𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction [UNDER EDITING]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳

» » Takes place during Chapter 31 « «

The farmhouse pulses around Christmas-time. Life fills each room, handmade by my grandfather. There is life crackling in the fireplace, and life caught on photographs perched along the mantle. There's life in my youngest siblings who giggle as Papa retells a misadventure from one of his childhood Christmases. In each of their smiles, there's a piece of our mother. We all have Mama's smile, but I have Papa's eyes. Life glances off the multitude of ornaments, and I'm almost certain it's the secret ingredient in Mama's gingersnaps. Well, not necessarily life...I guess that sounds like something out of a cheesy horror film. Love, I amend, sinking back with a smile. The life in the cookies is Mama's heart and soul. She pours it into everything she touches, including a farm-full of children. I couldn't have asked for a better mother —

Or father.

Papa has an armful of Patrick, lifting him the height of the tree. Every year, a different kid gets to put up Grandma's Christmas Star, but since not a single one of us could remember who went which year, we've never been truly faithful to the tradition. We usually ended up arguing over who remembered what until Mama just volunteered the youngest which, for the past ten years has been Patrick.

He's the lightest, so it's easy for Papa to hold him up awhile.

I've always known Papa to be strong as an ox, but he's aging faster than I care to admit...a bead of fear always pops loose whenever he does something physically exerting. Patrick struggles to screw the star on straight; Carra and Beth bounce around the berth of the tree, shouting directions. Papa's arms wobble. I jerk forward, totally forgetting the pair of arms fastened across my stomach. Maverick pushes me back against his chest just as Patrick successfully attaches the star. I breathe a sigh of relief and snuggle deeper into Maverick. The echo of his laugh up my spine warrants a playful scowl. Maverick scrunches his nose, mildly offended. Clearly not enough to keep his eyes off my lips. Two days ago, Maverick would've quickly averted his gaze, like the mere sight of my mouth had burned him. Yesterday made Maverick a whole new man — around Papa. Now it's me who feels slightly awkward accepting Maverick's kiss in front of my parents, not to mention little Pat, who still thinks babies come from storks.

We keep it brief.

Although Papa gave us his blessing, he sure doesn't wanna see Maverick sticking his tongue down my throat. Besides, Maverick isn't brave enough to want to do that in front of my dad.

It's a simple kiss.

Short, sweet.

Very sweet, I laugh. Ginger and sugar flavoring coats my lips.

I whisk the final gingersnap and shove it in Maverick's mouth.

The living room explodes with laughter. David and I share a look, and he shies away, embarrassed. Nothing gets past Ransom. He loops an arm around David's shoulders, accidentally triggering a skirmish. They grapple with each other, cheered on by Patrick and the girls, scaring Mama with the hot ciders everywhere. Papa is roaring with laughter. Pretty soon, everyone is.

Maverick shakes quietly as we quiet down, the laughter resounding deep inside his chest. I glance over my shoulder at him, feeling too warm in the face to have fluffy socks on. He drapes an arm over the back of the couch and drags his body closer. Smiling, I lean my head on his shoulder, inviting a kiss on the top of my head. Mama hums the intro to the Nat King Cole Christmas Song, and one by one, the Weaver's join in. Maverick peels off my socks for me, singing quietly. Oh so now he's shy? My laugh muddles the lyrics as I affectionately rub the back of Maverick's head.

Boy is it good to be home...

* ❅ . ❆...Six Days Earlier...❅ . ❆ *

It feels like forever since I last flew economy, and in that time I forgot that airports are a Petri for stress. I definitely panic when a guard motions me through an X-Ray. Every pocket on my body burns like a knife or can-opener might fizzle straight through and land me in holding. Doesn't matter how many times I remind myself that there's no metal or sharp objects on me. Ghost triple checked my bags and even dug around my bomber jacket pockets so the sickening scenarios I'm imagining in my head don't happen. Both hands itch to dip into my pockets, just to make sure, but boy wouldn't that look suspicious. I flatten my palms against my thighs. Ick, they're sweaty. A green light flashes and the guard clears me with a smile and a 'Merry Christmas!'

Perfect, no can-openers.

...just matching hand prints on my jeans.

Great start, Stirrups.

I rush over to the carry on belt and snatch the silver chain coiled up in the corner of the plastic basket. Relief hits me like ocean-water once my dog-tags are safely over my head again. Vixen's tags were nearly impossible to part with. Looking back, I can barely believe I actually did it. I guess with her help — and Maverick's — the task became a little less daunting. I mean, we went from sporadically skinny-dipping to tossing the last piece of my best friend into the Pacific, and back to skinny-dipping again. Maverick, I laugh. Only he could encourage me to do something so emotionally challenging, and turn it into a make-out session.

God, I'm gonna miss him.

The decision to visit family for Christmas was a hard one to make.

Ghost helped me sort it out.

I found round-trip tickets from the 11th to the 18th. Either Ransom or Papa will pick me up from the Huntsville Airport. It's the closest to Lawerence County, where the Weaver Ranch is tucked away. The drive is only about an hour or so. We'll have to cross the Tennessee River on the way home — I walk faster. Most of our dealings were West of the Tennessee, but on the rare occasion that we had to cross over to the Eastern counties, I always had my face glued to the glass for a look at the beautiful river stretching below the bridge. Ransom would call me silly for getting worked up over 'some water.' He was such a sower-puss as a kid; hated any kind of change, like popping over the river for a couple of hours. It's no wonder he's taking after Papa, wanting to keep the family farm.

Homebody, I snort.

Henry was the one Papa originally wanted to take care of the ranch; marry, settle down, and build a couple more rooms to fit the next generation of Weavers.

I guess rejecting your father's expectations to work in the ministry isn't the worst thing a child could do, 'cause Papa let him off the hook real easy. It was me who scared the shit out of Mama and Papa when I started talking about jets.

And here we are, I chuckle as I shift the bag on my back. Their first daughter at the finest fighter pilot school, coming home for the holidays.

Thank God for Ransom.

If he'd ever wanted a life beyond the farm, Mama and Papa would've locked me in the barn-loft rather than ship me off to Navy boot camp.

I double check my ticket for the gate number. A sign up ahead matches. I stagger over to the waiting area and dump myself into a chair. I'm way louder than I mean to be, and a couple of people raise a narrowed eye over their magazines and travel-books. Muttering an apology, I sit up straight, and try to look normal. Like I said, dunno when I last flew economy. Probably whenever Vixen and I visited the ranch for Christmas. Must have been at least three years ago? Before that, I flew in a commercial plane once, tops. How crazy is it that I've spent more time in an F-14 Tomcat than a Boeing 737? I scan the sea of faces; old men, young mothers and fathers, babies, and teenagers drowning in their walk-mans. Everyone seems so comfortable, but I feel weird as Hell.

Normal.

This — I get to be normal.

I love the Navy; I love everything and everyone it's brought me but...

It's nice...to be a normal, forgettable face in the San Diego Airport. It gives me the power to forget the bad things that the Navy has brought me. I curl my knees to my chest and wait for the gate to open, pretending I'm the same nineteen year old girl who kissed her parents goodbye for a crack at becoming one of the first female fighter pilots.

Vixen is the easiest one to 'forget.'

Goose and Carol and little Rooster are harder, Ghost and Charlie are harder yet, and —

How the Hell did Iceman weasel his way in here?

I massage the picture of him out of my eyes.

Maverick.

Maverick is impossible to erase. The second I let my thoughts wander in his direction, a bubble of regret forms in my stomach. Did I do the right thing, taking this flight? On the one hand, Mama and Papa deserve to see their daughter after she nearly died. I still hate myself for not calling them immediately after I was let out of the medical ward...but making the trip out to Alabama should remedy that, right? On the other hand...

Maverick. Impossible to forget.

Impossible to be without for an hour?

It appears so.

I stuff my face between my kneecaps. Whatever confidence I had a minute ago has completely deserted me. A shy voice inside my head believes that I'm abandoning Maverick for the holidays. The voice oozes lovesick sap. I know I'm corny for even thinking that visiting my family is somehow an indirect way of ditching Maverick. I mean...before me, he had Goose! Now he's got the Bradshaws, Charlie, Ghost, and the rest of the knuckle-heads from class, except Iceman of course. Although, Iceman has been finding his way into our day-to-day lives more and more lately...almost strategically. He's dating Ghost, he should want to be around her friends, I guess. Talk about impossible — Iceman is impossible to shut out. I'll be rifling through cabinets for a snack, I turn around and he's there!

Oh my gosh, I'm leaving Maverick alone against Iceman.

No, not alone.

Goose is there.

Oh my GOSH, I'm leaving those two idiots alone against Iceman.

"Is this seat taken?"

No way.

I throw my head up so fast a muscle spasms painfully in my neck.

"Maverick!"

It is him! He rocks awkwardly on his feet, a rolled up book shoved in the front pocket of his jeans and his leather jacket tossed over his shoulder. Good Lord, has he always been this handsome? One hour apart and it's like I'm seeing him for the first time. Well, that's not saying much. Our literal first meeting wasn't romantic in the slightest. I was too busy being impressed by his pluck, sitting next to the only girl, and not trying to flirt with me. He was charming as Hell, and he made me laugh for the first time in months, but even then...I wasn't all googly-eyed over him; not like I am now.

A smile leaps across my face.

"What are you—"

He produces a ticket from behind his back.

"Shut the Hell up."

"I didn't say anything," Maverick laughs.

I jump out of my chair and rip the ticket out of his hand. He's grinning ear to ear, laughing just quietly enough for me to feel the air about us ripple. My heart races as I aggressively fish through my bomber-jacket pocket for my ticket. Side by side, they're identical where it matters most.

"You're coming with me?"

Maverick quirks a brow, a sure sign of —

"Surprise!" He sings, jazz hands and all.

— a silly response, I finish with a laugh.

I want to mouth off something smart, but I'm speechless. Not once did I imagine Maverick would buy himself a matching ticket and show up to surprise me at the gate. Dunno what that says about my intelligence. Of course my reckless, textbook burning boyfriend is going to crash my Christmas travels. Did I really think he was gonna bum around the Bradshaws all day, for an entire week, waiting for me to get back? The tickets flap like a paper bird's broken wings clutched in my fists. Tears well in my eyes. Mavericks face softens. Why the Hell am I crying? This is a landmark of my adult life! Maverick is the first boy I get to bring home. Maverick is the only boyfriend I've had to introduce to my family — and during the Christmas season no less. Excitement and disbelief bleed throughout my nervous system like a game of cat and mouse. A tiny squeak bursts through my trembling smile. I lasso both arms around Maverick's neck, still crushing our tickets in my hands. Maverick grabs me around the waist and lifts me into the air. And I'm smiling against Maverick's lips, but he's kissing me, or trying to. I can't stop the goofy grin that's mutinied my face. The whisper of Maverick's lips has my legs curling up behind me; testing Maverick's balance. He holds us both up with zero effort, which I admit, makes it easier to kiss him back.

