❆ ❆ ❆

As soon as I got back from the city yesterday, I threw a few things in a bag and hauled ass to my car. It wasn't until I was filling my tank twenty miles out of Ohio City that I remembered all the urgent do not travel messages I had ignored, when the gas station clerk asked where I had to be so desperately that I was driving through the snow.

I left at six. In normal conditions, the drive should take a little over four hours. I told Mom I'd be home by eleven; she sent me a hug emoji and told me to drive safely. I promised I would. I always do. At ten o'clock, I called to tell her I had only just reached Columbus, ordinarily my two-thirds-of-the-way marker. Mom made that worried noise she makes, which kinda sounds like an uncertain chicken, and fussed about me driving at night in a storm.

It could have been worse. The snow wasn't too heavy, just constant, and the roads hadn't had time to get icy. It was just slow. It was almost one o'clock in the morning when I got home, to find a silent house and Mom half-asleep in the kitchen. She blearily greeted me and dragged herself to bed as soon as she knew I was home safe, and I followed. It felt so good to sink into a proper mattress, one that isn't trying to reshape my spine.

I don't remember anything after my head hit the pillow. Exhaustion hit me like a wave after seven hours on the road, and home rocked me to sleep.

❆ ❆ ❆

I could sleep for a week, and easily would lie in bed for a couple more hours, but I'm woken by the sounds and smells of family breakfast. Mom always makes a huge effort at the weekend, going all out with bagels straight from the bakery and fresh fruit heaped in a bowl, alongside a mountain of pancakes and a plate of bacon.

I can't remember the last time I had a proper breakfast. Actually, that's not true. It was the last time I was home: we were all here, except Dad and my oldest brother, Matthew, which was the closest we'd had to a full house since last Christmas.

It's pretty much impossible to get the whole family together when there are so many of us. My mom's had a kid every three or four years since she was seventeen; now there are seven of us, and the youngest is four. Between Daria and me, there are another three boys, and I'm the second oldest after Matthew. It was strange to go from all boys to suddenly having a sister when I was seventeen, and another when I was twenty. Probably stranger for Mom. I'm pretty sure she just kept having kids in the hopes she'd get a girl, and then Anna was a bonus.

Before either of my sisters realize I'm here and freak out, I take the world's quickest shower and find a wardrobe full of clean clothes. The snow has settled overnight, the world a white canvas outside my window, so I opt for sweatpants and a hoodie, and I follow the sound of voices downstairs.

Mom and Dad are standing over the oven, laughing together about something I can't hear, and the girls are at the table. I know two of my brothers are home – George is sixteen and Sam's only eleven, and barely goes on sleepovers – but nine is too early for them. I used to sleep in late, but these days the cold wakes me up. I'm half tempted to slink back upstairs and sleep a bit longer, but I've been spotted.

Daria shrieks like a banshee. An ear-splitting squeal that makes Dad spin around with a face of terror, as though I might be an axe-wielding burglar.

"Dasha, please," he says to Daria. "That's a horrendous sound."

"Liam's home!" she cries, knocking over her chair when she races over to me and throws her arms around me. She may only be seven, and small for her age, but she's mighty. The force of her hug knocks me against the door. "You came home! 'Cause I told you to!"

"Sure, Dar. I'm at your beck and call," I say, hugging her back. She's not a very comfortable person to hug, with spiky limbs and a pointy chin and too much grip, but I've missed her. There may be seventeen years between us and I may have been away from home for most of her life, but we've always been close. Maybe just because I let her walk all over me.

"Solnyshko, let your brother breathe," Dad says when Daria pulls me down and wraps her arms around my neck, choking me. She and Anna are the only ones who have a nickname from him. Solnyshko means little sun, which sums Daria up pretty well, and Anna is kotyonok, which means kitten. A few times, Dad has called me moj mal'chik, which I thought was pretty cool until I realized it just meant my boy.

"But Liam's here, Daddy!" she cries out. Daria's volume switch is permanently set to the highest setting. Dad winces and shakes his head at her.

