Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

December 25, 4:46 pm

JACK

“ S o, my first night of Hannukah,” I say, glancing at Nessa with a grin. “What do I need to know?”

Somehow, I made it through an entire movie with my arm around Nessa, my body hyperaware of every sound and movement she made. Now it’s just after sundown, and we’re standing side by side at the kitchen table, where the menorah is sitting on top of a sheet of aluminum foil—to catch any dripping wax, she explained. Her menorah is more elaborate than the ones I’ve seen before—one tall candle holder in the middle with four on each side, all of it adorned with silver leaves and flowers. Two slender candles are already set in place, one in the middle and one in the far-right spot.

Nessa gestures to the middle candle. “This one’s called the shamash, the helper candle. We’ll use it to light the other one. But first, we say a blessing.”

She strikes a match, the scent of sulfur sparking in the air, and I lean in, my eyes fixed on her face as she carefully lights the shamash.

“What’s the blessing?” I ask, my voice low, not wanting to break the spell.

She grins, a little shy, and glances down. “If you want to try, you can repeat after me.”

There’s a sweetness to her, a sort of quiet pride in sharing this with me, that makes me want to be as present as possible. Her face glows in the candlelight, her expression softened by the flickering flame, and I can’t help thinking about how much I want to pull her close again.

But I hold myself back. Because as much as I want her—and I think she wants me, too—I want more. I want to know what it’s like to take her out on a date, to listen to her talk about a busy day at work, to make her laugh over a morning coffee. I want her to know that this—whatever it is between us—isn’t just about the attraction, even though that’s definitely part of it. I don’t want her to think I’m only here because of the storm or the flight delays.

Those may have brought me here, but she’s the reason I’m staying.

She begins the blessing in Hebrew, “ Baruch atah Adonai …” her voice soft but steady, and I repeat the words after her with every new phrase she speaks, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation.

“… shel Hanukkah.”

“Shel Hannukah,” I repeat.

“ Not bad for a beginner,” she teases, her eyes shining as she looks up at me.

I grin. “Well, you’re a good teacher.”

She offers the lit shamash to me. “You can do the honors.”

Our fingers brush as I take the candle, and somehow—even though we spent hours tangled up together watching the movie—that small touch sends a spark through me. I hope this means something to her, too. Not just the ritual, but me being here with her, taking part in it.

Her hand slides over mine, guiding me to light the first night’s candle, and as it catches, the glow between us brightens. There’s something almost sacred in the quiet, a stillness that feels like it belongs just to us.

“What now?” I ask, keeping my voice low

“The candles have to burn for at least thirty minutes, but it’s tradition to let them burn all the way down.”

“And you do this every night?”

Nessa nods. “Each night, we add another candle to the menorah going from right to left—but we light them from left to right.”

“Huh,” I say, taking it all in. I had no idea how much I didn’t know about this holiday. It feels important to remember, just in case this Hanukkah won’t be our last. “Do you still start with the sha…”

“The shamash—that’s always first. But then we light the newest candle next. I think it has something to do with honoring the present moment—the here and now—before lighting the previous ones. A reminder to live in the present and celebrate each day’s progress, not just focus on the past. And every night, the light grows until it fills the whole menorah. Because the more light we give, the more we have to share.”

“I love that.” And I’d love to believe that the more I give, the more I have to share. But right now, all I can think about is how little I have left. The long hours, the death and grief—it’s all piling up. I don’t know how much light is left in me.

Refocusing, I smile at Nessa. “I’m really glad I’m here tonight. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“Thank you for letting me share it—it forced me to actually think about what it all means instead of going through the motions. As a kid, I wanted to get through the boring stuff so we could open presents and play dreidel.”

I chuckle, imagining a tiny version of Nessa, her hair a halo of dark curls. "I was like that when we did Advent, growing up. We’d sit around the kitchen table, just me, my sister, and my parents, and read parts of the Christmas story while the candles burned. I was kind of a pain in the ass about it as a teenager.”