Only after Maverick sets me down do I remember we're in a public place.

I ripen deeper rouge than a red-delicious.

An old woman at the end of the row opposite us smiles, all gum, no teeth.

"We're not in a movie you know," I hiss through my teeth as I flash a nervous smile at all the heads that've turned our way.

Maverick slides both hands into my butt pockets and pushes my hips forward.

I gasp, nearly losing my grip on our tickets.

"Says the girl who tucked her legs up in the air like a princess."

"It was a knee jerk reaction," I argue — but even I giggle at the comparison.

Maverick smirks. "So if I pick you up and twirl you around, you'll do it again?"
"Do not test that theory," I growl.

He sighs dramatically, "Yes, your highness."

I nudge him into the seat next to mine. People stop staring once we've settled down. Maverick trades me the full story in return for his ticket. Apparently he decided to gate-crash the flight only three days ago. I have no idea how he found an open seat on the plane.

"I pulled a few strings," Maverick hints.

Whatever that means.

He looks pleased with himself, despite the lack of carry on.

"You'll be bored on the flight," I tell him.

Maverick's head hangs at an angle and he grins, "Nah. I'm never bored when I'm with you."

I grab his hand, but I'm aiming to capture his attention.

"Thank you, Pete..." A whole ecosystem of emotions stirs in my chest. "This is...this is a really big deal, for both of us but...I guess what I'm trying to say is, this trip is gonna be a lot of firsts. First time I'm bringing a boy home with me, first time I even have a boyfriend at all, actually..."

Hypnotic thumb-strokes on the back of my hand embolden me to add,

"The first time I'll be home since the crash."

So much has changed.

I've changed...

What will Mama and Papa think of me?

Will it still feel like coming home when we pull up to the farm after dark in Papa's old pickup, or am I too far gone to belong to my roots?

Gosh, what if Maverick is too much for the family? What if he's the odd one out, and Papa won't accept him and seven days of pre-Christmas become seven days of torture?

"Hey, Remi, look at me."

I do.

Maverick squeezes my hand; my heartbeat quickens.

"Everything will work out, okay? Whatever happens, we're in it together."

Together.

Our first Christmas together.

I hope it's a good one.

❅ . ❆ . ❅ . ❆

A grand total of five hours in coach and one layover in Memphis. Maverick and I split up to use the terminal bathrooms during our thirty minute break between flights. When I come out of the ladies room, he's got my backpack on his shoulders and a gift shop baggie in one hand. A Christmas present for me. He swears it isn't Elvis related, but I know it is. The real mystery is exactly what kind of merchandise it is. I spent our second flight guessing and eating enough peanuts to give me a heart attack. Maverick sleeps through the landing like a true pilot. It's funny how most people are nervous around planes, and flying is their least favorite part of flying. These Boeings are a freaking paradise compared to the F-14 cockpit. Why the Hell are people complaining about 'bad air flow?' I don't get a whiff of air for a whole hour when we're practicing dog-fights.

The flights are great.

The layover is fine.

Getting off? That's a real humdinger.

"Papa or Ransom should be picking us up."

Maverick retrieves my suitcase before I can. He won't let me carry anything besides my backpack. "Ransom is the one who wants to be in the Navy right?"

"That's David, he's sixteen. Ransom is three years younger than me. He'll probably keep the farm, unless he hits his head one day and suddenly wants to make it big in New York City."

Maverick laughs. "Can't have all the Weaver kids fly the coop."

"No, we sure can't."

"Papa!"

It's just like him to sneak up on us. I drop my backpack next to the luggage and dash into my daddy's open arms. Oh, he hasn't changed one bit! Same laugh, same firm, constricting hug. A strong whiff of wood-chips and horse-hair tickles my nose. I lay my head across Papa's chest and breathe deep. Twenty-three years, I've lived on this earth, and not for a single one has Papa smelled any different than he does now. If we had forever, I could stand here in my father's arms, breathing every note of our farm off his dusty work jacket. The flannel is wearing down, I bet Mama's got him a replacement for Christmas. Mama, I can't wait to see her! All the worries that followed me across the country take a back-seat to the frothing excitement of being home.

Papa laughs and laughs, deep down in his belly, the one thing that has changed. He's widened around the middle, helped by his unhealthy love of Mama's biscuits and the local brew.

Maverick will definitely be introduced to both.

I finally laugh —

But it feels more like a sob.

There's too many emotions for me to manage; too many faces and names and sights and sounds and memories for me to focus on a single thing. I'm hugging Papa and I never want to let go, but I yearn to be home, to see Mama and my brothers and sisters, and to hang off Maverick's arm and introduce him to the family, the animals, every scrap of my childhood —

"My little girl..." Papa murmurs, his voice thicker than I remember. "My little Remington, all grown up..."

He takes my head in both hands and kisses the top of my head.

I'm 5'7'' and still, Papa towers over me.

Tears leak from the corner of my eyes as Papa's calloused fingers stroke my cheek; they're trembling. We both are.

"You," Papa chuckles lightly. He flicks my nose, just like he did when I was little. "You're the spitting image of your Mama."

The entire church took it upon themselves to remind me of this since I was old enough to have hair and stand on my own two feet. I know I'm my mother's daughter...but somehow, something in the way Papa says it...I could be hearing it for the first time.

And I cry.

"I'm so sorry, Papa."

"Shh, babygirl," Papa wraps me up in his arms again and rocks us gently. His hands are loosely tangled with the mess of frizzy curls I inherited from Mama. "What do you got to be sorry for?"

"I'm sorry I never came home...I'm — I'm sorry I never c-called for so long."

I hate that I'm bringing it up.

I hate that I'm crying in the middle of the baggage claim, and that poor Maverick is standing with our luggage, watching the whole exchange like some innocent bystander, 'cause Papa has no clue I brought him home with me and he doesn't even know what Maverick looks like. Poor Papa seems so stunned, I can hear each measured breath stirring in his chest, just beside his racing heart. He must be confused. Did he forget how blatantly I avoided contacting my own parents after I nearly died? Is he mad at me? He should be. I am. Hot, guilty tears stream down my face, deteriorating Papa's flannel. Shit.

"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."

"Remi...babycakes, we forgave you remember? Accept our forgiveness, darlin'...and accept that we're just happy our first daughter is alive, and she's happy, and she's here."

Papa rubs my arms up and down.

Forgiveness.

Do I deserve it?

I want to, I want to so badly.
"Okay..." I say, but I don't mean it just yet.

If there's one thing I've learned about deep-rooted hurt, heart-break, and the worst, inescapable flaws imaginable...sometimes you have to fake it 'til you make it. Tell yourself to believe it, try to believe it, act like you do and then one day...you will.

"Okay. I love you, Papa."

"I love you most."

Papa steps back to kiss me on the head again. One of his hands trails down the back of my neck, catching a ringlet and he twirls it between his fingers.

Like Maverick does.

"Oh — right, Maverick—"

I hurriedly turn out of Papa's arms and wave Maverick over. Bless his heart, he looks so out of place. I meet him halfway, tucking myself into his side so he doesn't feel alone as we approach my father.

Here goes nothing.

"Papa, this is Lieutenant Pete Mitchell, but uh, his call-sign is Maverick, we usually go by call-signs at Top Gun."

"Yes I've heard all about you, son. Only person Remi cares to admit is better than her at flying, isn't that right, honey?"

I wince. Really dad?

"Well, I dunno about that, sir, she gives me a run for my money," Maverick answers real smooth. He gives my hip a comforting squeeze, and with his other hand, reaches out to Papa. Maverick is all smiles. Papa takes his hand. They shake hands so intensely, I wobble on the spot, relying on Maverick to keep me upright. Papa floats somewhere over six foot, the tallest member of the family, for now. Ransom is looking to pass him. Papa casts his shadow over Maverick and I, but Maverick doesn't flinch once as he tells Papa what a pleasure it is to meet him and all the sweet stories I've told him about the farm and growing up and the things he taught me. Wow, he even delivers the cheesy, 'You have an amazing daughter, I don't deserve her,' line from every romantic-comedy in existence and Papa leaks a little smile. "I hope I'm not intruding, Stirrups always talks about how she wants me to meet her parents, see where she grew up, so I found a ticket and surprised her..."

"Yeah," I snort. "You sure did."

Papa watches us banter with a suspicious eye.

I can't tell if it's our behavior, Maverick's existence, or the fact that Maverick calls me Stirrups, that seems to keep Papa on the alert.

Maybe all three?

"We best be getting on. It'll be past dark when we get to the house, Mama and the older three will be up waiting but you'll see Pat and Carra in the morning."

Once again, Maverick refuses to let me lift a finger. I've passed all the standard fitness qualifications for the United States Navy, I can handle a couple suitcases. Stupid chivalry. I'm pretty sure that it's out of a desire to impress my dad that Maverick carries my backpack and drags my suitcase behind him. Hell, he would've dragged his own along too, if it weren't for Papa stepping in, as the ancient chivalric code so states, 'no more than one suitcase to a man.' I smother a laugh as they do their politeness dance, until they both get what they want; what they expect. Maverick has proven his upper body strength and earned Papa's respect, and Papa has shown that he is still a gentleman even if part of him wants to shoot Maverick where he stands for merely engaging with his daughter. All this I watch, aloof in my female perspective. I guess it's sweet, and I appreciate how protective they are of me, I just wish I could be protected and wear my own damn backpack.

"THE TRUCK!"

Maverick jumps out of his skin.

I run over and kiss the rusty-red pickup.

"David just got his license three months ago. Says it's his first step to being a better pilot than you."

I almost holler bullshit loud enough to make Goose proud, but catch myself.

Papa and Mama wouldn't be pleased with the foul language I've picked up in the Navy.

"Yeah well, by the time he gets his own car, my name'll be on a fancy plaque in the Top Gun 'hall of fame.'"

"If I don't get it first," Maverick teases.

"Better you than Iceman."

"Oh God."

Maverick climbs in the back, so I follow him. As much as I want to sit up with Papa, I can't bear to leave Maverick all alone in this unfamiliar territory, rattling around in the back of a truck he laid eyes on for the first time two minutes ago. Papa asks us lots of questions about Top Gun, about our friends and 'that Goose fella, Remi always talks about.' I interrupt myself every-other second to point out all the landmarks of my childhood. Maverick leans over me, his arm draped across my shoulders as he follows my finger. I ask Papa to turn up the radio as we fly over the Tennessee River. Papa has the old country station on. Hank Williams plays. Haven't heard him in years.

