Tim.

You busy?

It’s important.

Text me as soon as you see these.

Tim’s phone vibrates four times, one right after the other, before he can even start reaching for it in his pocket. When he reads the notifications, his heart jumps into his throat.

He remembers getting texts like this before, when Lucy was in over her head, in a hotel room with a reporter, when she needed out of a bad date, when she woke up in a cold sweat at 3 a.m.

What’s up?

I need a picture of Kojo.

He stops in his tracks, halfway across the kitchen to get a bottle of water, and reads Lucy’s text again.

What?

A picture of Kojo

It has to be extra cute

You have so many pictures of him already.

Tim looks back across the room to Kojo, stretched out across the sofa, nose pushed up against the arm. He’s a good dog, one of the best Tim has ever had. But he’s handsome, not cute. And Tim was telling the truth; every time Lucy comes over to see Kojo, it’s like her phone is glued to her hand, taking pictures every chance she gets.

There’s no way she doesn’t have at least a thousand pictures that are “extra cute.”

I need a new one. For Christmas.

What, you sending out cards?

No, I’m putting him on my tree.

You’re what?

I couldn’t choose between an angel and a star at the top. But he’s both.

It has to be extra cute, Tim.

How am I supposed to know if it’s ‘extra cute?’

He’s handsome, anyway.

You'll know.

He’s adorable.

A cute, precious little baby.

Who belongs at the top of my tree.

Tim sighs. He’s not going to win this one, he knows. And really, he’s not going to put up much of a fight. Not if Lucy is asking him for something. Especially not something as simple as a picture of the dog they’ve somehow come to coparent.

“You’re not going to spend Christmas alone?” Lucy looks up from where she’s rubbing Kojo’s ears, and tucks one foot underneath her thigh on Tim’s sofa.

“Why would I? Just because I’m not spending it with my family doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit at home all day.”

“Isn’t there some football game on?”

“Some footba—yes, there’s—that’s not the point. The point is that you shouldn’t subject yourself to an entire day you’re clearly dreading with your parents. Come over, hang out with me and Kojo, I’ll make something for dinner. You can bring dessert.”

“Oh, I can?” Lucy laughs and Tim rolls his eyes.

“If you want dessert, you have to bring it. Trust me, that’s not my department.”

“Have we found the limits of Tim Bradford’s talent?” Lucy gasps dramatically and Tim reaches across the sofa to swat lightly at her shoulder.

“Keep talking, I’ll make Christmas cupcakes and you can find out for yourself.”

“Fine,” Lucy goes quiet for a moment, and Tim thinks the conversation is over. He should have known better, though, and he realizes it as soon as she opens her mouth again. “Ooh, what if I make cookies, and we can decorate them?” She looks back to Kojo. “I bet I can even find some that are dog-friendly, yeah? How’s that sound, buddy?”

Like he understands the words she’s saying, Kojo lifts his head up and drops it in her lap.

“Sure,” he relents. How hard could it be to put frosting on some cookies? He might not be able to bake them, but he can handle that much. “But, we’re watching the football game while we do that.”

Lucy’s next words make his heart skip a beat, even if he’d never admit it.

“Hey, Lucy,” Tim runs his fingers through her hair, breaking the silence that’s fallen over them since the Christmas movie ended and neither of them could be bothered to reach for the remote. Her head is resting on his chest, arm draped loosely around her waist.

She hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t move from her position tucked against Tim’s side. He takes a deep breath and asks his question, feeling the weight of every word on his tongue.

“What do you think: is it a bit over the top to propose on Christmas Eve?”

Lucy shifts around, turning far enough to the side that she can crane her neck and look up at Tim. Her eyes are wide, but he can’t get a good read on the emotion in her expression.

“Are you --”

“This isn’t a proposal,” Tim cuts her off, lifting his hand up from her shoulder, even though she can’t see the way it’s raised in surrender. “Just a question.”

The little velvet box in his back pocket burns through the thick denim of his jeans, suddenly almost painful to sit on as he waits for Lucy’s answer.

“In that case …" she turns to prop her chin up on his chest, just barely able to look him in the eye from the new angle. “I think it depends. Is it Christmas Eve at some big party, with a huge crowd around waiting to see what you say? Or … Christmas Eve at home, just the two of you, maybe … in front of the Hulu screensaver and the Christmas tree?”

Lucy sits up, and Tim wonders if she’s not reading his mind as they look around the room together. He turns to face her, sitting sideways on the couch, and shifts his weight onto one hip so he can reach his pocket.

“Tim!” Lucy rolls her eyes, and he can imagine that if they weren’t sitting in a shop together, she’d be stamping her foot too. “Come on, it’s December 22nd. No one has Christmas plans on December 22nd!”

“You do,” he counters, glaring at her across the console.

“Only because I’m the one throwing the party! It’s a chance for us to all get together outside of work, eat some cookies, drink some cocoa and share the holidays together.”

“Because we don’t see enough of each other as it is?”

“Even Nolan is going to be there, and his kid’s in town.”

“That’s supposed to sweeten the pot?” It’s Tim’s turn for an eye roll now.