"I can see that, but he won't be for much longer if you keep screaming like a wild fox." He meets my eye with a look of despair over Daria's head, and I think that glance is the most we've bonded in ten years. "It's good to see you, William."

He calls Daria Dasha, and he calls Anna Anya, but he never calls me Liam. It's the same with all us boys. Mom has nicknames for all of us, but to Dad, we're Matthew, William, Jonathan, Samuel and George.

"Good to see you too, Dad." That's about as affectionate as we get. He and Mom are total opposites. I used to wonder why they got married, if they only stayed together because they had a kid when they were in high school, but when I actually look, there's real love there. Dad isn't nearly so reserved with his affection when it's directed at Mom. It's kind of inspirational, really. They're each other's first and only loves.

I manage to peel Daria off me, only for Anna to slink over. She suits her nickname, slinking around little a curious little kitten, with a cat-ear headband to match. "Hi," she says, almost whispering. When she sticks her hands into the air, I heave her onto my hip for a hug. I'm virtually a stranger to her, someone who lives in photographs and the occasional weekend at home.

"Hey, Anna banana," I say, cuddling her when she holds on like a limpet. Mom comes over and kisses my cheek, hugging both of us.

"Morning, honey. Sorry I wasn't with it last night," she says, stroking down a stubborn flick of my hair. "I can't remember the last time I stayed up so late but I couldn't sleep knowing you were out there." She cups my cheek, studying my face, and I wonder what she's looking at. "Are you eating properly?"

"Yeah, Mom." I roll my eyes at her. She always asks that. She's convinced that I don't know how to feed myself – even when I was in the frat and we had a chef, she worried that I wasn't getting proper food. I may have the shittiest kitchen in my apartment, a fridge and an oven separated from my bed by a rickety table, but I make an effort with my food. It's one thing I have total control over.

"Ok," she says after a moment, long enough for me to know she doesn't believe me. Mom's not stupid. Coming home was a bad idea. It'll take her all of five minutes to figure out that I've lost my job and I hate my apartment and the closest thing I have to a friend is saying ten words a week to the guy who lives next to me. Slightly more than ten this week, considering he lent me his printer.

I want to avoid questioning. All I want is a relaxing weekend at home before I have to go back to Cleveland and do whatever it is I've been hired to do in an elf costume – which, by the way, I tried on last night to find that while I can fit a small, the green tights are pornographically tight and the weird tunic makes me look like an overgrown ten-year-old.

We don't eat until the boys show their faces, two blurry bedheads tumbling downstairs after Mom sends Dad to go and turf them out of their rooms. George, already a moody teenager before he started eleventh grade, just nods at me. Sam's a little more excited. He just started sixth grade, so school hasn't jaded him yet. I even get a hug off him.

Breakfast never tasted so good. Mom's a kitchen genius, whipping up fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon, and we have proper maple syrup from the last time Dad was in Canada. All of the fruit is from Whole Foods: breakfast alone probably costs as much as I used to earn in a week. I never thought about that kind of stuff until I left home and it hit me that my parents never had to worry about where to get the cheapest groceries and the best value gas.

I can feel Mom's eyes on me as I eat. She knows something isn't right but she's got her wires crossed, convincing herself I'm starving, and her concern melts away as I fill up on a mountain of food. I swear I could have her maple bacon pancakes for every meal of the day and I'd never get sick of them. It's only George taking the last one with a scowl that stops me.

Coming home means fitting into family life, which means hanging around while Dad takes Sam and Anna to their swim class and Mom takes Daria and George to soccer practice. But as they're about to leave in two cars, I can't face the thought of drifting about this huge empty house and I jump into the back of Mom's SUV. She meets my eye in the rear view mirror and smiles without a question. I'm in for the third degree later. Maybe I should have just gone with Dad.

Daria and George race off to their separate practices as soon as we reach the parking lot and rather than chase after them, Mom pulls into a bay and pats the front seat. She doesn't even turn around, just glances at me in the mirror, and I feel like a little kid in trouble when I walk around the car to the front.

