A/N: I'm back! Like I said, updates should be coming more regularly from now on, with the help of my fab beta. Cheers!

Note #1: Thanks, as always, go to Rosestream. (Seriously, you're amazing.)

Note #2: More thanks go to reviewers, who are fabulous. I'm giving you all internet brownies. (Only, ones I bought from the store, because I suck at cooking.)

Disclaimer: You know what, after all of this time, it secretly turns out that I'm Rick Riordan, writing on . (Seriously, no. Come on. Don't own.)

Rating: T

Four

December

In the early days of December, when the weather went from biting to freezing, frost glossing the windows of New York City, meteorologists on our fuzzy, bunny-ear television advising woolen hats and gloves, I got a letter in the mail from Martel.

It was the first news I'd gotten from him since Fitz had visited. I ripped the envelope open in a frenzy, eager for any shred, any remnant, of my home, my brother.

November 30, 1972

Dear Libre,

Thanksgiving was uneventful, nothing like the Thanksgivings we used to have. You remember those? Maman used to make enough mashed potatoes and gravy to feed a village. Fortunate, considering we always seemed to have a village to feed. She always was overly welcoming, wasn't she? I should probably stop, considering you're probably in tears by now. I've heard that pregnant women can be very emotional.

Anyway, Thanksgiving in Seattle was boring. Seattle, in general, is incredible, though, much more preferable than Ohio. Last weekend, I went up to Anacortes – it's a city near a group of islands a bit north of Seattle. You can take a ferry out to one of the main islands and stand near the front of the boat, let the whole world suck you in. Sea salt and sea spray, all of that. You've always been the writer in the family, not me. There are all of these tiny little islands with inns and shops, a whole tiny world, but with orca whales. I'm thinking I might just save up enough to buy an inn of my own. I met a guy when I was in Anacortes – his name is Jon. He's wonderful; we've been talking on the phone regularly. I hope to see him again soon.

How are things in New York? Any news with the baby? I told Jon about you, and he commends you for what you're doing. He knows plenty of teenage mothers that didn't even try to help their kids; just live paycheck-to-paycheck. He wants to meet you.

You should come and visit us for Christmas if you're not going home to visit Papa. Maybe you can do both. I spoke to Fitz recently, and he said you were working yourself pretty hard at the diner. That sounds like you. You always were stubborn and determined. In a good way, though, of course.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner about Seattle. I just envied you, I suppose, going off to New York. I know you're not living the high life there, but it was better than staying behind in Ohio, at least to me.

Call me if you're interested at Christmas. The number's (xxx) xxx-xxxx.

Your brother,

Martel

I stared at the letter, my hands trembling infinitesimally. Christmas. In a little under a month, I could see my brother again. Maybe I could even stop by the farm on the way, give my love to my father. Fitz was still traveling the world – I'd gotten a call from him the other night, from Florence – and Lovett was in Vietnam, but I might just be able to see my remaining family.

I let out a whoop loud enough to be heard from the Upper East Side.

# # #

"God, it's cold out," Will said, rubbing his shoulders as he walked through the door to the diner. It was a slow, lazy Sunday afternoon, lemon sunlight streaming through the finger-spotted windows, landing in dappled rays on the checkered floor tiles. I leaned back on the counter, resting my hand on my stomach. It was bulging now, my apron landing oddly on my hips. It had become a sort of habit to splay my palms on my stomach.

"It is December," I commented wryly. He sat down on a chair before me, his nose pink from the cold. I had the sudden urge to kiss it, and I shoved the impulse away. Stupid.

"I know it's December," Will said, looking cross. "I just hate winter in New York, is all."

I mock-gasped. "You hate something about New York? Will Callahan, you rascal." I play-swatted him with a dirty dishrag. "And here I thought New York was the only thing you ever loved. Pft."

His face grew serious for a moment, his mouth tugging down. His eyes got that unnerving gaze, the one that upended my whole world, made me forget my name. "Not the only thing," he said quietly. "Just one of the things."

I swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Well," I said. "At any rate. You can't possibly hate all of December."

"And why is that?"

