20 HUDSON

The knock at his front door sent Pip bounding off the couch. Her nails clacked against the hardwood floors as she scurried through the kitchen, Hudson at her heels. He squinted through his taped glasses to see who was at his doorstep.

Miserelli’s red hair looked like a firework, all kinked and shooting off in every direction, as it did when not tied in a low bun.

He drew in a deep breath and opened the door.

“Merry Christmas. Can we come in?” she asked, referring to her and the bottle of Jameson she held.

Hudson stepped aside and let her in. The crisp Christmas cold bit at his skin, needled at his bare arms, and made his nipples stand at attention beneath his T-shirt. He smoothed a hand over them so she wouldn’t see. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He wasn’t in the mood for Joey.

Because this was what she did. She loved him, then she loved him not. Then she loved him again. Perhaps “love” was the wrong word. Wanted. She wanted him until she didn’t.

He stood back, hands shoved into his flannel PJ pockets. He waited for her to speak, the cold floor kissing the bottoms of his feet through the holes worn in his slipper soles. Nan had bought him a new pair every year. Now that she was gone, whenever a new pair turned up as a recommended item online, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He’d slough around in these damn things until they disintegrated on his way to the fridge one day.

Did Miserelli see him, he wondered. Really see him for what he was—a man who spent Christmas morning alone but for his dog, who shuffled around the house in tattered slippers and pilled pajama pants, wearing a pair of broken glasses. On paper, he was a relatively intelligent detective with over a thousand criminal arrests under his belt. He could run a mile in under six minutes, outshoot just about anyone at the range (excluding SIU), and had earned the exemplary officer award for six years running. So which Ryan Hudson did she see, the flesh version or the paper version?

“Do you have shot glasses?” she asked, setting the bottle firmly in the center of the table. Whether it was meant as a peace offering or a Christmas present, all it did was remind him of how much he missed the other most important person in his life. Jameson was Garrison’s favorite shot. Chase it with a bottle of Spotted Cow, and you had his favorite dinner.

His mind went to the Garrison household—Noelle and Lilah waking up in a chilly, cheerless house, the place on the couch empty where, every other Christmas morning, Brix would sit and laugh as he tore into something gimmicky––a custom bobblehead made to look like him or a hat with a bottle opener on the brim. The image dystrophied, drowned by the same deafening, disorienting silence that had befallen the chapel at the funeral. He wondered if they’d even put presents under the tree at all.