"What's going on, honey?" she asks, her voice soft and measured and totally Mom.

"Nothing," I say, and in a way it's true. I have nothing going for me right now.

She sighs and shifts the car into reverse, pulling out of the lot.

"You're not staying for practice?"

"I go where my kids need me," she says, briefly touching my knee when she switches into drive, "and I have a feeling you need me more. I've been your mom for twenty-four years, sweetie. I know when something's on your mind."

I can't argue with that. I don't want to. Mom may have her hands full with seven of us, but I underestimated her ability to see right through me. At my silence, she presses her lips together and nods, and we drive off.

Town is dressed up in all its finest Christmas glory. There's a huge pine tree in the middle of the square, a giant star perched at the top, the branches dripping ornaments. Almost every store has festive window decorations, from paper snowflakes to an animatronic reindeer in one, and twinkling lights cross the road ten feet above my head like glowing shoelaces, pulling the two sides of the street together.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mom says when we get out of the car and she notices me gazing around. A drop of festive spirit blooms in my chest, soon replaced by a shiver. It is beautiful, but it's also freaking freezing and I didn't think to grab my coat in my last-minute decision to join Mom. It doesn't escape her attention. Her eyebrows pull into a frown when she looks me up and down, and she sighs again.

"Come on," she says, taking my elbow and leading me towards her favorite coffee shop. "Let's get a drink and have a chat."

A blast of heat hits me as soon as we step inside and I head straight for the only empty table. Any minute now, Mom's going to interrogate me and I'll crumble and ... I don't know why I care so much. I hate the stupid sense of pride that lingers at the back of my mind, whispering that I need to carry on regardless.

Mom comes back after a few minutes and passes me a hot chocolate without having asked for my order. She sits down, hands wrapped around her Americano, and just looks at me. I can't tell if she's looking for something or if she's waiting for me to say something. I focus on my drink.

"Talk to me, honey. I can tell something's bothering you. I haven't seen you this turned around in a few years." She sips her coffee. "Is it a girl problem?"

"No," I say, though it doesn't help that my mind is constantly drawing itself back to Storie. I thought I'd have got over her by now. It's been long enough that I honestly don't think I ever will.

"How's work going?"

"I lost my job," I say. Blurting it out is the only way I can get the words off my chest, and they don't end there. "I don't have a job and unless that changes soon, I'm gonna get kicked out of my apartment, which would really suck even though I can't stand the place, because it's all I could afford and now I can't even afford it. And I haven't been on a date for six months, or a good one for a year, because all I can think about is that I fucked it up with the girl I love and I can't forget her."

Mom's jaw is slack, her eyes huge, and they well up as she stares at me.

"This is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year," I say, "but it isn't. It's the worst, and I know I can't blame anyone but myself but that doesn't make it any easier." A huge sigh escapes me, like a balloon popping after being overinflated. "I want to be excited about Christmas, but it's hard when I know how empty the other side of it is."

"Liam, honey..." Mom trails off. She reaches for my hands but it looks like we're doing some kind of culty séance, so I hold my mug instead. "I had no idea. When did you lose your job?"

"A week ago. I've handed in my resume everywhere and I've got a temp gig at a winter festival, but that's only for the next month." I force myself to pause and take a sip and shake my head to shake off the tightness that has set into my muscles. "It's fine. Just stressful."

"It's not fine, sweetie," Mom says. "You don't seem fine. When you're fine, you're loud and engaged and you talk all the way through breakfast." She circles my face and purses her lips. "I'm not seeing any of that."

I shrug and look around the coffee shop, and smiling winter faces and shopping bags weighed down with Christmas presents. My eyes are drawn back to my mom. "Well, there's nothing I can do except keep applying to places and hope someone's looking for a business graduate with a half-decent set of skills."

"That's not true. You have options, sweetie. You can always come to Dad and me."

When I pull a face, she pulls one right back.

"That's what we're here for," she says. "If you're in a bind, we'll always help you out, you know that."

"Not really. Dad never would. He's always saying we have to stand on our own two feet and not expect help once we've moved out. And it's not like you guys can find me a job."