"It's Christmastime," I said as if it should be obvious. "You're Catholic, aren't you? My dad used to keep a giant wooden manger in our living room, full of real hay and tiny painted dolls to represent Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, all that jazz. We even had a little donkey and a few sheep." I sighed, lost in a haze of nostalgia. My homesickness was ebbing away bit by bit, slow but steady. Now, instead of heartbreaking longing when I thought of home, I felt a slight tightening in my chest, the golden tinge of nostalgia.

"Yeah, Mom set up one of those," Will said. He cocked his head. "You look sad."

"Who, me?" I flashed him a smile. "I'm positively radiant."

Will shook his head dismissively. "You're always radiant." My cheeks flushed at the praise, flippant as it was. Or perhaps it wasn't flippant at all. With Will, I was never quite sure. "I just meant you looked a little down."

"Oh, that." I brushed aside a stray strand of mahogany hair, tucking it behind my ear. "I don't know. I'm always a little under the weather these days. You know, what with the vomiting in the evenings and mornings."

He wrinkled his nose. "Every day?"

"Most days," I acquiesced. "It's enough."

He paused. "Well," he said. "I might not know the cure to endless nausea, but I do know the cure to a bit of homesickness."

"What? How did you know?"

"Libre Bellerose," Will said, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes you're impossibly easy to read, and this is one of those times."

"Just sometimes?" I teased. "What about the other times?"

"Well, the other times," he said, "I can't understand you at all. I haven't the slightest idea what you're thinking. But I know enough by now to tell when you're missing something – or someone. Give a guy some credit, will you?"

I sighed. "Fine. What's your famous cure, anyway?"

Will grinned. "Come with me after your shift ends, and you'll see."

# # #

By the time my shift was over, the sky – quick to darken and bruise a purple-blue nowadays – was the color of dark-rinse denim. Will was waiting for me by the door, my ratty old coat and scarf in hand. "Get dressed, and hurry," he commanded.

I arched an eyebrow but did as he said. Will led me outside, his hand outstretched in a silent question. I threaded my fingers through his without thinking, a small smile on my face. Even through the layer of my own woolen gloves and his threadbare, fingerless cotton ones, I felt that increasingly-familiar electric jolt. Oh, Libre. What are you doing?

He led me out into the night. A group of servers was huddled near the corner, each of them with a cigarette wedged firmly in-between their fingers. The ashy gray smoke curled up into the sky. We waved, and they waved back. As soon as we turned our back, I heard them beginning to whisper, felt rather than saw some point my way. Will had been the only one to know about my pregnancy, but with my growing stomach, at least half of the staff had figured it out on their own, and the rest gleaned the gossip from idle chatter.

Will squeezed my hand, and I knew he heard them whispering, too. I glanced up, unsurprised to find his lips knotted together tightly. He was like that, protective and quick to defend. I gave him a squeeze in return. "It's alright," I said, my words nearly carried away by the brisk December chill.

"No," he muttered. "It's not."

But before I could argue, he stepped to the curb, my hand dropping limply to my side. He raised a hand, and a yellow taxicab, the color of the sunflowers my mother used to grow, screeched to a halt. "Will, no," I protested. "It's way too expensive. We can take the subways. I've got a can of pepper spray on me."

"Not at nighttime," he said.

"Will, don't be stupid." I crossed my arms.

"I should be saying the same to you, Libre. You're sixteen, pregnant, and beautiful. You are not about to take the subways in New York City at night, I don't care what you say." He gestured to the cab. "Now get in, before you and your stubborn miser personality get us into a shouting match in the middle of the street, yeah?"

I glared at him but did as he asked. "Next time, I'm arguing."

"I wouldn't expect any less," he replied. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be the Libre I know. And besides, that would be no fun, anyhow."

"Don't think you're going to make this better by flattering me."

"I wouldn't dare dream of it," Will said, before leaning forward in his seat. "Brooklyn," he told the cabbie, who nodded once before peeling away.