The further we drive, the less build up there is. The population thins out to a few houses every couple of miles. We pass a small town where Mama sells our produce. There's a farmer's market every other Sunday since all the families are in town for Church. Our Southern Baptist church is humbly tucked between a run-down barber joint and the drug-store. Papa always joked that it was the perfect place for a sinner to 'indulge himself, feel bad and repent, and go get his first haircut as a changed man.' I thought it was funny until I realized drug-stores don't sell drug drugs.

"Oh my gosh!"

"What?" Maverick whispers.

I don't answer.

I can't answer.

Papa pulls off the main road.

We come off gravel onto dirt. The tires scratch their way towards the flickering lights at the end of the drive. The house. Mama has the lights on at the front of the house. I see movement through the transparent curtains in the kitchen window. Papa hooks right and parks along the front porch. I can't feel my legs. Maverick reaches over and unbuckles me. When I try to thank him, I sound like I've been smoking. Gosh that's the last thing I need, to scare my dear mother into thinking I'm a smoker. I'm a lot of things, most of them bad, but thank God, not a smoker.

"Welcome home, Remi."

I turn in a slow circle.

The barn...the pastures...the garden along the side of the house and the chicken coop. The smell of the animals and the grass...even the sound of my Nike-dunks, grinding the soil to dust as I spin around and around, struggling to take it all in at once. It's quieter than I expected. Winter — right. So no bugs chirping in the tallgrasses or frogs croaking on their rocks. The horses are all put away; so are the cows, and the pigs, however many are left. Papa always talked about killing or selling them, they were so badly behaved. I do hear the chickens far off, cooing and clucking amongst themselves like old gossips. Cool, December air stuffs my cheeks full of pins and needles.

Being home again is like turning back the pages of my story to the first chapter.

This is where it all began, and here I am, back at the beginning.

Everything is just as I remembered it. Time has no sway over the Weaver Ranch. It remains untouched by events that've decimated me.

The scary part was introducing my boyfriend and my father...but as I stare down the front door, I can tell the scary part isn't over yet.

I reach for the doorknob, but before I can touch it, the door swings open and warm light sears my eyes.

"Remi-rat is that you?!"

"Ransom!"

We go spinning through the kitchen, raising a raucous. Lord, Ransom has gotten tall! Henry is the oldest but somehow he only made it halfway to six foot. But geezes, Ransom might pass Papa any day now, if twenty year olds can still grow.

"Gah, you're so pretty! What's in that Navy food?!"

"Ha!" I punch him in the arm. "This is all-natural, baby."

Ransom ruffles my hair.

"Remi!"

"Remi!!!"

First comes Beth — then Carraway.

"Weren't you supposed to be in bed?" I laugh as I scoop my thirteen-year old sister into the air. She's tiny for her age, but she's got enough spunk to make up for it.

"I'm a teenager, it's in my nature to stay up late."

"She was just jealous I got to stay up cause I'm a year older," Beth remarks.

I pull her in for an armful of little-sisters. "Well I'm glad you did, Carra — it would've been Hell to wait until morning to see your face. Look at you two! My gosh, the proposals are gonna be rolling in any day now! Ransom, you better have you rifle at the ready."

He scratches the stubble patterning his jaw and laughs. "Actually you're the one I'm gonna have to watch out for."

Ransom nods towards the door.

The girls and I awkwardly pivot around in time to see Maverick and Papa step inside, laden with luggage. Beth and Carraway gasp in unison. They grab at each other desperately.

"MAVERICK!" They giggle.

Oh my goodness.

They're more excited to see him than they are to see me!

I scan the kitchen for my little rival-pilot in the making.

"Where's David?"

"Asleep," Ransom laughs. "He sat up for fifteen minutes and then passed out on the couch."

"I feel so special."

"You should, fifteen minutes is a new record for him."

Beth and Carraway slip under my arms and flutter about Maverick, shy and shockingly bold at once as they introduce themselves. Maverick shakes their hands but he glances at me, helpless.

It's easy to forget that Maverick was an only child. A house full of brothers and sisters is all I've ever known. Obviously Maverick is good with kids, one look at him and Rooster is all the evidence you need. He would've been a good older brother. He'll make an even better father. At the moment, a pair of teenage girls seems to knock him back a step. I hurry and rescue him.

"Ransom, girls..." Beth and Carra pipe down under my wrathful gaze. I feel for Maverick's hand and lace our fingers together. "This is Pete Mitchell, my..."

The word boyfriend dies on my lips.

Mama.

She steps into the light of the kitchen, more beautiful than ever. Age has changed her figure drastically, but she walks with the same humble elegance as she did ten years ago and ten years before that. All the lines on her face seem to crinkle around the edges of her mouth. Mama's smile. The smile that every child in this house has, me included. Ransom frowns and follows my dewy-eyed gaze over his shoulder. Mama reaches him, patting his bicep as she inches closer and closer to me. Tears shimmer like snow-dust on her gray irises. The last time I saw them outside of a photograph was two Christmases ago. I was standing right here, arm in arm with Vixen, and Mama came, kissed both my cheeks, and told me to stay out of trouble.

"Mama..."

She squeezes the apology out of my lungs. I guess I can forget it for a while. Right now I just wanna hug my Mama tight, and kiss her all over her face and tell her I love her and I miss her and she's so beautiful.

"Oh my baby...look how lovely you are...oh — Maverick, I'm sorry, sweetheart we've left you hangin'. We're so happy to have you."

Mama hugs Maverick like she's known him her whole life.

He stiffens at first, but I watch as his walls come tumbling down and he wraps his arms around my mom like she's his own. I can't begin to imagine what Maverick is feeling; how it feels to lose your mother so young. No have no parents, no siblings, no one to come home to for Christmas. Losing Vixen tore me to shreds. My grief ran so deep, weighed so heavily on me that to talk to loved ones I hadn't seen in years felt like another loss. I never wanted to carve my family out of my life; I never meant to lay them by the wayside. Aviation is a big part of my life, but my family is my life. These are my people, and if I lost my parents — when I lose my parents...

Great, now I might cry.

Maverick and I swore we'd be each other's family.

We made a promise, and by graduation, we'll be a few steps away from making that oath legally binding.

Maverick is my family as much as mine is his.

"Mama," I choke out. "Mama, lighten up, you're gonna strangle him."

"Oh shush, let me thank him for hauling my little girl out of such a dark place. You're a very special young man, I hope you know that. Stirrups has never even so much as considered boys. Always had her head in the clouds."

"Mama — I did too like boys!"

"Oh you liked them plenty," She agrees, "But they were never good enough for you. Never could keep up. I always worried my oldest daughter would live life without being a mother...but here we are, some hope! And, my goodness wouldn't you two have such pretty children! Look at him, Beth, Carra, isn't he so handsome."

Beth hides her face in her hands.

Carra grins like she's been doped.

"Mama!"

"Alright, alright, enough teasing. It's late...did y'all have supper?"

No, we didn't, but I know my mother enough to say that whether we had or not wouldn't have mattered. We still would've wound up eating leftover shepherd's pie. By the time I get into bed, my eyes ache. I can't seem to keep them still. I stare at each family member in turn, especially Mama and Papa, who seem to have the same problem. Almost every time I glance their way, they're already watching me, smiling. Every time, I blush, and smile back. The fading wallpaper and the cluttered counter tops fold around me like a warm blanket. When I'm not admiring my family's faces and the details of our home, I'm watching Maverick; his reactions to everything that I know so well, and he's experiencing for the first time. His eyes bulge at the first spoonful of the pie. He laughs at Ransom's sense of humor, and flatters the girls with compliments each time they tell him something 'important' about themselves. Papa doesn't say much; he watches us all intently. Mama listens a lot, but then again, she talks a lot too. And she keeps grabbing my hands across the table and telling me how pretty I am.

When I finally climb into my old bed, joined by both Carra and Beth since mine is 'big enough for three,' I'm bursting with a happiness that I'd forgotten was possible.

❅ . ❆ . ❅ . ❆

Our first full day at the farm proves overwhelming in a totally different way. The tears are behind us; now comes the physical exhaustion. I guess the Navy life affected me more than I thought. All this time I've been labeling myself as unorganized and unpredictable when it's everyone else in the family but me who fits the bill. One by one we pop into the kitchen for breakfast. The boys wrestle, the girls hurry around, rushing through all their chores so they can spend the day with Maverick.

Food is burnt, plates are dropped, cups spilled, people crash into each other.

Just another Friday in the Weaver household.

This used to be my normal. Today I feel like a sojourner in a foreign land. The good news is we'll be hanging around the farm all week, except for Sunday morning when we have church. That leaves six whole days to adjust to the...how would Ghost say it...vivacious atmosphere. Mama stuff Maverick full of biscuits. I kick him under the table and he throws me a scowl.

"Don't eat too much."

"Or what?" Maverick hisses.

I nod towards the other end of the table.

Papa stands up and pats his belly as he showers Mama with compliments on her cooking for a kiss. Maverick eyes the Papa's width and offers his sixth biscuit to Carraway, who worships it like some holy artifact.

Most of the family Maverick met last night and seems comfortable with. Surprisingly, it's the girls he interacts with the most. I guess they're the ones vying for his attention. Ransom has a long list of responsibilities he's gotta attend to, so he wanders in and out. The few times I catch him and Maverick leaned up against a fence talking, they're always laughing. I think they talk about me more than anything. Each time they're together, and I pass them by, they share an odd look and smile at me. Big, scary smiles. If they weren't grown ups, I'd say they were conspiring some awful prank. David and Ransom used to do it all the time, but I always got them back. One time I rode my horse to town and back just for a roll of Saran-wrap so I could screw with the toilet and get David to pee on himself. Mama wouldn't let me ride for a month. And I had to scrub all the urine off the walls, but it was worth it.

David was always a little shit.

I love him to pieces though.

Of all my siblings, he's the most like Papa.

Unironically, they're the most suspicious of Maverick.

"REMIIIIII!"

Patrick sprints across the yard screaming.

"PATTYCAKES!"

Patrick stops dead in his tracks and scowls. "I'M TEN YEARS OLD, YOU CAN'T CALL ME THAT ANYMORE —"

I flip him over my shoulder.

He screams louder.

"Pattycakes, pattycakes, baker's man, bake me a cake as fast as you can..."

I don't care if he's ten or thirty, that nickname will never get old.

