17. Wynter

CHAPTER 17

WYNTER

I spent the whole night thinking about Taran and Rory, about the way Rory’s anger burned and the way Taran’s guilt weighed on him. I’d hoped—foolishly—that Taran might have called or texted to say how things were, but the silence stretched on. I couldn’t blame him though. He’d made his priorities clear, and rightly so. And maybe that meant there wasn’t room for me in their lives.

The expression on Rory’s face almost killed me, the way he looked at Taran like he was fighting to hold onto something slipping away. I’d been there before, feeling like I didn’t matter enough to someone.

Still, I couldn’t sit here doing nothing.

Following a restless night, I woke up to the stillness of Pinecrest. It felt heavier than usual, like the quiet was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. I spent the morning doing my routines, hoping that Taran would contact me. The minutes and then hours passed by, but still nothing, just silence. In the evening, I sat on the edge of the bed wondering what I should do to fix things. I couldn’t not say or do something if it would make things right again.

That’s when an idea came to me… and I wanted… no, needed to act on it.

I rummaged through a box of items I’d brought back with me. Over the years, I’d amassed a small collection of Royce’s things, which included a Denver Nuggets cap—I was sure he was looking down at the team when they finally won their first NBA championship. There was a photo of him and Taran. I ran my fingers over the worn edge of the photo, Royce’s wide grin staring back at me, Taran’s arm slung around his shoulder. They looked happy. Untouchable. And then there was a little carved deer, along with an assortment of other animals he’d carved himself, that he’d brought back from one of his deployments. I often wondered why the man loved the animal so much. Royce mentioned it was because of how majestic it was. But since his passing, I’d come to believe that the man loved the animal because it reflected his own nature, his gentleness.

The collection wasn’t much, but they were pieces of him. Pieces that might help Rory see that no one was trying to erase his papa from their lives.

Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed the box and headed to my Ford.

I drove on autopilot to Taran’s house. My knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as I pulled into the driveway, the weight of uncertainty settling heavy in my chest. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if Rory didn’t want to have anything to do with me? I mentally shook myself out of the negative thoughts. This wasn’t about me—it was about them.

I stepped out, the box tucked under one arm. The cold bit at my skin, sharp and unforgiving, but it grounded me. It was better than the hollow ache of doubt.

I knocked on the door. Taran opened it, surprise flickering across his face. “Wynter,” he said, his voice guarded but not cold.

“I know this might not be the right time,” I began, holding up the box. “But I had an idea—something I thought might help Rory. And maybe you, too.”

He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “Rory’s in the living room.”

“Then maybe we could all do this together?”

Taran nodded and he stepped aside.

As I walked along the hallway, the weight of the box in my arms felt lighter now, though my chest carried its own burden.

Rory was on the couch, knees drawn up, his focus on the TV. When he saw me, his face didn’t harden like it had yesterday, but he didn’t light up either. Somewhere in between—neutral, cautious.

I set the box on the coffee table and sat on the floor beside it. “I brought something. A way to always keep your papa close.”

Rory’s eyes flicked to the box, then to me, unsure. He unfolded his legs slightly, his curiosity piqued.

I lifted the lid slowly, letting him see the contents at his own pace. “I collected these over the years I knew him. Things he left behind or gave me. They’re not much, but I thought maybe we could make a space for him here. A memory corner?”

Rory’s brow furrowed as he shifted forward, his feet now flat on the floor. “A memory corner?”

I nodded, glancing around the living room. “A place to honor him. Not to put him aside, but to make sure he’s always part of this home. Part of you.” My gaze settled on the corner near the fireplace, a spot framed by soft holiday lights and a small shelf Taran had once mentioned was meant for family mementos. It felt right.

Rory’s eyes darted to Taran, who stood leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed but his expression open. “Can we?” Rory asked quietly.

Taran’s throat worked as he swallowed, his voice steady. “If you want to, Rory.”

I reached into the box, pulling out the faded, well-worn cap. “This was Royce’s favorite cap when he was a kid,” I began, holding it out to Rory. “He wore it every time he went on a hike—said it was his lucky charm.”

Rory’s fingers brushed the brim, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“Every time he wore it, something good happened,” I continued softly. “Like finding the perfect trail or spotting an animal he’d never seen before. He called it his magic cap.” I chuckled. “It didn’t always work when he was watching the Nuggets play ball, though.”

Rory’s lips twitched, as if he might smile, but he glanced away quickly.

“You can decide where it goes,” I encouraged. “This is your corner too.”

Rory hesitated, looking at the empty space near the fireplace. The twinkling lights cast a warm glow over it, as if inviting him to claim it. Slowly, he stood, the cap in his hands.

Taran shifted slightly, the soft creak of the wooden floor drawing my attention. He hadn’t said much since I arrived, but his quiet presence filled the room, steady and reassuring. I caught his gaze for a brief moment, and the understanding there was enough to push back the weight of my nerves.

Rory moved toward the corner, the cap held tightly in his grip. “It’s not going to be the same,” he muttered.

“No,” I agreed gently. “It won’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t remember him. Or that you can’t still love him just as much.”

His shoulders hunched slightly as he glanced over his shoulder at me. “You don’t understand. He’s gone. And now you—” His voice cracked, and he turned away.

“I don’t plan to take Royce’s place,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in his. “He was your papa, and he will remain so. But maybe…” I hesitated, drawing a careful breath. “Maybe someday, you and I can be friends. And we can share our memories of him because I loved him a lot too.”