I had to admit, the cab was highly preferable to the subway. It was warm inside the car, steam fogging up the windows, and smelled far better than the garbage stench that lingered in the underground. Instead, it smelled of cologne, perfume, and the stale scent of cigarette smoke. "You're an asshole," I said, leaning my head on Will's shoulder. He smelled nice – like mint and aftershave, clean and fresh. So different than Ares had smelled, so different than the aroma of cigarettes and soap. But then, the two were different, dissimilar as could be.

Will kissed the top of my head. "I know," he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I very nearly sighed as he stroked my hair, melting into a pile of mush.

I didn't know what we were anymore. It seemed sometimes as if we were more than friends, but at other times, it seemed we were hardly even that. The only thing I knew for sure anymore was that I didn't want to lose him – was terrified of losing him, really. Losing Will might have just destroyed me.

"You smell good," I mumbled, almost unconsciously. As soon as I did, my eyes popped open in dismay.

He chuckled, his laugh rumbling in his chest. Again, I was struck by the physical differences between him and Ares. Will was long and lean, not so much muscle as a naturally thin figure, whereas Ares was all bulk and muscle. I preferred Will's physique. "You smell good, too," he said.

"Really? What do I smell like, coffee?"

He sniffed me. "No. More like rosemary and fabric softener."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Yes," Will said. "It's a very good thing."

We drove in silence for the rest of the ride, and though my eyes strayed to the meter more than a few times, mostly they fluttered open and shut as I was nestled against Will. It was wonderful, being so close to him, enveloped in mint and aftershave, his heartbeat echoing in my ears. I never wanted to get up. I wanted to drive forever in the backseat of that taxi, head resting on my best friend's shoulder.

Finally, Will leaned forward to give the cabbie more directions, and I straightened. We were in the heart of Brooklyn now, in the streets of cramped tenements and buildings that cowered in Manhattan's sinister shadow. "This is where you live?" I said, glancing out the window. A milkman was traveling door to door, creamy milk sloshing onto the cracked sidewalk.

"Not exactly here, but yes," he said. "I graduated high school last year, and my parents are letting me stay in my old room with my brother. They don't even make me pay rent or anything. They know I'm saving up for college, and that's what really matters to them, you know?" He was quiet for a minute. "They want me to have a good life, and to them, that's enough."

"And for you?"

"I don't want much in life," Will said. "It could've been a lot worse, you know? At least I have a future. That's more than most can boast."

"Myself included," I murmured.

He looked stricken. "No, that's not what I meant."

"It's okay, Will," I said. "I know what you meant." I put a comforting hand on his forearm, but he still looked upset. But before he could explain, the cab screeched to a halt on the sidewalk. I jerked forward, grabbing the edge of the seat to keep myself from flying forward.

"Oh, good," he said, his relief apparent. "Thank God. We're home."

Home. I wasn't even sure what it meant for me anymore.

Will got out of the taxi, but I stayed behind in the backseat for a moment. I handed the cabbie a few crumpled bills. "Here," I said. "For the fare. And whatever he says, don't let him pay you. I owe it to him."

"Whatever," the cabbie said. "Have a good night, miss."

"You too," I said, climbing out of the yellow car. As soon as my feet touched the pavement, the car rumbled down the street, leaving a trail of exhaust in its wake.

Will looked quizzical. "I didn't pay him."

"I know," I said. "I did."

He turned toward me, eyebrows furrowed. "Libre, you don't have to-"

"I know," I told him, "but I did anyway."

He shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You could start with a thank you." I crossed my arms, tapping my foot on the asphalt.

"Thank you," Will grumbled. "Even though you've now made me feel like a world-class jackass."

"My life's mission," I said sweetly, "is complete. But where are we, anyway?"

"We're home."

I glanced up. We stood in front of a tall umber building, shorter than the ones in the Bronx, but still taller than any back in my hometown. The windows were spotted and grimy, though a few were cracked open, allowing in the December frost. Voices flooded out onto the street, an entire argument in fluent Italian, a few moans that signified lovemaking, a baby's anguished wail. I caught a few glimpses through the open windows – a young girl was leafing through a tattered paperback novel on the rusted fire escape a few floors up, another woman was primping herself in front of the bathroom mirror with an eyelash curler, dressed in only scanty lingerie; a few boys were gathered out front, kicking rocks that clattered on the pavement. One held a can of spray paint loosely in his fist. The scent of marinara sauce, cabbage, and roast beef curled out onto the cold December air. It was a bustle of energy and excitement, all tucked into one building nestled in the heart of Brooklyn.