Papa and Ransom shoulder the weight of the farm work while the others heard around Maverick and I. Growing up, I had the early bird chores and I was finished before breakfast time. David's taken my place. If he didn't have to be up first thing, he wouldn't wake up until the cows came home. Maverick and I stumbled out of bed, guided by the smell of bacon. I met him in the hallway outside the boys bedroom. Well, the room that used to be Henry and Ransom's is now David and Ransom's. Last night, Papa prodded David into bed while we had a late supper. He was asleep by the time Maverick was ushered in to use Ransom's bed. They were worried that if Patrick woke up early, he'd wake Maverick up unexpectedly, so Ransom took the empty bed in Pat's room. Well...David was the first up, and according to him,

"I thought Mama and Papa had rescued a drunk."

"You jerk, Maverick did not look drunk!"

"He sleeps like he's been drinking."

I shove my brother into the side of the barn. "He does not!"

"Oh yeah?" David sneers, "And how would you know? You guys sleeping together or something?"

I trip over nothing.

"Ohhhh Mama and Papa are gonna be so disappointed in you."

"We're not sleeping together, David!"

"Suuuuuuure."

Gosh, I hate little brothers, the sixteen-year old one, at least. David is now convinced that Maverick and I have had sex, which I swear up and down that we have not and been very careful not to but he's a sixteen year old boy who's afraid of the word sex and every time he asks me again,

"Are you sure you haven't slept together?"

What the Hell am I supposed to say?

No — not like that but...I mean we've slept in the same bed together.

Too many times to count.

'Cause somebody won't stop showing up at my window in the middle of the night. Maverick winds up spending the night in my room at Charlie's so often, it's screwed up my ability to sleep. Both of my sisters insist that every night should be a sleep over, so they pile on either side of me, and we whisper until there's pink in the sky. When I wake up, I've got a sister under each arm. It's cozy enough, having my sisters close by, but I wake up each morning, expecting a different face sharing my pillow, and each morning, my stomach drops when I realize it isn't him. I remind myself that a little space is good for us. We get to spend the whole day together, and besides, Papa would never allow us to share a bed — Maverick and I are scared enough as it is to kiss in his presence.

I steal a small one while I introduce him to the horses.

Around my eleventh birthday, we lost Mama's horse, Missus. Couple months after that, grandpa's horse, Wilco, fell down in his stall. Wilco was the oldest member of the family. We all knew that once he was down, he wasn't getting up for nobody. The vet took too long to reach us, so Mama shuffled us out of the barn as Papa put her out of her misery. I think that was the most I ever cried until losing Vixen. A few years after Wilco died, our old mare, Fleabag passed away. Those were hard losses.

"We've got four left, Papa's horse, Muscat, and this was Henry's horse but Ransom rides him mostly, his name is Glen. This here is Rosemary, David's horse, but Mama named her. He hates Rosemary since it sounds girly and he calls her Dixie. She seems to answer it alright. Oh —" I yank on Maverick's hand. Amelia sticks her head over the stall-door. Maverick twists around so fast, he nearly smacks into her face. I tug him back a step, "Careful! This is Amelia Earhart, I share her with the girls, since Papa hasn't had the time or money to get Beth or Carra their own horse...and I'm not home anymore so she needs looking after."

Amelia is a mutt Papa bought off an old friend for my fifth birthday. She was green then, and Papa's friend didn't have the time to train her right. At the time he was looking to sell all his horses and downsize, maybe move on from farm life. I think he headed north to the New England area a couple years ago — before I signed up for the Navy. Wherever the man got Amelia, she was from good stock. We're certain she's got Morgan mixed in her. She's lean, athletic, and when she stretches out, her back has that curve you see in photos of fancy Morgan show-ponies.

"Amelia Earhart, huh?" Maverick gives my arm a shake.

"Yeah," I laugh. "I had to do a project on a historical figure, and I was putting it off, and my teacher sat me down, asked me about things I liked or wanted to do, and somehow it got out that I wanted to fly. At the time I didn't know much about planes or jets or anything like that...I just wanted to be in the sky, with the birds, and I loved the thrill of jumping from a height."

"Wow, so you were that kid."

"Hey!" I ram Maverick with my shoulder. "Don't pretend you weren't a little daredevil! Fess up."

"Alright — I admit...I did have a tendency to climb to the very top of a certain tree on a windy day. Mom had to lure me out with cakes."

"I knew it!"

Amelia snorts in agreement.

She was always a good judge of character.

"Here, you can pet her nose. Her favorite is when you rub circles on her forehead like this..."

Maverick surrenders his hand to me. I show him how to stroke Amelia's nose. The bone dips halfway between her eyes and her nostrils, one of the few non-morgan features she has. Maverick follows the curve of her face like she's a china doll. I laugh, and add a bit more pressure. Amelia snorts, nuzzling his palm with the soft tip of her snout. Maverick jumps...but after a couple of nervous pets, he's tracing her coat without my help. Amelia chortles. She likes him.

She's not the only one.

The whole farm, all creatures great and small, including the human litter that I belong to, like Maverick better than I could've hoped for.

Ransom even lets Maverick sit on Glen, although he winds up sliding sideways off the saddle when Glen spooks and takes off across the field.

"Ow," Maverick hisses.

"Sorry—" I lift the bag of ice off his cheek. "How does your head feel?"

"Fine," Maverick mumbles. "What kind of rock decides to catch a person's face when they fall off a horse?"

"One that's hiding in the grass."

Maverick narrows his eyes.

The ice-rag rattles in my hand; I desperately avoid Maverick's gaze. It's hopeless. He knows me all too well.

"Do not laugh."

"Who said I was laughing?"

I reapply the ice to the welt spreading across Maverick's face. It comes down harder and faster than I meant 'cause my damn hand won't quit shaking. Maverick jumps ten-feet out of his skin and says the first f-bomb that's ever been uttered in this house.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry—"

"No you're not, you're laughing!"

"S-s-so are you!"

He doesn't even try to deny it.

We're laughing our asses off. Apparently I'm not very nurturing; let's pray I grow into it 'cause if I'm failing at icing my boyfriend's bruised cheekbone, how the Hell am I gonna change diapers and raise decent kids? Every time I put the ice down on his skin I somehow make things worse and then I laugh and wound his pride and we're laughing and arguing, pretending that we mean a single hurtful word we say. Maverick locks a hand around my wrist so I won't torture him further but he throws me off balance by accident. Our faces are too close, and how could we be expected not to kiss? I rest a hand on Maverick's uninjured cheek and gently kiss his bottom lip, a humble apology for my shitty nursing-skills. Laughter rumbles at the back of his throat as he drags both my wrists over his shoulders and deepens the kiss. The ice-pack hits the floor, but it's David and Carraway barging in the room that has us jerking apart.

If David hadn't seen Maverick fall off Glen, he would've convinced himself that I was behind the bruise on Maverick's face.

He smirks the rest of the day.

The third day is Sunday, so the whole family is up with the rooster's crow. Beth and Carra move around the bedroom, setting out their dresses for after morning chores. After ten minutes of listening to them shuffle about, speaking in the worst whispers I've ever heard, I roll out of bed and offer to help with their chores.

Why not?

We feed and water the chickens. Patrick meets us by the coop to gather the eggs. The work goes faster with an extra hand. Mama lends me a dress of hers from the 60s. It's a little small, but not noticeable enough to excuse me from 'dolling up' as Mama always says. The blue and white polka dots turn my eyes fuzzy after staring at them in the mirror for too long. I guess it isn't the worst dress on the planet, but I liked my old collared country-style dress. That thing was indestructible. I romped around the creek in that thing the entire summer of 1980 and it didn't tear once. Oh well, Mama won't let me out of the house in pants anyhow. I stomp down the stairs and dodge the cardigan Mama thrusts in my face.

"Mama, I'm fine — I won't be cold!"

"Nonsense, you'll catch a chill!"

"MAMAAAAA—"

"Leave her be, darlin'...she's an adult. She can catch whatever chills she wants now, isn't that right, Remington?"

Papa eyes me over his morning coffee.

"I'll wear my bomber jacket, it's warmer than a cardigan."

Mama rolls up the cardigan, muttering to herself about 'what in the world is she gonna do with a daughter who still acts like a kid.' Papa chuckles. Mama could never persuade him to wear a tie, not even on a Sunday. Nothing's changed a bit. Patrick begs me to sit next to him for breakfast. We bump our bacon together like glasses of champagne on New Years. Giggling, my little brother shoves the whole strip into his mouth. Someone gasps. I swallow a large chunk of bacon and cough it back up. It came from the end of the table. Papa raises a brow. We're all looking around, except for Beth. I kick her under the table, what? She blinks her big ol' gray eyes and points at something behind me.

I swear if it's a spider—

No.

Nope, definitely not a spider.

"Oh, Maverick, sweetheart don't you look sharp!"

No, Mama...he looks hot.

"I hope this is okay," Maverick scratches the back of his head, expertly avoiding any and all eye contact. "The trip was last minute — I didn't have anything nice..."

"It's perfect."

Maverick looks up.

God, he is perfect.

The contrast between his messy, dark hair and the pure white fabric of his uniform have my stomach in a knot. Patches of color and gold mark his left lapel. The decorations are few, but with time they'll grow. Maybe one day he'll trade his white in for black, and wear four stars on his shoulder? Right now, he's perfect as is. I find it difficult to take my eyes off of him, that is, until I realize everyone else has their eyes on me. I clear my throat and take another bite of bacon. You'd hear more voices in a graveyard. Maverick takes a seat. I risk another peek. He winks, and everyone laughs.

Whatever this game is, I don't like it.

"I'm glad you brought it," I huff, once everyone's piped down. "At least one of us will look like we're in the Navy."

Five seats aren't enough to squeeze in the whole family and a guest. Papa and Mama automatically get the front, and us girls fill up the backseat, but I hold Patrick on my lap since he isn't old enough to climb in the bed of the truck with the older boys.

"I bet you've never ridden in a truck-bed before, Maverick."

Beth and Carra catch my eye.

David, we mouth and roll our eyes.

"Actually, my buddy Goose and I once stole a friend's truck and took turns standing up in the bed while the other sped down the back roads. I had better balance. He fell out a couple of times. His wife, Carol, hated me for a whole week."

Ransom laughs. "Hey, David? What'dyou say we go do some donuts in the quarry? I bet you five bucks you'll go flying in the first three minutes."

"No deal," David snaps.

I catch Maverick's eye through the back window.

He smirks.

"Maybe David should join the Navy," Beth mutters as she fixes her sweater. "Sure would straighten him out."

"But then we'd have to do his chores," Carraway whines.

Papa adjusts the mirror. His reflection smiles kindly at his three girls.

"He'll grow up soon, Carra, don't you worry now."

