork. Warm clothes, obviously. Probably layers. Do I own enough layers?
Instead, I end up on the couch, staring at the ceiling thinking about my old frat and my old life here.
I am still technically in Alpha Phi, though I haven’t been to the house in months.
I do skip class—too much, probably. And I don’t deserve this research opportunity more than someone who shows up and tries.
But here I am.
Taking it anyway.
Because I’m a coward who can’t face his own family at Christmas.
Jake
Dude. Just landed in Tahoe. Already hit the slopes once. It’s SICK. How’s dead campus?