"It's beautiful," I said, and it was true.

He laughed. "Really? I thought we'd moved on from empty praises."

"No, I mean it," I said. "Really, Will. It's…" I trailed off. "I grew up on a farm, and it was beautiful in its own way, too. But it was also devoid of life, you know? There was hardly anyone around. But this-" I spread my arm out, gesturing to the building. "God. This happens to be one of the rare times when I'm telling the truth."

He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. "You're crazy," he said, taking my hand.

"Only a little."

"You, Libre Bellerose," he said, "are most definitely more than a little bit crazy. But that's alright." He flashed me a grin. "I am, too."

"Both of us off our rockers." I sighed. "What is the world coming to?"

"I really don't know," Will said. "But I do know that there's almost certainly some sort of very-Irish dinner waiting inside."

"What are we still doing out here, then?" I replied.

He took me inside, chuckling, and I couldn't help smiling.

# # #

Inside, the apartment building was different. It was more cramped, less beautiful, like makeup seen on a close-up on someone's face: clotted mascara, smudged lipstick, eyeshadow that shimmered unevenly in the lowlight. There was no rickety elevator, only a walkup. "Five stories tall," Will informed me. The off-white paint was chipped, yellowed, and peeling, the lights overhead flickering randomly. The hallways were impossibly narrow, and they were overflowing with people: potbellied old men dangling cigarettes from their fingers, a girl in a backward baseball cap, a mother not much older than me with a screaming baby plopped on her plump waist. I wondered what they thought of us, the Irish waiter with dreams of college holding the hand of a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl.

Still, the place was full of misfits. Screams echoed through the walls, and I was reminded a bit of Aunt Lise's apartment in the Bronx. It was noisy, just like that apartment, but there was a different atmosphere here. It wasn't the lack of Puerto Ricans – I saw a group of tanned individuals huddled in the living room, seen through an open doorway. There were more open doorways here than I could count, everybody's business out in the open. A few were hosting parties, the guests mingling, traveling from apartment to apartment, in various states of drunkenness and undress. It was like one giant community of people.

"It's not always like this," Will said into my ear. His breath tickled the hairs on the nape of my neck. "It's just because it's Saturday night. Friday and Saturday are the worst."

"Oh?" I said, feeling lightheaded.

Many of the people seemed to recognize Will. They each called out his name, more often his surname than his first. "Callahan!" they'd cry, their eyes flitting to me. "And who's this?"

"Libre," I said. "Libre Bellerose."

One old woman dressed in a turban, her fingers and neck laden with fake, egg-sized gemstones, gave me an appraising look. Her eyes went to my stomach. "Ah," she said. Her voice was scratchy. "You carry one of the godly born."

I went stock-still, but before I could turn around, ask more, ask just who she was, Will was tugging me down the hallway. "You alright?" he said. Apparently, he hadn't heard.

I could only manage a bare nod. It was like this in New York. Every time I'd forget a bit of the other world – not the one in which I'd always lived, but the one in which I was a temporary intruder – I'd see something to convince me that it had all been real, that the man with electric blue eyes really had stooped to talk to Beryl Grace in Central Park that day, that the man standing on the corner really did only have one eye, that the gypsy woman knew the father of my unborn child with a single glance.

Finally, we reached the fourth floor. Will stopped at a plain wooden door on the right-hand side, pulling out a brass key from his pocket. He twisted it in the lock and opened the door. "Go on in," he told me.

I glanced at the door warily but stepped over the threshold. Immediately, I was almost knocked over by the smell of strong whiskey and cabbage, boiled potatoes and roast meat. My ears rang with the clamor of six voices, and I stopped short. It was simmering hot, the heat thick as it wrapped around my neck in a constricting embrace.

"Holy shit," I said.