Nessa grins, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Oh, I’d drop ‘fun facts’ about how the Christmas story probably didn’t actually happen that way, or how the Gospels weren’t even written until decades later.” I shake my head, the guilt still faintly lingering.

She tilts her head. “So what is Advent, exactly? I know about the calendar with chocolate, but that’s it.”

I lean forward, surprised at how excited I am to tell her—like it’s my small way of thanking her for sharing all this with me. “It’s a weekly countdown to Christmas. There are four candles in a wreath and one in the center. Each candle represents something—hope, peace, joy, love—and we light one each Sunday in December. Then we light the center candle on Christmas Eve. We stopped doing it when I went to college, but my mom started again this year with my niece and nephew…”

Her face softens. “And you missed it.”

I nod, feeling that familiar ache in my chest. Before I can say anything more, she stands and goes into the living room, then returns holding a few of the candles we were burning earlier.

She sets four in a circle on the table and one in the middle. “I don’t have a wreath, but kind of like this?”

A lump rises unexpectedly in my throat, and I swallow. “Yeah. That’s it.”

She hands me the matchbox and I pull one out, then hesitate, remembering how she offered me the shamash, how it felt when she invited me to join something that matters to her.

“Would you do the honors?” I say.

Her lips curve in a pleased smile. “Sure.”

She lights each candle, and as the light grows, warmth settles on my shoulders. For a moment, it’s almost like my family is here with me.

“So, what did your mom say,” Nessa says, nudging me. “When you were being a pain-in-the-ass teenager about Advent?”

I grin. “She’d say I was missing the point. That the point of the Christmas story isn’t all the details but the meaning behind it. She told me I needed to focus on the message.”

“And what’s the message?”

Shaking my head, I chuckle. “I asked her the same thing. She said I needed to figure it out myself.”

“Classic mom move,” she says, laughing.

“Yeah,” I say fondly. “She’s the best.”

Nessa smiles, her eyes softening. “That makes me think of my Bubbe—every year, she would remind us that Hanukkah wasn’t about the presents, but the miracle of it all. She said the lesson was learning to trust that there will be enough. That even when things look impossible, what we’ve been given and what we have to offer is enough.”

Her words settle over me, heavy and comforting all at once. I think back to everything I told her earlier today about how I’m feeling—the children facing battles they never should’ve had to fight, families breaking under the weight—and how she said I’m doing the best I can.

I’ve spent so much time questioning whether I can make a difference, doubting if my efforts are worth it. But for the first time, I consider that maybe it’s not about fixing everything. It’s about showing up. Giving what I can. And trusting that, in the end, it’ll be enough.

“Thanks for sharing that,” I say, watching the lights flickering between us—the candles on Nessa’s beautiful menorah plus the mismatched Advent wreath she made for me, just so I could have a little taste of home. “Interesting how candles are important in both holidays. ”

“Finding light in the darkness,” she says. “Hope even in the worst of times.”

“Like, a baby born in a barn can grow up to change the world.”

“And a tiny bit of oil,” she says softly, “can burn for seven days and eight nights.”

“Or getting stranded in a snowstorm with a stranger and finding a friend.”

“And maybe…” Nessa swallows, her lashes lowering as she looks down. “More than a friend.”

Her eyes meet mine and everything goes quiet, as if the entire world is taking a deep breath. My gaze drifts down to her lips, watching as they part slightly, catching the pink tip of her tongue as she wets her bottom lip.

A wave of heat rolls through me, making my fingers twitch with the urge to touch her. It’s not just attraction—though that’s undeniable—it’s this pull between us. This unexpected connection that’s deepening with every word, every glance.

I clear my throat. “So…now what do we do?”

“Well, like I said, we’d usually play dreidel,” she says, grinning. “It’s a kids’ game, though.”

“Sounds fun,” I say genuinely. A kids' game feels like exactly what I need right now.

But then she raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Unless…we make it a little more grown-up.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Her eyes sparkle. “How would you feel about strip dreidel?”