Sure enough we make it to church in one piece; not a single boy tossed outta the truck bed. Patrick mopes that he wasn't allowed back with Ransom and David. Mama grabs his hand and rambles on and on about how she couldn't bear to lose her littlest one like that, or at all for that matter. None of it makes a difference. Pat crosses his arms and walks funny so he can kick the dirt with every step.

"Hey, Patrick."

"Hey, what?" Patrick grumbles.

I do my best not to laugh.

Maverick flashes me a stern look, but he can't wipe the smile off his face. Oh boy, that grin can only mean one thing...he's got something up his sleeve.

"Stirrups is going to sit on my right side but I need someone to sit on my left. You interested?"

Patrick stops kicking up church soil and considers the proposition. He acts all business-like, stroking his chin and squinting his eyes, but I don't miss the tiny smile that curls across his face. "Sure," He murmurs. Patrick scampers up the stairs. Maverick and I hurry after him. We'd better make good on our promise. If Maverick doesn't sit beside Patrick during the service, we'll never hear the end of it. Maverick must read my mind. He wiggles his eyebrows urgently and takes off after Patrick. My laugh is lost in the static of voices, wishing Merry Christmas and catching up while the choir files in from the room at the back of the sanctuary. The church is small. There's two main bodies, connected by a short hallway. We're in the oldest bit where there's the sanctuary, foyer, and directly behind the pulpit the choir practice room and the door leading to the baptism chamber. Down the hall, the second part of the church is our 'fellowship hall,' where little kids have Sunday School and nursery during the Sunday service, but we also host parties and after-church luncheons there on rainy days.

Our family takes up an entire row, two down from the front. Papa sits at one end, Patrick at the other. He lifts a dense, blue book from the nest attached to the few in front of us.

"Here's a hymnal," Patrick whispers. "It's in case you don't know all the words. Mama says it's for reading music. Can you read music?"

"No," Maverick whispers in reply.

"That's alright. Neither can I. I just pretend I can and copy everyone else."

Maverick laughs and ruffles Patrick's hair. "Smart plan."

"We can share," Patrick decides as he cracks open the hymnal. "I don't know all the words either."

They're little exchange puts a smile on my face. I grab the back of the second pew and lean close to Patrick. "Hey, mind if I share too?"

"Sure!"

Patrick wedges himself between Maverick and the pew. He spreads the book open against the top of the pew and smiles up at us. Maverick gives him a quick thumbs up before the music starts. As the pianist hits the first three chords, I feel an arm snake around my waist. Warmth crawls up the back of my dress, reflecting off the inside of my bomber jacket. I tip sideways into Maverick's embrace, following Patrick's stubby pointer-finger across the lyrics so I don't fall behind. Choir and congregation join together in a heavenly noise. Every voice meshes together, unrecognizable, inoperable. Even Maverick's voice is lost, but I know he's singing by the focus with which he studies the hymnal page and the shape of each lyric off his lips.

I wrap both my arms around him and sing louder.

Pastor Wylie is working through the book of Luke, as per Christmas tradition. He focuses on the relationship between Mary and Joseph; their exemplary love and dedication to one another, and God's calling for their lives. Joseph and Mary are one of the best models of a healthy marriage and healthy parents from all sixty-six books of the Bible. It must be a Christmas miracle that I remember that much. As a child, I could never sit still during the sermons. I loved singing at the top of my lungs, practically screaming words I couldn't spell until Mama had to shush me. Then the pastor mounted the pulpit and suddenly I had the squirmies. Listening came naturally the older I got, but this is the first time in my life that I'm tuned in. Pastor Wylie brings Mary and Joseph to life in a way I'd never imagined. I lay my head on Maverick's shoulder and wish I had Mary's great faith, her peaceful spirit and endurance...

Joseph was looking out for Mary, even when he thought she'd been unfaithful and he'd have to divorce her. He protected her and their child...he supported her, even though carrying the Saviour was her burden.

"A true husband, and a true man, uplifts, defends, and cherishes what he loves most. A true man is a Joseph to his Mary."

There is so much of Joseph in Maverick...

And so little of Mary in me.

I leave church feeling somehow convicted and encouraged at the same time.

Church members who've known me since I was a baby flock around us, flattering Maverick and thanking him for his service and of course asking all the same questions.

How long have you been together?

Are you staying for Christmas?

Oh and the classic —

So when are you two gettin' married?

We talk our jaws off.

Needless to say the drive home is quiet.

Mama stuffs us full of sandwiches, deviled eggs, and fresh vegetables for lunch. The table is so beautifully set and the food is mouthwatering and a wave of guilt hits me like a brick wall in the middle of my second helping. It's probably the sermon on my mind that moves me to volunteer for dish-cleaning-duty. Carra and Patrick are thrilled to be off the hook. Mama tries to object but I won't hear it.

"You cook for all us beasts everyday, Mama...lemme do something nice for you for once, okay? Papa's gonna pass out in his armchair, the kids will all do their own thing...you go take some time to yourself. No laundry, no cleaning, something you love; something you've been waiting to do, m'kay?"

I kiss her on the cheek.

She tastes salty.

She's crying.

"Oh Remi..." Mama takes my face in her hands. "You are so sweet...you will never know how much I've missed you..."

She draws our foreheads together and gently rubs her nose against mine. There's a name for it, the forehead touch, but I can never remember it. All I know is Mama only holds us like this when she's really, truly happy. I peck her on the cheek again and start collecting plates. I sashay around the table, asking everyone if they're finished in by far the most cartoonish french accent in existence. I pass Maverick last, but he's already holding his plate in both hands.

"Would you like a hand?" Maverick asks, in a dramatic, black-and-white movie kind of tone.

"Why of course, dear — you needn't ask!"

❅ . ❆ . ❅ . ❆

Fun, to my mother, is getting a twelve day head start on Christmas traditions, beginning with gingerbread houses. Maverick and I had only just dried the last fork when Mama returned, apron on, smile at the ready, and began dragging bowls and sacks of flour out of the cabinets. I slump backwards, my elbows catching on the counter at the last second. So this is what it feels like to watch your hard work crumble before your very eyes? A kernel of disdain surfaces in my chest. The only other time I've felt like this was when I was back seating for Dash. A horrible comparison — I know, I know. Mama is an angel and Dash is a dick, the latter takes the cake, but watching Mama litter the tabletop I spent half an hour wiping down and filling up the sink with gooey measuring cups I just washed feels like a mellowed out version of the violent aggravation I felt as Dash disregarded and stomped on my efforts to qualify as a pilot and literally stole my job.

Yeah, I'm being overly dramatic.

Maverick is on board the second sugar is involved.

"So your mom really lured you down with cake?" I ask as I squirt white frosting all over our gingerbread a-frame.

Maverick pops a gumdrop in my mouth and through the wet slapping chews, says something like, "ZhejusknewI'adasweetooof."

"Someone in Finland is very offended right now."

Maverick swipes a dollop of icing off the roof and smears it across my nose.

"Geezes, that's freezing!"

Still, I lick my nose clean.

"Yeah, Remi, that's why they call it frosting."

Those weren't big enough words for that amount of teenage sass. I rob Carraway of her licorice ropes so she sticks out her tongue. Papa hasn't shown his face since lunch, and Ransom promised to pop back in once the cookies are baked. I followed his heavy footsteps out the kitchen door with a far heavier heart. Gingerbread houses, that's all this is. A fun way for all us siblings, and Maverick, to spend time together and rev ourselves up for Christmas. To buy a gift for each of my siblings would tear a hole in my finances, so I throw myself into every holiday activity and tradition Mama plans. Time. Laughter and silliness. Those are the best gifts I can give my little brothers and sisters...and I hope they're the ones they remember the most once they too have grown up and found their place in the world. I know Ransom is working hard so Papa doesn't overdo it, and I guess that's an even greater Christmas gift, but my heart stings a little as I realize we're two Weavers short for this year's Gingerbread House Contest.

Henry's supposed to stay for Christmas until New Years, so I'll miss him.

Ransom's working like a dog.

At least David joins us.

He'd never turn down a chance to kick ass, not even teenage angst could work that miracle.

Mama only has enough supplies to make four houses. Carraway and Maverick teamed up, but neither David or Patrick wanted a partner, so that leaves me and Beth to dominate these invalids. We huddle in the corner, whispering ideas in each other's ear until she says something brilliant: why not turn the gingerbread house into our house? Beth orchestrates the details. I'm just a gear in the machine, doing as I'm told. The Weavers aren't an artistic family. We enjoy a good song and most of us like to read, but we'd rather get our hands dirty and our asses thrown off a horse than sit in front of an easel for hours. The brutish gene that Mama and Papa carry skipped right over Beth. She doodles during church and she's gonna make these slices of gingerbread look like a storybook illustration of the farmhouse. I trust her vision. We're already way ahead of the curve. God knows what Patrick is doing to his cookie sheets. David's house looks like an abandoned warehouse.

"Uh, Mav?"

"Yeah-huh?"

"You do know it's supposed to be a gingerbread house, not a gumdrop house."

Maverick and Carra pause, hands overflowing with gumdrops, as if their roof isn't already covered in them. You can't see a speck of icing under the rainbow of gummies.

"We're thinking outside of the box," Carra insists.

"If you say so," Beth sighs.

"Bicker all you want," David chuckles. "We all know who the real winner is."

"Patrick." All four of us say in unison.

Patrick smiles all big.

Poor kid has no chance.

According to tradition, once every gingerbread house is completed, Papa provides a full inspection. Whichever one is too perfect to eat is the winner. That one we keep for the holidays; the others we smash and take bites out of as we put up decorations and dance around the kitchen to Christmas records. Unless it was a year when Beth and I were paired together, my gingerbread house never won. I was in it for the Christmas cheer and the actual eating. Beth won't settle for less than perfection. She pretends to have a rock in her shoe and runs outside to stare at the front of the house so we don't miss a single detail. We pile up on licorice ropes; red for the gutters, black for the trim. Beth carefully inserts peppermint sticks under the roof of the porch. I crouch as close to the counter top as I can and fill the gaps between the peppermint and the gingerbread with icing. Beth pinches her bottom lip and stretches it in every direction. Nervous or focused? Focused, I decide, playfully squirting her in the face with some icing.

"Don't waste the frosting!" She hisses.

"Just like it off your face and be grateful."

She bumps my hip but smiles. "What else do we need?"

Good question.

There's a door, a chimney, windows...we've added icing to the roof and around the edges of the house as if it's snowed, which is as likely as finding a four leaf clover here in Alabama. I've never had a White Christmas. That movie always made me so jealous. I bet Bing Crosby gets snow wherever he goes.

Some people just have all the luck.

Like Ghost.