Will laughed, but before he even shut the door behind us, a woman swept in and took me bay the arms. She was small, an inch or two shorter than even me at five-foot-two, with a knot of gray curls, intelligent eyes, and a sharp, beaky nose. "Who is this?" she barked, peering at me. She looked so motherly, so wise and protective, that for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

That was how my mother used to be, before.

"This is Libre," he said. "Libre Bellerose. Remember, Mom?"

Her face brightened, transformed by a blinding smile. "Oh, Libre! Will's told me so much about you." To her credit, her eyes strayed down to my bulging stomach for only a moment before returning to my face.

"Mom," Will said, a hint of warning in his nervous laughter.

"Who's at the door?" A girl came around the corner into the cramped foyer. She looked to be maybe ten years old, a mess of carroty curls and orange freckles. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. "Will brought home a girl?"

"Annie," he said. "Please don't."

"Johnny, Freddie!" she hollered. "Will brought home a girl!"

An old man appeared, bespectacled, holding a crumpled newspaper. Beside his side, two identical twin boys – Johnny and Freddie – appeared, eyes wide. A little girl was trailing after them, her thumb in her mouth, a blanket clutched in her fist. "What's this about a girl?" the old man grunted.

"Dad," Will said, putting his head in his hands.

"Everybody away," his mother said, shooing everyone with a flick of her fingers. Despite her diminutive stature, everyone obeyed. "Johnny, Frankie, Annie, and you too, Brynn," she said, pointing to the little girl sucking her thumb. They all left the foyer, Will's father trailing after them.

"This was a mistake," Will said. "I see that now. In retrospect, I don't know how I didn't see it sooner."

"Oh, hush," his mother said. "I'll have none of that. Dinner's in half an hour, and I'm sure we've enough for Libre. I'll set another place at the table for her." She smiled brightly at me, reaching out and pinching my cheek. "I'm just so glad our Willie's finally brought home a girl. His brother Avery's out, but he brought home a lass ages ago. You can meet him some other time, I'm sure."

She left, her skirt fluttering behind her as she made her way back to the kitchen, already stating orders for her children, scolding them for crushing me in the cramped entryway.

"Your family's lovely," I said, with only a tinge of sarcasm.

Will groaned. "I thought all of this would make it better, but I'm starting to think I just made the situation a hell of a lot worse."

I kissed him on the cheek, enjoying his flush. Yes, it was hot and stuffy in his apartment, and the smell of cabbage was enough to knock me out. But it was also chaotic and lively, infused with action and vitality, a thousand different people buzzing around the kitchen. It was like my family used to be, and it felt so indescribably good to be in a place like that again.

"I love it," I said. "Honestly, Will. I'm so glad you've brought me here."

He smiled tentatively. "Yeah?"

I grinned. "Yeah." For a moment, I thought about leaning over, pressing a quick, hasty kiss on his lips, but I stopped myself short. That road would only lead to heartbreak. I cleared my throat, looking away. "So. How can I help?"

# # #

Despite my protests, Margaret – Will's mother, who had promptly insisted that I call her by her first name – wouldn't let me assist in making dinner. Instead, she plopped me down in a small chair in their tiny kitchen, and I watched as she stirred simmering pots, a maestro at the stove. She had a skill even my mother would have envied.

"I've been pregnant before," Margaret said, but when the words came out of her mouth, it sounded much different than when Aunt Lise had said, more or less, the same exact thing. Less exacting, more comforting, more sympathetic. "And I know how long Willie's on his feet all day. He's told me that you work even longer hours than he does." She shook her head. "I know what it is to be on my feet with your belly like a blimp. Enjoy the chair, my dear."

"I couldn't," I protested. "You've got to let me help with something."

Margaret scrutinized me. "You're a good sort," she said. "I'll tell you what. Next time you visit – because I have a good feeling there will be a next time – you can help me with the dishes. Sound fair?"

"How about," I said, "I do all of the dishes next time? To compensate, and all?"

She grinned. "I'm going to like having you around."

Will smiled at me across the table. "Famous last words."

I kicked him in the shins. "That's enough of that."

