Chapter 1 - The Red Dress by the Dining Room Door
The tree lights kept blinking against the hallway wall and the smell of roast and candles was thick from the dining room, and everyone was laughing at something my brother had just said when I felt a small tug at my sleeve. Maya stood in the doorway in her red short-sleeve velvet dress, her long light brown hair falling forward while she twisted her fingers together so hard her knuckles went white. Mark was at the head of the candlelit table pouring wine like he owned Christmas itself, at his absolute peak, charming and loud, and his five-year-old daughter wouldn't even look toward him.
My name is Caleb, and I was thirty-four and crouched in a doorway trying not to ruin Christmas.
It was Christmas evening, just after seven. We'd all eaten. The table was still full — my mom, Sarah with the baby on her hip, my dad carving what was left, the cousins blurred behind glass dishes. The lit tree with the red ornaments stood to the left of the doorway, humming low with heat. Maya had slipped out from her chair without her plate and planted herself by the doorframe, waiting until I walked past with empty cups to grab me. I set the cups down and dropped to my knees so I was at her eye level. My dark green sweater stretched tight across my knees. Up close I could see her brow furrowed, her gaze dropped to my shoes.
She fidgeted with the hem of her dress, then with her hands again, picking at a hangnail. She breathed in through her nose, short and shaky. Behind us somebody clinked a fork against a glass. She flinched at the sound and stepped half a foot closer to me, into the shadow of the doorway where the dining room light didn't quite reach. I lowered my voice and kept my hands open at my sides so I wouldn't crowd her.
"Uncle Caleb, would you believe me if I told you?"
I didn't hesitate. I couldn't. "Always."
She glanced fast toward the table, then back down. "What happened?"
I had asked it gentle, the way you ask when you already know the answer is going to sit heavy. Her hands stopped for a second, then started again, twisting the velvet between her thumb and forefinger until the fabric bunched.
"Then promise me you won't tell dad I told you."
The dining room noise swelled for a moment — Mark laughing again, ice in a glass, my mom saying, Caleb, you want pie? I didn't turn. I nodded once, small, so only she would see it. It was a promise I shouldn't have made that fast, and I knew it even as I made it, but her eyes were wet and fixed on mine and she was already leaning in.
She rose up on her toes and put her mouth almost against my ear. Her hair brushed my cheek. Her little hand settled light on my shoulder to steady herself. I kept my gaze lowered like she'd silently asked me to, my hand hovering near her back without touching her dress, and I listened. I breathed in slow through my nose so she wouldn't hear me shake. The tree buzzed. The candles popped somewhere behind us. A chair scraped.
What she whispered wasn't a whole story. It was a fragment, breathed more than spoken, with the word dad in it like a stone dropped in water. My breath caught before I could stop it. I kept still, kept listening, natural breathing only, while her words ran out.
May you like
Then she pulled back slightly.
She looked at me with that sad, braced expression kids get when they've already decided how you'll react, her hands fallen still at her sides, waiting for me to say something with the secret still hanging between us and the dining room door still open behind her.