I'll bet Christmas in Ireland is spectacular. Cold and snowy and scenic. The pubs must come alive during the holidays. All warm and cozy. Everyone bundled up and armed with a foaming pint.

Snow.

We have snow on the house, but how can we Christmas-ify it even more?

"A wreath!"

Beth catches a gasp in her palm. "A wreath!"
We glue a green and white peppermint to the door.

Somewhere in the house, a door shrieks on its hinges.

At the top of his lungs, Patrick yells, "Papa's coming!"

Panic ensues. The candy bowls are running on empty, everyone is last minute grabbing gumdrops and candy-canes and cereal flakes. My hands hover uselessly over everything. Beth and I stare at each other, racking our brains for the final touch.

"The windows!" She exclaims, diving for the blue m&ms.

"Right —"

Windows? I glance at the basic frosting outlines we've left for each window on the farm house. A simple gridded rectangle.

"Uh, what are we doing?"

"Here —" Beth thrusts a fistful of blue m&ms at me. I spill half of them on the floor, choking on a million muttered shits as I rake them all back into my hand. When I stand back up, Papa is chanting, 'fee-fi-fo-fum,' ominously, as he stomps closer and closer to the kitchen. Maverick moves at the speed of light, securing a pair of candy canes to the front of his house with icing while Carra holds them in place. I have no idea what to do with the m&ms, so I just copy Beth. Oh. "See?" She pants. "Just...fill in the window."

She ices with one hand and inserts m&ms with the other.

Pure talent.

And me, the hunchback assistant who makes minimum wage.

"Ah-ha!"

Carraway screams.

We all jump, and back away from the counter.

Maverick draws Carra back by the shoulders. She's still got a licorice rope in her hand. Papa pats his belly thoughtfully and makes his rounds. Beth and I grab a hold of each other's hands, cutting off circulation. Our little house is by far the prettiest. It's minimal compared to the others, they really pillaged the candy bowls. Maverick and Carra especially. I have no idea what they were going for, but that gumdrop infestation is going to give me diabetes if I get any closer. I fear for Papa's health as he leans over it, studying every detail. The candy-canes arch towards each other, hook up, and form a large heart at the very front of the house. It almost looks like a Vegas sign. Papa hums; we're all amazed at how well the candy-cane heart stands on its own on the crest of the roof. He moves on to Patrick's but lingers for show. Pat's Gingerbread House looks like a pack of elephants stampeded and devoured half of it. Carraway starts to giggle.

I lock eyes with Maverick.

Oh shit.

Patrick's brows bend inwards.

Maverick claps a hand over Carra's mouth.

Her shoulders are shaking.

Papa flicks Pat's nose and steps next-door where David's gingerbread house is hardly standing. There are holes in the wall, gingerbread rubble spilling down the walls and filling almost every inch of the interior. The roof is pretty impressive. David used the cereal flakes like shingles, and purposefully left a few out for continuity. There's hardly much color on his house, other than red and some blue. Blood and water I'd guess. The house would easily fit into a war-torn third world country. Nazis must've rained fire on whatever town this house belongs to.

Their poor choices elevate Beth and I's masterpiece.

It takes a second for Papa to realize what we've done.

"Who did this one?"

"Hey that's no fair—"

Mama smacks David with a dishtowel. He withers under her pointed gaze. Mama smiles across the table at me and Beth. "Girls?"

"We did, Papa," I sling my arm around Beth and hold her close. She hugs me around the middle, smiling expectantly.

"Do you like it, Papa?"

"Like it?" Papa puffs like he's winded. The sunlight highlights his waterline. I hide my face in Beth's strawberry-blonde tresses, knowing if Papa cries, I'll cry harder. Beth hides her smile but there's no mistaking the lift of her cheek against my chest. "I've never loved anything more. Come here, you two..."

Papa folds us up in his big, strong arms.

"It was Beth's idea. I was just an extra pair of hands."

"You made something beautiful together," Papa corrects me. He squeezes us tight, "That's what Christmas is all about, hm?"

"So they win, right?" David gripes.

"Yes, David, they do. But I appreciate all my children's hard work, and I will enjoy every delicious bite of it."

"Amen!" Mama hollers.

"Now, let's get all our Christmas goodies out of the shed, boys."

Patrick runs to get Ransom from the barn but David follows Papa to the storage shed. Maverick finally lets Carra go. She spins around and they fist pump.

"Next time we'll make a castle or something," He murmurs all conspiratory.

Carra smirks. "Or we could design you and Remi's house."

Laughing, Maverick sticks out a hand. "Better you than David. Can't have any leaks on my future-wife...what kind of husband would I be?"

Carraway's hand misses Maverick's by an inch. She throws both hands over her mouth and turns to face Beth, who's gone rigid in my arms. Maverick grins wickedly as my sisters run at each other, bouncing up and down and singing about a wedding and babies and bridesmaid dresses. They parade out of the kitchen, searching for Mama to tell her the good news. The well of anxiety that haunted me from San Diego to Huntsville returns, deeper and darker. I slip down its throat, and collapse face first into my sugar crusted hands. In California, Maverick calls me 'future-wife' and every internal organ sags like a bag of jelly beans. Here, in the house I know from the perspective of a child, a snotty little creature dependent on her parents, hearing our promise off Maverick's lips is frightening. I'm not afraid to love Maverick. He is the only one I can love unconditionally. I trust him to be my Joseph in the hard times, and the good. He's proven that he will be there for me, encourage me, listen and respect my boundaries but know exactly when testing them is necessary. Maverick challenges me. He makes me want to do better than yesterday. He makes me feel like I can towards something and not fall through the cracks of what was before.

I hide between my hands, frozen in the middle of the kitchen because I'm afraid of a horrible choice.

So far, the family loves Maverick.

And he's loved on them so much I ache in places I never knew existed.

Patrick is in awe of Maverick. He's a shiny, interactive toy that Patrick can't seem to put down. Beth and Carra are smitten with Maverick, but they've never gotten this much attention from a boy. They fawn over every tiny exchange between Maverick and I like we're a fairy tale come to life. I hope we're a good example. One day, when they meet a guy, I want them to know that if he doesn't treat them as good as Maverick treats me, he isn't worth it. David is a grouch, but Ransom seems to respect Maverick as a man, and trust that he has my best interest at heart. They've only ever had smiles on their faces when they get to talking.

Of course, Mama loves Maverick.

What if Papa is tolerating him?

What if Maverick talks to Papa...tells him about our promise to marry after graduation...and Papa won't hear of it?

"Hey..."

Hands.

Warm, soft hands on my face.

"Softer than a baby's ass," I once said.

"Are you gonna talk to Papa?"

Maverick pushes a curl behind my ear. "Yeah, I will but not today."

"In case things don't go well?"

"Yeah," Maverick says again. He gnaws his bottom lip, clearly nervous about asking my dad's blessing over our engagement. I wish I was only nervous. Maverick's hand slides down the length of my neck, the pad of his thumb slotting against my pulse point. Terror chases my heartbeat past a healthy rate. Maverick frowns. "Stirrups—"

"I'll choose you," I whisper. "I couldn't choose anything but you and if Papa says no and makes me choose between the family and you, I — if I lie to make him happy, I'll be miserable the rest of my life but I must be horrible to already know I'd chose my boyfriend over my parents and siblings—"

"Hey, we don't know...we don't know if he'll say no."

"We don't know if he'll say yes!"

Maverick kisses me softly. "Exactly. We don't know...so don't worry. I'm not scared of what your dad says, but he deserves to be asked. You love your dad and he loves you and I wouldn't love you with my whole heart if I didn't honor that."

A sob rattles in my lungs.

"God, you're so damn perfect you make me feel like a worm."

Maverick laughs and kisses me again and again.

"Well, this perfect man loves his worm."

"Gross," I giggle.

Maverick smiles against my lips. "I'm waiting so we can enjoy the loser gingerbread houses and decorating and all the traditions we can do before bed, okay? Not 'cause I'm scared your dad will shoot me."

"A reasonable concern."

We laugh.

"Alright, I'm gonna go help bring in the decorations."

"M'kay."

Between Papa, my brothers, and Maverick, there's enough hands to haul all five bins in one trip. Mama directs the bins based on the contents, but we've done this every December, Mama should shout her throat raw and we'd still know where everything goes. Maverick is the one who needs the most direction, but I practically hook him to my belt as we help crack open all the bins but the ornament one. Papa still hasn't gone out and chopped us down an evergreen. Was he waiting for me? He really didn't have to, but I guess I can forgive him. After all, it wouldn't be Christmas with the Weavers if we didn't trek through Garrett's Christmas Tree farm and chop one down for the living room. It wouldn't be Christmas without any of our family traditions; the gingerbread houses which taste better than ever, and decorating the farmhouse together. Ransom and Papa tackle the ribbons and evergreen hangings since they're the tallest. Beth sorts through the Christmas albums.

Mama insists on our Nat King Cole vinyl first. She loves singing along to Deck the Halls while we decorate. Sometimes, I catch Papa frozen solid, wearing a smile much too young for his weathered face as he watches Mama's jiving to the music. They married a month after Mama's nineteenth birthday, and they're still going strong. I crave what they have. For every kiss they share under the mistletoe and every subtle touch, I glance over at Maverick, grateful for what we have, excited for what's to come, and nervous about what might happen in between. When Side B finishes, Beth chooses the next album.

"Well well, what have we here!"

"It's her first love," Ransom snickers. "The King of Rock and Roll himself."

"Looks like she's set the bar high," David snorts.

Maverick laughs and loops an arm around me. "I think I can compete with a dead-man, don'tcha think?"

"Eh, there's no competition."

I kiss Maverick — quick, 'cause Papa's watching.

Decorating is put on hold for the night. Tomorrow, once chores are checked off and every tummy is full of biscuits, bacon, and eggs, we'll take two trucks down to Garrett's. David insists that I ride in Ransom's new truck so he can show off his driving skills. Maverick of course, rides along with me, and Ransom hops in the back with Maverick in case David steers us headfirst into a ditch. Part of me pities David. Kid is trying to haul this hunk-of-junk across town, fresh off his driver's test and he's got three loud, teasing adults for passengers. Maverick doesn't say a word the whole ride, it's Ransom who won't shut up about how David failed the first test and once skidded off the road and landed in a ditch. David flexes both hands against the steering wheel. I fidget with the zipper on my bomber jacket, counting the seconds 'till we reach the Tree Farm.

"Hey," I grab David's arm before he hops out of the truck and wait for Maverick and Ransom to wander off. "You're a good driver, Dave. It isn't easy staying focused on the road with a block-head like Ransom running his mouth. We all run into a ditch or a tree at some point. As long as it isn't a person, your record is as good as clear."

Words.

They flow out of me.