Margaret laughed, a big belly laugh. "Oh, you're my new favorite," she said.

"Someone's got to keep this one in line," I said, gesturing to him. "And anyway, I grew up with three older brothers. You learn things. Sort of a matter of survival."

"Hear that, Annie?" Margaret called to her daughter. "Libre here has three older brothers."

"Yeah, well I've got four," she said sourly, disappearing into her room. I giggled to myself, half-stunned that I still had the ability to giggle at all. I looked over at Will. I didn't know if I would ever be able to convey to him just how thankful I was that he had done this, brought me into his family. For the first time since June, I had a home again.

"So, dear," Margaret said, leaning against the linoleum countertop, a wooden spoon in her hand. The Callahans' kitchen was crowded, photographs spattering the striped, grease-spotted wallpaper, pots and pans dangling from the ceiling, off-white appliances, an oak dining table plopped in the middle of it all. Will's brothers and sisters flitted in and out while his father sat in an armchair in the corner reading his newspaper, oblivious to everything and everyone.

"Yes?" I said, leaning back in the chair, hands resting on my stomach.

"What's your story?" she said. "Will's told me bits and pieces, but I want to hear it from you."

I blinked. "Where do I start?" I muttered, speaking the words aloud inadvertently.

Margaret chuckled. "Well, where are you from?"

"Ohio," I said. "Middle of it. Right in-between Columbus and Cincinnati. I grew up on my father's farm."

"So you're a farm girl," she said. "What did you grow on your farm?"

"A bit of everything," I said. "Wheat and soybeans for cash crops, mostly, but my mother used to grow the most amazing garden. Her flowers were always winning awards, her fruits and vegetables, too. I never knew anyone that had a thumb green as Maman."

"Maman," Margaret said. "So you're French, then?"

"Mm-hm. Or my parents were, at least. My father fought World War II – his family escaped to Britain before the Germans took over – and my mother was a part of the Resistance."

She whistled low. "That's really quite impressive. I admire empowered women. I'd like to meet your mother someday."

My chest tightened, and I looked down at the table. "My mother passed away last summer."

The kitchen fell quiet momentarily, silent save for the simmering of the saucepans on the stove. "My own mother died when I was seventeen," Margaret said softly. "It is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy." I lifted my eyes, and she met mine. "I can't say I know much about you," she said. "Or that you know much about me. But I can say that you always have a home here. No matter what."

A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and fast. Without preamble, I stood from the chair and wrapped my arms around Will's mother. She stiffened momentarily but then patted me on the back. "Poor lass," she murmured. "Poor lass."

A minute or two later, I took a step back. It was funny – the awkward part wasn't beginning the hug, but ending it. I sat down in my chair. Will's hand slipped into mine, a silent show of support. I looked around the kitchen then, at his little siblings playing in the corner, at Margaret smiling sadly near the stove, at his father glancing at me steadily, nodding minutely.

My home did not exist anymore. It had been destroyed over the summer, crushed beyond hope of retrieval. Physically, the farmhouse in the heart of Ohio was still standing, my father still inhabiting the now-empty halls. But when Lovett went off to war, when Nicoline and my mother died, when I left, and Martel and Fitz followed in quick succession, my home had ceased to exist, piece by piece, bit by bit.

That home was gone. But I was beginning to realize, as I looked around the shabby Brooklyn apartment, that a person could have more than one home. My eyes met Will's. He had brought me here. I had shown him my fragile, broken heart, and he had done its best to fix it. His remedies had been steady but slow, achingly slow. But now, I could feel shards of my heart piecing each other together again.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He cracked a crooked smile. "You're welcome."

# # #

Later that night, after I'd gorged myself on soft potatoes that had melted in my mouth and good, salty boiled cabbage, Will took my hand and brought me back to the sitting room.

The rest of his family was still crowded around the table, exchanging jokes and tales, and we slipped past relatively unnoticed. The sitting room was a tiny shelf of a room, more a bedroom, really, as it was furnished with two twin beds. "Annie and Brynn sleep here," he explained. "Johnny, Frankie, Avery, and I share one of the other rooms, and Mom and Dad have the last."

