Page 37 of Seeds of Christmas
His expression flickers—something painful passing across his face before he rebuilds the smile. But this one doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Pretty standard stuff. My mom makes hot chocolate from scratch—like, the real deal with actual chocolate and cinnamon. My dad dresses up as Santa even though my brother and I were way too old for it. We’d have this gingerbread house competition where—” He stops. Swallows. “Where Dominic would always win because he was good at everything.”
Was?
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“He died January last year. It’s been nearly two years.”
I watch as Carter’s entire demeanor shifts—the easy charm falling away like a mask, revealing something raw and wounded underneath.
“Carter,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
And suddenly everything makes sense. The absences from class. The way Professor Bam looked at him with that careful kindness. The reason he’s here instead of home with his family.
He’s not running from Christmas.
He’s running from grief.
“Yeah.” He sets down his burger like it suddenly weighs too much. “Everyone’s sorry. That’s kind of the problem, you know? Everyone’s so sorry they don’t know how to be normal around me anymore.
His voice cracks on the word “normal,” and my heart cracks with it.
“They either treat me like I’m going to break,” he continues, “or they tiptoe around anything related to Dom, or they give me these looks like they’re waiting for me to fall apart. Or like my ex, Kath, they leave me because they don’t know how to fix a broken toy.” He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Sorry. This got dark fast. I’m usually better at keeping things light.”
“You don’t have to keep things light.”
“Don’t I?” He looks at me, and his eyes are so open, so vulnerable, that I have to remember to breathe. “I feel like that’s my whole thing. Carter, the charming guy who makes everything easier. Carter, who’s fun to be around because he doesn’t make you feel sad.” He attempts a smile. “I’m really good at parties.”
“Carter, who uses humor as a defense mechanism?”
He blinks. Then laughs—a real laugh this time. “Called out. Directly called out.”
“It takes one to know one.”
“You do it too?”
I shrug.
“Sometimes. Or I use work. I’m not funny enough to use humor. It’s easier than being honest about how much things hurt.”
We sit with that and it feels like we just traded secrets. Like we’re kids at a sleepover.
“My parents triedsohard last Christmas,” Carter says quietly. “To make it normal. To do all the traditions. The hot chocolate, the gingerbread houses, the Santa costume. But there’s this chair at the table that’s empty.”
He stops, and I can see him struggling with what comes next.
“And we all pretend not to notice it,” he continues. “Like if we just don’t look at it, don’t acknowledge it, maybe it won’t be real. Maybe Dom will just walk through the door saying he got held up at the hospital. Maybe this is all some terrible mistake.”
His voice breaks on the word “mistake.”
“And my mom—she cries in the kitchen when she thinks no one’s listening. She makes his favorite cookies even though he’s not there to eat them. And my dad keeps almost saying his name and then catching himself, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me if he talks about him.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear drips onto my hand.
“I can’t watch them try so hard,” Carter says, “when I know it’s never going to be okay again. When I know that chair is always going to be empty. When I know that every Christmas for the rest of our lives is going to be about who’s missing instead of who’s there.”
“Does that make me a coward?” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are black, searching. “Running away like this?