Warm, comforting, dare I say wise?

Oh Ghost, if only you were here.

Next Christmas, perhaps.

A magical thing happens in the Tree Farm lot.

Mr. Teenage-Angst cracks a full toothed smile.

Laughter spurts from in between his teeth. David shakes his head and drums his fingers on top of the wheel. "Ya know, Remi...it hasn't been the same without you."

Words.

Turning right around and nailing me in the heart.

"I mean, Ransom's great and I love home but you're out there where I wanna be and I'm stuck, waiting for my shot and it sucks not having someone to talk about it with. And they all think I'm a copycat 'cause flying is like...your thing and I should do something different or just stay on the farm but I knew as soon as I saw those pictures of you by the jets that that's what I want. And you've got this awesome boyfriend who I can't even make myself hate anymore. Really rubbing the California dream in my face, you know."

David shakes his head again, but this time he's got the steering wheel caught in a white-knuckled shackle. A cold lump clogs my heart valves. I swallow, dry not only inside my mouth but down my entire throat. David was always the sarcastic, self-isolated, snarky child. I might've been trouble, but David was a chore. Mama lost her temper so many times trying to rein him in. Here's that same problem-child, telling his big sister he misses her and he wants to be just like her. I pick at the skin around my fingernails, wishing the words would magically come. Right when I need a little Christmas miracle...I'm empty.

Well, not exactly.

"My heart is so full, because I'm home with people I love, who love me. Flying is amazing, and Maverick is the best boyfriend and friend I could ever hope for...but don't underestimate how much it means to be with family, David. I love you and I miss you probably more than you miss me."

"I dunno...there's no hot girls my age to distract me," David chuckles. "I bet there's tons in California."

"First off, gross." I stick a finger towards my throat and gag. David sits back in the driver's seat, dragging a hand down his reddening face. "And second, I guess you'll just have to visit me and see for yourself, huh?"

He blocks my elbow jab and reaches over to flick my nose. "Guess so."

"Hey—" I try and fail to catch his finger. "Only Papa gets to do that."

David wriggles his eyebrows. "What about Maverick?"

"Okay, I'm leaving."

I throw open the truck door and race David through the maze of evergreens. The whole family is already gathered around a lovely conifer. Mama bustles over towards David and I, exasperated that we took so long and wanting to know what we were doing. Before I can think of something that won't embarrass David, the family axe is handed off to Maverick.

"Um — Mav—"

"It's alright!" He motions for me to stand back as he approaches the tree, the axe clasped firmly in his dominant hand. "I've got this."

"I'm not marrying you if you lose a finger!"

Maverick laughs and takes a swing at the trunk.

Everyone is laughing.

All but one.

Papa looks like I've taken an axe to him. A startled, almost mortified expression warps his strong facial features. The whiskers curling along his jaw hide the hard line of his frown, but the tendon in his neck flares aggressively. Mama sets a hand on my shoulder, I swallow hard, instinctively leaning into her touch. A mother has the power to make anything better, but that doesn't shake the acidic uncertainty from my gut as my Papa grapples with the fact that his oldest daughter is fixing to get married and hasn't yet told him, and my boyfriend is using an axe for the first time. I'm not sure which scares me more — Maverick losing a limb, or Papa being glad to see him in the back of an ambulance.

"Tiiiiiimbeerrrrrrr!"

Patrick has the tiniest lumber-jack voice.

I smile weakly.

"Wow, Maverick, you're so strong — the first time Henry cut a tree it took him ten whole swings!"

Ransom shoves Carra over sideways. "Henry was twelve."

Carra won't quit ogling Maverick's arms as us kids heft the tree back to Papa's truck. David and Ransom climb over the bed to tie it down. I stand and watch with Patrick and the girls, my focus splinters between Papa and all the activity. Maverick tears it into thirds when he sneaks up behind me and claps both hands over my eyes. I shriek, genuinely startled, but of course Maverick laughs. Oh gosh, that stupid laugh that manipulates me out of anxiety and into whatever heavenly, domestic bliss this is. Beth and Carraway are giggling like mad as Maverick holds out his hands where I can actually see them and promises all ten are there, 'just look and see.' And then I can't stop myself from kissing his knuckles, because he didn't kill himself just now, and also his breath is warm on the back of my neck and December sucks the Southern heat right out of Alabama. Maverick scoops me backwards into his arms, letting his head slip down the joint of my neck. The fuzzy collar stops him from kissing the skin, which I guess I should be thankful for...but it really is freezing cold and Maverick is so warm...

I think of Papa's eyes.

Green as summer fields; scared shitless.

Same eyes I've seen in the mirror since I lost my RIO.

I'm still getting used to my childlike eyes now that I've let her go. It's so strange to watch your own face de-age after a dark period.

"Hey, Ransom? Mind sitting up front?"

"Sure."

I hop in the back with Maverick.

"Goose would love this. We've gotta find a tree farm back home. Roos' would go nuts if his dad cut down their tree for Christmas!"

"Back home..."

"Sorry," Maverick clears his throat, glancing at the backs of my brother's heads nervously. "I meant California. Goose's house, Charlie's...Top Gun."

Maverick musters a grimace and turns to look out the window. A thin reflection is all I need to know he really wants to bang his head on the glass right now. He's afraid he's offended me, my family. Maverick isn't afraid of anything, not even of my father. He's apprehensive. Vocabulary points for me, Ghost would be proud. It's me, I'm the one who's afraid of what Papa might do when we get home. I lift Maverick's hand off the car seat and place it in my lap. The night Goose and Maverick invited me out for drinks, I opened Maverick's bottle for him with my bare hands, and he sat patiently as I drew along his palm, confirming my suspicions. Soft hands. Hardly a day's hard work for him, and yet, he chopped down a whole Christmas tree. I gently turn his hand over in my lap, cradling the back with my left hand while my right ghosts over every crease and semi-visible vein. Maverick stirs, but lets me mess with his hand the whole ride home.

Home?

Since I opened my eyes as an infant, the farm was home.

I know every wall.

Every pit in the pastures and every dent in the tractor.

I used to lay awake at night in the carrier, wondering about my family. What they might be thinking or what plans they had for the next day...

...when I'd see them again.

I'm finally home, but it's Goose, and Ghost, and Charlie, and all the people I've met through or at Top Gun that I'm wondering when I'll see again. Stupid, I know. In two days, Maverick and I pack our bags and take the earliest flight back to San Diego. We'll go shopping and bake cookies and watch Christmas classics and then wake up on Christmas day, all together, not a bit of snow to be seen on the palm trees. It sounds so repetitive, celebrating Christmas in all the usual ways a second time but with friends, in a place I have no attachments to, but...I want it. I want to see Rooster's face light up when he opens all his gifts and hear Carol and Goose laughing as they dance through the house. Charlie will have a trash bag at the ready for crumpled wrapping paper and Iceman will probably show his face so he can catch Ghost under the mistletoe.

And Maverick will drag me into his lap, shove a Santa Hat over my head and kiss me 'Merry Christmas.'

"Yeah, home," I sigh.

Maverick's fingers curl through the gaps of mine.

Our hands are still tangled together when Papa intercepts us at the door.

"I think you and I should have a talk, son."

Holy shit.

This — this is it.

The talk to end all talks.

❅ . ❆ . ❅ . ❆

"I would ask your intentions with my daughter...but I think I can guess."

Carraway giggles. Mama, Beth, and I shush her and press our ears back to the door. Papa pulled Maverick aside once the tree was unloaded and stood up in the corner of the living room. They stepped into Mama and Papa's bedroom and shut the door, but that didn't stop us four from plastering ourselves to the outside. It's dead silent inside, until Papa begins to pace. The creaky floorboards break up a lot of the conversation. I nudge Carraway further back so I can follow Papa's voice across the door. She grunts in frustration. Beth yanks Carra backwards into her arms and muzzles her with a hand. Thank you, I mouth. Beth nods once, grinning.

While I'm at it,

Please let Papa see that Maverick is right for his little girl...and let Maverick win him over, please please please.

"I'll ask this," Papa begins. "Why should I let you have my daughter? How do I know, without a doubt, that you aren't some boy who's never seen a girl do what you do, and are so amazed, that you think you have feelings for her? Can you promise me that my daughter is more than a pretty face for you to use and discard? That you see her brokenness and all the love that's in her big heart and you want to protect it, the rest of her life? How..."

He's gone quiet.

Carraway struggles against her restraints.

But it's Beth who whispers, "What happened?"
"I don't want to take your daughter away from you, Mr. Weaver."

Maverick.

He speaks too softly.

And God please make him speak louder.

Mama drags Beth and Carra away from the door so I have as much space as I need to chase their voices through the wood.

"You're right, most guys would see Remi as some girl they can use now and then, maybe just for a night, but I'm not most guys, and I don't mean that to sound arrogant, although I'm aware that I act that way a lot...

"The thing is, I used to treat girls that way, and the ones I met wanted to be treated like that. It was easy...but when I met Stirru — when I met Remi, she didn't even want to smile. She told me I was the first person to make her laugh in months. The second I saw her, I knew she wasn't going to be easy, and for some crazy reason I'm still tryna figure out...I didn't want easy; I wanted a challenge. I wanted to make her smile and laugh and I wanted to understand why she had two dog tags around her neck and why she wasn't allowed to pilot. And as we spent time as friends, I felt things for her that I'd never felt before. And I knew she still wasn't ready, and maybe she wouldn't ever be so I held back, but that hurt her worse."

Maverick runs out of breath. He's laughing, airy and nervous. I breathe heavily against the door, desperately petting at the wood, wishing I could stand next to him while he bleeds his heart all over Papa's floor. I'm addicted to the roll of Maverick's voice. Soft but steady. He speaks carefully, like Ghost, but he doesn't pause half as much. He sets the perfect pace. Slow enough for Papa to keep up — and believe every word — but just fast enough to set my heart racing. I devour Maverick's confession. His case in defense of us.

If I weren't me, I would be convinced.

"One thing we've learned is we're worse off without each other. You're right. Remi is broken, but so am I. But she's also the strongest person I know, and she challenges me to be a better man, and I sure hope I challenge her to be a better woman, even though to me...she's perfect. I've seen her so angry she could kill me, I've seen her covered and snot and tears, and I've seen her smiling so bright it's like she stole the sun right out of the sky, and all of those times and more, I've loved her. I couldn't stop loving her, even if you forbid me from it. I wanted to speak to you about our plans to marry after graduation, and I want you to walk her down the aisle...but if you don't believe Remington and I are right for each other, then I'll respect your opinion, as a father, and a husband, but I will love your daughter and I will marry her."

My knees give out.