"You share a room with three brothers?"

"It's not so bad. There are two bunk beds, so it's not that crammed. At least my room doesn't double as the sitting room." He led me over to an end table by a threadbare couch set in front of a boxy television. Set on the end table was a wooden nativity scene.

I sucked in a sharp breath, leaning in. It wasn't exactly like the one I'd had as a child – these figures were more beaten-up, their paint chipped away in places. One of the Wise Men was missing, and there were no sheep, just a donkey with one leg missing. There was no hay, just a scrap of cotton.

I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Oh, Will," I breathed.

"You like it?"

"No," I said. "I love it."

# # #

That night, when I got home late, I sat down at the table and wrote Martel back.

December 10, 1972

Dear Martel,

I'm wonderful here. I work hard at my job, but I'm alright. I made a friend at my job – his name is Will – and he's been a lifesaver. I just recently met his family, and they're a wonderful bunch. After everything happened last summer, I was having difficulty moving on, but I think I might just be able to start living again. I can't express to you in words how insanely good that feels.

The baby's fine – I've begun to really show, which is both exciting and agonizing at the same time. They haven't started kicking yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.

While I'd love to come out and visit you and Jon – you met a guy! I'm pleased as punch – I'm thinking I'll stay here this Christmas. Margaret, Will's mother, invited me to join them for Christmas Mass. After the midnight Mass, their family gets together and has a feast in the early hours of the morning. I'm really looking forward to it.

I'd love to come out and visit in the spring, though. Maybe instead of going down to visit Aunt Jolie in Atlanta for Easter this year, I could come to Anacortes instead. It'll probably be much prettier in the spring, anyway, when things begin to bloom again. Let me know where you're staying, and I'll plan accordingly!

I hope things are going as well for you in Washington as they're going for me here in New York City. The first few months here were a bit rough, but things are finally beginning to look up. I can hardly believe it.

With love,

Libre

P.S. – Give Jon my love.

# # #

Three days before Christmas, I gave the Callahan family their gifts.

I had dipped into my rusted metal box, pulled out a few wadded bills and tucked them into my pocket. I didn't have much money to spare, but what I did have I spent on presents: candy for my cousins, some plain old cash for Aunt Lise and Uncle Francis – it was all they wanted; they'd told me so themselves – a book on whales around Anacortes for Martel, and a miniature replica of the Empire State Building for my father. Fitz was MIA, and Lovett was in Vietnam, but I did have the Callahans.

Their gifts were a bit trickier. For Margaret, I had a copy of Jane Eyre, for Mr. Callahan a framed 1945 newspaper clipping, for Avery, whom I'd met at the Callahan apartment a week or so ago, a rare baseball card, for Annie, Brynn, Johnny, and Frankie, more candy from the nickel-and-dime store.

It was Will that was really difficult.

He had done so much for me, turned my sorry excuse for a life upside-down. He had saved me, and though he seemed to be oblivious, I wasn't. It seemed the least I could do was get him a nice Christmas present.

It required writing home to my father.

I met him at the diner, me at my typical spot wiping down countertops, Will drumming his fingers on the linoleum. He had taken to looking at me strangely lately. Or maybe it wasn't really strange at all, and I just needed a word to replace the truth, because I wasn't ready to acknowledge that just yet.

Wordlessly, I pulled out a small box wrapped in crinkled blue wrapping paper. Will's gaze flicked from the gift to my eyes. "What is this?" he said.

"Your Christmas present," I told him.

"My Christmas present? It's not Christmas yet," he said.

"I know, but I couldn't wait." I gestured to the box. "Open it."

"What if I wanted to wait?" Will teased. "So impatient."

I rolled my eyes heavenward. "Jesus almighty, Will, just open your present, alright?"

He shook his head with a rueful grin, pulling off the wrapping paper almost savagely. Hypocrite, I thought darkly. He opened the box and peered inside. It took approximately thirty seconds for his expression to change.

"Libre," he said, looking up at me.

