Dad’s trial date is delayed, hearing after hearing is delayed, and I don’t understand what’s happening. I want it all over with, but I’m repeatedly reminded that sometimes these trials don’t start for many months or years.
“Building cases takes time,” Mr. Gamble says whenever I call for information.
Despite the tension of those meetings wearing on me, I make a point to visit Daddy as often as I can. But I’m grateful for Titus being right by my side, holding my hand, touching my back, and looking Daddy square in the face when Daddy shoots him questioning looks.
Despite the stress and working extra-long hours, I am determined to make it a cozy Christmas at Titus’s house.
“You can just let this be the most depressing Christmas ever. Which it is,” Titus reminds me one night while we’re trimming the plastic tree. His dad hauled it down from the attic for the first time since Titus’s mother took off. At first, I thought it would be hard on him, but he seems happy that someone is using it. And he doesn’t mind me lighting candles, making cider on the stove, or playing Christmas music softly in the evenings.
I rearrange some tinsel on the tree that he’d plopped on there in huge clumps. “It’s not. Remember the Christmas when we got the prognosis from the doctor about my mom?”
Titus swears under his breath. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I tell him softly. Once I have the tinsel how I want it, I point to a box of glass ball ornaments, and Titus fetches them for me. “Having you with me then and now makes all the difference.”
“Cass.”
“Don’t get sappy; your dad’s right over there watching TV.”
“I—”
The ringing doorbell interrupts this conversation.
Titus looks at me and shrugs, indicating he has no idea who might be coming over this late at night. It could be a TV station. It could be a messenger with a subpoena. I never know these days.
When Titus opens the door, there’s a linebacker-sized silhouette standing on the doorstep. “Hey.”
I haven’t seen my brother since we left school. He hasn’t shown up for any of Dad’s hearings, and if he’s meeting with lawyers, I’ve not been informed.
“Hey, man.” Titus’s voice sounds raspy and wary, but he holds out his hand to my twin brother anyway.
I am frozen in place, and I watch as the two best friends shake hands and interact for the first time in weeks.
Herc looks past Titus and catches me staring like a deer in headlights. “Sis,” he says with a solemn nod.
“Herc,” I say, swallowing. “Merry Christmas.”
He nods again. “Merry Christmas.”
Then, I notice he’s carrying a small stack of festively wrapped presents.
Titus stands aside. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Herc says, wiping his feet on the mat, then stepping inside the house.
I’m so glad that late one night, after a long shift and feeling unable or willing to go shopping for gifts, I thought of Herc and ordered that book about Joe Heisman. It’s wrapped under the tree. I’m positive that a small act of hopefulness worked some magic in the air. He’s here. My brother is here.
“This is for you guys,” Herc says as Titus takes the stack of presents handed to him. He nods to George, who’s watching the news.
“Can I get you anything?” George asks, standing to exit for the kitchen. “A drink? Eggnog? Cass has kept us stocked with nog, cider, and all that holiday stuff. Plenty to go around if you want anything.”
“No, I’m good. But thanks,” Herc says awkwardly.
George goes to the kitchen, and the three of us are alone.
“I just want to say I’m sorry—”
“Nope. Shut up,” I say, attacking my twin with a hug.“Titus, hug your best friend,” I say, my voice muffled in Herc’s fleece pullover.