The girls rush to catch me as I slide down the door.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." I wave them away with one hand and scratch out my eyes with the other. God went beyond answering a prayer. Listening to Maverick is the closest I've ever felt to seeing through to his heart. Ghost is lucky enough to see through everyone. She knows how someone is feeling, and why, before they do. I couldn't count on both hands how many times she's pulled that trick on me. No amount of memorizing Maverick, his life, his achievements, his short-comings, could unlock the whispers of his soul. Every 'I love you,' he's showered over me couldn't hope to amount to the heartfelt passions he shared privately with Papa. I don't know how much Beth and Carra heard, or Mama for that matter. Hell, I could've missed chunks...or misheard —

No. Maverick meant every word of it.

I know him.

I know he means it, because if I were half as brilliant as he was, I would've said everything, word for word, the same.

Their voices rumble.

I startle and lean back against the door but the voices are gone and it's just a dull thudding and then footsteps and—

"Shit—"

Beth and Carra and I flop through the doorway.

Maverick stops dead in his tracks.

I look up, but I can't make out Maverick's expression. The windows face West, and around this time of day, the sun squishes itself up against the glass and scalds any eyes that dare glance outside. Hot, warm light gushes over Maverick's head. I can't tell if it's good news. Would Maverick be standing there, so casually if Papa denied him his blessing? If I had asked, and gotten a no, you better believe I'd storm out. Curse like the devil, flip someone off. It'd be a whole scandal and I'd never be invited to Thanksgiving Dinners. I scramble to my feet, tripping over the girls arms and legs. They crawl back like little beetles, wincing as I accidentally crush bits and pieces of them.

"Sorry — sorry — ah — sorry!"

The world is spinning and I'm wobbling on tippy toes until suddenly the world is still and there aren't teenage girls under my feet. I'm standing in the doorway, staring at the man I love, and he's glowing.

My heart is beating out of my chest.

And he's just standing there grinning like an idiot.

"Well?! What did he saAAAY—"

Maverick body slams me. I scream my throat raw as Maverick hoists me up in his arms and spins me down the hall, laughing and God he's crying and I'm crying and he's saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" over and over again. I grab whatever of him I can so I don't tip over his shoulder. Papa might retract his approval if he saw my ass that close to Maverick's face. He'd have a heart attack if he was there the day Maverick chucked me over his shoulder and spanked me. In the middle of our elite military academy, no less. Maverick has no shame. I lose all hold of mine, my hands are full of Maverick, knotted in the hair at the back of his head and stuck between his shirt and the slope of his shoulder and I steal the millionth 'yes' off his lips. We stagger backwards into the living room, seared together, kissing hard and long until neither of us has enough breath to sustain the other. An awful, sloppy sound causes David to dry-heave when we break apart.

"WOOOOOO!"

Ransom pumps his fists.

The whole living room is filled with my family. Mama is crying into her hands. Beth is hugging her, smiling. Patrick runs at Maverick and I, bouncing up and down. We drag him into the embrace, and one by one, the others follow. Papa is the last one. I pry myself away from the rest of the family and toss myself into his arms. Just like at the airport. Except I'm not scared. Not one bit. Happiness overflows my heart. The seams burst asunder, and I cry into Papa's chest. If Papa loved me any less, he would've barred me from Maverick. I never should've doubted him. He loves me so much, he's willing to let me go; to let another man look after me. He loves me enough to trust me. That means he trusts Maverick too.

I couldn't ask for a better Christmas gift from Papa.

But he still has one for me.

The whole family hands me a present.

Mama gifts Maverick a beautiful, bow-stamped jar of cookies.

"For you and that Goose friend of yours. He sounds like a real hoot."

Maverick swears not to eat them all on the flight.

Ha. As if he isn't devouring all the cookies Mama's set out on the coffee table. They're supposed to be munched on, not swallowed whole by one person! We're emptying the final bin of decorations and dressing up the tree. Maverick is gorging himself.

"You've had one too many gingersnaps," I remark as I unwrap an angel ornament.

Maverick stretches both arms over his head, caught between a yawn and a laugh. "It isn't my fault your mom is trying to fatten me up."

"Leave my mother out of this," I say in my version of a New York accent.

Maverick does it ten times better as he replies, "So? Whatcha gonna do about it?"

A good question. Whatever quick wits I might've had deserted me. Maverick smirks. He knows I'm at a loss. I must look absolutely hopeless, 'cause Maverick sits up, grinning wolfishly and boasts like a native New Yorker. The cocky bastard just can't keep his trap shut. What I do next is perhaps the most childish form of retribution.

"See kid, you just gotta be quicker on your fee—"

I whisk the final gingersnap and shove it in Maverick's mouth.

The living room explodes with laughter. Papa's laugh could shake the foundation, but David and Carra and Beth and Patrick twinkle like a choir of hand-bells. Ransom laughs into his mug of cider, and Mama covers her face, blushing for Maverick, whose eyes have popped out of his skull. Maverick isn't embarrassed at all; quite the opposite. He makes a show of eating the whole cookie with one bite. Patrick goes crazy. The girls are laughing so hard, they have to grab a hold of each other to stay upright. I catch David's eye. He nods, impressed. Boys, my eyes roll instinctively. So eating a whole cookie earns respect? I sure wish it'd been that easy during boot camp. Those are tainted memories for a few reasons, but none I want to think about now. I'm just glad that if David fulfills his dream of joining the Navy, he won't struggle like I did. Dave notices my lingering gaze and ducks his head, red down to his neck. Ransom notices. He hooks one of his arms around David, roughly pulling him close. They wrestle — nearly sloshing hot cider on the floor and Mama beats them with a dish towel. By the end of it, the whole family is a mess of laughter and warm faces.

I slip into the kitchen for another hot coco.

There's someone outside.

I freeze, hands already forming fists in the air. The window is dark. I wait, beginning to doubt my own eyes when the same lazy, drifting movement startles me.

"What the Hell..."

There's no way that's a person.

It was so small.

I rush to the sink and squish my face on the glass.

"SNOW!"

Flurries! Pretty little flakes are falling from the heavens! The whole yard is already a whole layer buried under snow!

"GUYS GET OUT HERE, IT'S SNOWING!"

The kitchen is a disaster. Everyone's rushing to put on their boots and winter wear before the snow magically evaporates. Alabama never gets snow. Once every two thousand years maybe. Patrick is the first one out the door. Then David, then me, and the rest of us push and prod each other through the doorway. Beth is on the verge of tears, unable to get her gloves on so Papa scoops her up with a roar and dumps her outside. I trip over my own feet, laughing hysterically. These boots are way too small for me now, but they're the best I've got.

Wait — boots, shit!

"Maverick!" I cough his name out between wheezing breaths. "Maverick! You don't have any boots!"

"Who cares!"

He kicks a clump of snow with his sneakers.

"OW!"

White explodes around my face. I grab my head, feeling for a bump. David smirks at me from the garden, already balling up another handful of snow.

"You..." I growl.

"GET 'IM!" Ransom bellows.

And so it begins.

An all out snow war. At first, it's David against humanity, but the teams even out as alliances are forged. Maverick betrays me, so I make a truce with David and we pepper him with little snowballs. Beth and Patrick drop out early to make the world's tiniest snowman. Mama brings them a hat and raisins so he won't look like Lot's wife frozen solid on our front lawn. They try to rope me into making the snowman but I will stop at nothing to pay Maverick back for that snowball down my shirt. I stalk him all the way around the house, finally fooling him so I can run back the way I came and jump him by the porch. When I fly around the corner, he's being chased by Carraway. The giant snowball falls apart as she runs, sprinkling into dust in the wind. Maverick's so busy looking back, he runs right into me.

"Ah—oh sorry—ARGHH!"

"REVENGE IS MINE!"

I pull his shirt away from his chest and dump an armful of snow.

Maverick falls backwards and brings me down with him.

We kiss a little.

And then I roll next to him and wave my arms and legs so two angels will mark the place we shared our first White Christmas.

Hundreds of snow-angels, snow-men, and snowball fights later, we limp back into the living room, frozen to the bone and chattering like little icicles in the wind. Mama strips us all of our wet clothes and serves out another round of coco and cider. Papa grabs the camera and takes photos of everyone huddling around the fire, lost in a swamp of heavy winter blankets. Maverick's hair is soaked, even after I nearly pushed his head into the fire to dry it off. Once we aren't shaking like there's an earthquake, I drag him back to the couch. The record spins, and Sinatra weighs our eyelids. Papa didn't even participate in the snow-war, but he's out like a light before the rest. One by one they drop off the face of the Earth. Mama and I collect mugs before someone's hand relaxes enough to drop it on the wood floor. Once everyone is safely asleep, we crawl back into the living room.

Mama switches Sinatra out for Nat King Cole.

Predictable as always.

I rejoin Maverick and gently ease his head on my lap.

His brow furrows.

Smiling, I rub the wrinkles away. He sighs and snuggles in. His hair is still wet as a dog, but I comb my fingers through it anyhow, admiring his features in the flicker of firelight. A man this handsome deserves a way prettier girl than I am, but I'm not complaining. I could fawn over Maverick all day and night. He sleeps soundly through all the traces I make across his face; along the crooked bridge of his nose, along the seam of his lips, around his eye socket to the tips of his eyebrows. This work of art...this bold, loving, silly-ass man is mine.

I feel a pair of eyes and look directly at Mama.

"You love him," She mouths.

It isn't a question.

She knows.

A mother always does, right?

"Forever and ever," I reply.

She leans back in the sofa and closes her eyes, the sweetest, gentlest smile etched into her face. Tears prick my eyes as I survey the room my father's father built, still standing today, full of loving family. Some snore — I stare sharply at Ransom — others sigh like little angels. Each one is precious in my eyes. Each one fills my heart right up.

This is Christmas.

Family, together.

Hot drinks, a steady flame in the hearth.

Life and love warming the very air we breathe.

It really is beginning to look like Christmas...

❅ . ❆ . ❅ . ❆

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Love prevails at Christmas because Christ our Lord showed the ultimate love, by coming as both Man and God in the form of a baby, to grow up and take our Sins to the Cross. We celebrate Christmas with gifts to reflect the greatest of gifts; we celebrate with family to honor love and faithfulness.

Christmas is a time for full hearts.

I wish much love and joy to all of you, and I thank you so much for supporting this book and these characters who I pour my soul into. I've been sitting on this chapter idea since a causal mention of Christmas with Stirrups' family in earlier chapters, and four days before Christmas decided to write this. It was a challenge, I admit, and I nearly gave up but here we are! 40 Pages of Christmas and our favorite Top Gun Couple! The final chapter of Solace is in the works, but until then...Merry Christmas All!

~ Love, Carmen