Rory turned back slowly, his dark eyes shimmering with tears. His lips trembled as he clutched the cap closer.

“If you loved Papa, you would have stayed away from Dad.”

His words hit like a blow, but I didn’t flinch. “It’s precisely because I love him that I can’t stay away. Back in the army…” My voice faltered, the memory tugging at my resolve. “…Royce saved my life once.”

Rory’s attention sharpened. “How?”

“We were in enemy territory,” I said, my hand unconsciously brushing my arm where the scar still lingered beneath the fabric of my shirt. “Twelve of us, trapped between two groups of rebels. I crawled out of our hiding place to scout, but one of the men spotted me. He fired, and I was hit.” I rolled up my sleeve slightly, showing the faint outline of the wound.

Rory stepped closer, his eyes wide.

“Your papa didn’t hesitate. He crawled out under heavy fire and dragged me back. It was a miracle he wasn’t hit. I was in the hospital for weeks. Before they took me away, I told him something I’d said a million times before: if he ever needed anything, he just had to ask.” I paused, swallowing hard. “Do you know what he said?”

Rory shook his head, his silence urging me on.

“All he wanted was for me to look out for his family if anything happened to him. That’s the kind of man your papa was. He didn’t just save lives; he made sure everyone around him, everyone he loved, felt safe. He loved you more than anything and wanted you to always be safe, but war…” My voice wavered. “War broke him in ways no one could fix.”

Rory’s gaze flickered to Taran. “What if you… decide to die too?”

I smiled, though the question pulled at my heart. “I have to fulfill the promise I made to him. And that means being here for you and your dad.”

His shoulders relaxed, just barely. “What if I don’t want you here?”

“That’s your choice,” I said simply. “But if you decide that, I’ll respect it. Because loving someone means letting them make the choices they need to.”

Rory’s frown deepened, but I could see him processing my words.

“Papa was a great man,” he said quietly.

“He was,” I agreed, my voice thick with emotion. “I was with him and Taran when they brought you home. When they called you their own. Royce was so proud of you. He kept your picture tacked to his wall when we were deployed, and every time he looked at it, he’d say, ‘That’s my boy.’”

Rory wiped at his eyes quickly, like he didn’t want me to see. “Maybe… you could tell me more about him sometime.”

“I’d love that.”

I reached into the box again, pulling out a carved bear, its wood worn smooth from years of handling. “Royce had this on his desk when we were stationed together. He used to say it reminded him of strength—yours and Taran’s. We could add it too, if you want.”

Rory’s gaze dropped to the bear, then flicked back to the cap. A long moment passed before he nodded.

For the first time, Rory’s expression softened. He stepped toward the shelf, setting the cap and carved bear down carefully. “He’d like that,” he murmured.

And as Taran moved closer, standing just behind Rory, his hand resting lightly on his son’s shoulder, I felt the smallest flicker of hope that we were finding our way to each other.

Suddenly, the boy looked beyond the living room, his brows furrowing. “I’m gonna grab something from the basement.”

He disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone with Taran.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Taran murmured, his voice low and rough.

I glanced up at him. “I wanted to. For him. For both of you.”

His gaze lingered on mine, something unspoken passing between us.

Before I could say more, Rory came back up, clutching something in both hands.

He grinned, holding up a truly horrifying craft project—a lopsided, glitter-covered snowman made of cotton balls. “Papa helped me make this when I was, like, six. He said it was art , but I’m pretty sure he was lying.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “Art, huh? He was generous.”

Taran leaned in for a closer look, his lips twitching. “I remember that. It lived on the fridge for way too long.”

“Yeah, the glitter would get everywhere,” Rory said with mock indignation, clearly warming to the memory. “Papa kept saying it added ‘character.’”

I laughed, the sound unexpected but welcome. “Glitter does have a way of sticking around. Kind of like Royce.”

Rory’s grin faltered for just a moment, but then he carefully placed the glittery snowman on the shelf. “He’d want it here,” he said, his voice softer now.

Taran squeezed his son’s shoulder, his touch filled with affection. “He’d love that you kept it.”

As we stood there, staring at the growing collection of memories, I felt a warmth in the room that hadn’t been there before.

Rory glanced at me, a small spark of humor still in his eyes. “You better not call it art , though. Let’s just say it’s… a conversation piece.”

I chuckled. “Deal.”

“It’s perfect,” Taran said softly.

“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at father and son. “Every piece tells a part of Royce’s story. And maybe we can keep adding to this corner. Every Christmas, we can bring something new. Something that keeps his memory alive.”

Rory’s gaze flickered toward me, a cautious kind of hope in his expression. “Like what?”

“Anything that reminds us of him,” I suggested. “Or something new that he would have loved to see. Maybe a photo from one of your games, or an ornament you think he’d have liked.”

Rory looked at the corner, then at his dad. “Okay.”

Taran’s eyes fixed on the small collection of memories we’d gathered. The soft glow of the Christmas lights made his expression unreadable, but I didn’t need words to feel the weight of his emotions. The promise of more Christmases, more memories, hung in the air, as fragile and beautiful as the items in Royce’s memory corner.

“It’s not for only this Christmas,” Taran said, maybe more to himself than anyone else. “It’s for all of the Christmases to come.”

Rory reached out, touching the edge of the cap. “For Papa.”

“For Papa,” I echoed.

As the Christmas lights danced on the glitter of that ridiculous snowman, I thought of Royce. I wondered if he was watching us, maybe even laughing, proud of the family he’d left behind—and the one we were trying to become.