I walked around the counters. He took out his gift and set it on the counter. It was a photograph in a frame – or, rather, several photographs in a frame. There was one of me a year or two ago, wearing a sundress and a floppy hat. But over the top of that photograph, there were others, tucked into the corner of the frame, pressed behind glass. A picture of Will and me at the Callahan house, a picture of my family and me, a picture of me with the Callahans. A picture of me as a little girl, a picture of me resting my hands on my stomach, taken a week or two ago.

"That was me, before," I said, pointing to the original picture. God, I used to smile so often and so wide back then. I looked so young, and then realized I was. I was fifteen in that photograph, only sixteen now. My birthday was in February. I sometimes forgot that I was still a teenager, that if I hadn't gotten pregnant and found Ares, I would still be back in Ohio, probably wearing some meathead's letterhead jacket and calling him 'babe'. "I used to go by Lili, not Libre."

"Your hair is long," he said softly, glancing back up at me again.

I fingered my choppy locks. They'd evened out, at least, and hung around my collarbone. "A few days before I came to New York, I cut my hair with a pair of plastic scissors," I said.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I didn't want to be Lili anymore," I said. "I didn't want to be that girl. I wanted to be someone new. I was starting a new life in New York." I hesitated. "Honestly, I was broken. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, only that it felt right."

Will looked unspeakably sad. "And are you still?"

"Am I still what?" I asked.

"Are you still broken?"

I blinked. "No," I said. "Well, yes and no. My heart is still broken – my mother and sister died last summer."

"And him," Will said, sounding uncharacteristically bitter.

I raised my eyebrows. "Who?"

"Him." He gestured to my stomach, and it took me a moment to realize what he meant.

Oh. Ares.

I shook my head. "I wish I could say Ares broke my heart." I scoffed. "I didn't love him. He took advantage of me. He was a drug of sorts, to help me get away from the world. If that makes any sense. I don't know."

"You mean you never loved him?" Will said. I saw something strange in his eyes – something almost like hope.

"Never," I said. "That, I can say without question."

Will paused. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

"Sure. Lovett, Nicoline, my mother, my father, Martel, Fitz, my grandmother-"

"No, I mean outside of your family. Someone else." I met his eyes, and that was when I understood. His soft gray irises made me understand.

"Will," I said. "Please don't do this. Not now."

He slumped in his seat, letting out a rueful chuckle. "Serves me right for asking. I should've known better."

I stared at him. "Will, I didn't answer the question, alright?"

"Did you need to? That was an answer in it of itself."

"No, it wasn't," I snapped, suddenly angry. "Will, can you just look at me for a second?" He turned his head, looking sullen and hurt. "Look at me. Do you recall the last romantic relationship I was involved in? The one where a guy used me as his sex toy when I was drowning in grief for my mother and sister?" Will opened his mouth to protest, but I beat him to it. "I'm pregnant, Will. Come May, I'll have a kid. I'm getting fatter and uglier by the day. By late April, I probably won't be able to work anymore, and I'll have to hope whatever I saved up is enough. I'm not ready to go down that path again, alright? I'm not saying I never will. I'm saying not right now. I'm not answering the question. There are no subtle answers, alright?"

He had the sense to look ashamed. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head, sighing. "Me, too. I just – do you understand? You're my friend, Will." Tears sprung to my eyes. "I can't lose you."

Will stood up, wrapping his arms around me. "I know," he said. "I can't lose you, either."

I exhaled, breathing in his scent. Mint.

# # #

To this day, I have a tiny mint plant on my bedside table. Every night, before I go to sleep, I pluck a leaf off the plant and rub it between my fingertips, so I can be surrounded by his smell.

# # #

"I love you as a friend," I said.

Will pulled back. He studied my face. "Is that it?"

"That's it for now," I said. "Maybe not forever."

He nodded. "Alright." He sat back down in his chair, and I stood, feeling cold. Some part of me knew that if I'd told him the truth – the one I hadn't told – he wouldn't have let me go, and I wouldn't feel this chill of regret. "That'll do." He scrutinized me. "For now."

I swallowed. "Did you like your gift, at least?"

Will's face broke into a genuine smile. "No," he replied. "I love it."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!