“I know you; you don’t hate him half as much as you pretend to.”

“I never said I hate him,” Tim mutters, because any other answer means admitting that Lucy is right.

“Then you’ll be at the party?” He glances at her again, tries to narrow his eyes even as she’s wearing him down. “Angela and Wes are bringing Jack. C’mon, we’re a family, and we’re not spending Christmas apart! I mean, Christmas Day, maybe, but not Christmas December 22nd. That’s for the Mid-Wilshire family.”

We’re a family.

As if she doesn’t know exactly which of his buttons to push.

The grief sneaks up on her.

Before Lucy knows it, it’s been six months since she watched her best friend die on a live feed. Three months since Angela and Wesley announced the name of their son: Jackson Timothy Evers. A month since his parents invited her to dinner, and his mother hugged her with tears in her eyes, thanking her for looking out for him as long as she did. Two weeks since she cleaned out his room, boxed up everything he’d owned and helped load most of it into his dad’s SUV.

She’d kept a couple of boxes for herself, things that won’t mean nearly as much to his family as they do to her. The menu from his favorite takeout place, ticket stubs from movies they watched together, the sweatshirt he was wearing the first time he woke up at 3 a.m. and found her crying on the couch, reliving what she’d thought then would be her worst nightmare come to life.

Lucy would give anything for him to find her on the couch now, at one in the afternoon, hot tears streaking down her face, clutching Jackson’s favorite throw pillow to her chest.

He’s not going to. She knows that, and she knows that the harder she wishes for it, the more it will hurt when he doesn’t come back from the dead to comfort her.

So she takes a deep breath and stands up, trying to remember the steps he always walked her through.

Jamie pounds his fist against Ted’s front door and rocks back on his heels. He drops his arms to his side, but they don’t stay there for long before he’s twisting the bottom of his shirt in his hands. He hears footsteps thundering, but Ted’s voice sounds distant when it comes through the door.

“Don’t touch that door, young man, we have discussed this!” There’s a second set of feet, heavier than the first, before the door opens just far enough for Ted to poke his head out. “Hi the—Jamie, hey, give me just one second, yeah?”

Jamie nods, because what else is he going to do? The door closes again, and he hears Ted’s sharp whisper.

“No, I’m not mad at you, bud. But you know the rules about answering the door without a grownup, especially if you don’t know who’s gonna be on the other side. Stranger Danger, y’know?” There’s a littler whisper that he can’t quite make out, then Ted speaks again. “Yes, I know Jamie Tartt isn’t a stranger. But what if it was someone else? Alright, that’s all I ask is that you not do it again, OK? That’s it, gimme a hug. Alright, I love you too, now what say we greet our company?”

This time, when the door opens, there’s a miniature version of his coach, cleanshaven and wearing a T-shirt, but otherwise nearly identical, hanging from the doorknob by his hands.

“Hi, Jamie Tartt!”

“Hey, little lad,” he’s pretty sure it’s Ted’s son – his real son, his brain helpfully supplies, before he tries to push the thought down – but he can’t remember the kid’s name right now. Not when his brain is already running through so much else.

“My dad’s home,” the kid says, turning around to point at Ted. “Dad, can Jamie Tartt come inside?”

“He sure can, Henry. Thank you for asking first,” Ted replies, stepping back when his son – Henry, apparently – pulls the door open further. It’s a parenting moment through and through, not that Jamie would really recognize them; it’s not like he’s been on the receiving end of many, not like this, when he wouldn’t be afraid of the adult. But every word of their exchange feels scripted, like something Henry’s heard time and again, been taught to echo back on command.

Jamie steps inside and lets Henry shut the door behind him. He’s still toying with the hemline of his shirt, but his hands still when he sees Henry sizing him up.

Usually, he’s alright at talking to kids. They’re just little fans, right, who want to hear Jamie say they can play for his football club one day? But his head already feels all fuzzy, like he’s half-asleep even though he’s been awake all day, or trying to listen to a coach while he’s wearing the good noise-cancelling headphones, and he’s not so sure he’d be able to keep up his end of a conversation right now, even if it is mostly just listening while they talk about whatever, then promising that he’ll root for them in the Premier League someday.

So he looks up at Ted, eyes wide. Ted nods at him, then steps forward to put his hands on Henry’s shoulders.

“Hey, kiddo, you wanna head to your room for a minute? Give the grownups a chance to talk? There we go, thanks, son.”

Henry runs off, but the knot in Jamie’s stomach doesn’t get any looser. If anything, it climbs up toward his throat and sticks in his chest.

Son.

Son.

"We were! You point, I run!" Lucy winces, seated on the back of an ambulance and prodding the bump forming where her forehead collided with a metal fencepost hidden in the shadows of the alleyway Tim had directed her down.

"No, I point, you look. Then, if there's nothing there, like, I don't know, a steel rod, you run." But there's no anger in his voice as he bends down and brushes her lips across the swollen bruise. "Otherwise, you knock yourself out on inanimate objects."

"Good thing I've got someone to nurse me back to health, huh?"

"Yeah, something like that."