Mom rolls her eyes. "I can work on your father. I'm very persuasive, you know. And while I can't find you a job, I can help out with your rent until you find one, or you could come back home. I hate to think you don't think you have options. You always have options. Your dad just doesn't want you kids growing up entitled – he would hate to think that you're suffering without asking for help."

She catches my hand and squeezes it. "The big bad world can suck sometimes, but you're not alone. Dad and I have always got your back and there's plenty of space for you here. There's no shame in coming home. It takes a lot of strength to recognize that something isn't working."

I'm not that emotional a guy. I can probably count the number of times I've cried – I reckon it's less than ten, and at least three were during conversations with Storie, when I knew it was over and I knew I didn't deserve her but I couldn't let go. But I feel a swell of emotion in that moment of my mom listening and hearing. I doubt my dad would agree with her, but she's on my side.

"Thanks, Mom," I murmur, feeling sincerer than I sound. I don't want to let my emotions get the best of me.

"You'll be home for Christmas, won't you? I need all of you home for Christmas," she says. "I'll put some money in your account for gas. You just need to be here."

I glance at her, frowning at her sudden eagerness. "You're not gathering us up to tell us you're pregnant, are you?"

Mom laughs. "No! No." She pauses. "Well, actually, that's a good question ... but no, I just want you all under my roof. I can never get all seven of you in one place and Christmas is pretty much my only chance, so I just want to make sure you'll be home."

"I will."

"Good." She beams, her whole face lighting up. "I'll hold you to that, even if I have to drive to Cleveland and bring you home myself."

❆ ❆ ❆

It's amazing how much a talk can help. Just telling Mom what's going on is a weight off my shoulders and the weekend is a million times better when I'm not trying to hide. It's easier to play with my sisters, who love to braid my hair, and to join my brothers' video game tournaments. I'm still wary of my dad, though. We've never been close. I've always found him intimidating. I swear the guy he is when he's around Mom is a totally different person.

On Sunday evening, when I'm preparing to head back to Cleveland and I'm sure he would have already said anything he wanted to say, there's a knock on my door.

"Come in," I call, assuming it'll be Mom or Daria. Dad never comes into my room, so it's a surprise when he's the one who enters. "Oh. Hey, Dad."

"When do you drive back?"

He isn't one for small talk. He's a businessman through and through, and even looks the part. Tall and pointed, with sharp features and cold eyes. His hair is gray now and has been for several years, but it used to be as blonde as mine. The first time Storie met him, she told me that he reminded her of a Bond villain and I've never been able to forget that. The comparison only rings truer when I hear him on the phone to his family, speaking in rapid Russian of which I understand three percent.

"Pretty soon." I zip up my bag, packing a few extra things than I came home with. "I have work at eight so I want to try to get a decent night." That will be easier with the heavy throw blanket I've borrowed from the linen closet.

"I'm working in Cleveland this week. I'll drive you home."

"Oh. Thanks, Dad, but I need my car for work."

"I'll drive you in your car," he says, already unusually persistent for my father. "Allie spoke to me," he says after a while, referring to Mom. He always calls her by her name or your mother. "I don't like to think that you're scared to come to us if you need help."

I give him a wry smile. "You're kind of a scary guy, Dad."

His lips are a tight line. He nods. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." He's only forty-six. "But you're my son and I love you."

His words are like a jolt of electricity. I can't remember the last time he said that to me.

"I want the best for all of you. That doesn't mean you can't reach out." His stiff posture is the same as always, but his words are more like Mom's. I wonder if she pushed him in here and she's standing outside, but Dad doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. "I'll drive you home. We can talk."

The last time Dad and I were together for longer than a family breakfast was probably when Mom was in the hospital after having Sam, and he's eleven now. The idea of a 250-mile drive is a scary one. But Dad is reaching out to me and I don't know if that will ever happen again.

"Ok. Thanks, Dad."

Then he does the unthinkable. He smiles. He crosses the room. He hugs me. It's stiff, as though his arms don't know what to do with my shoulders, and it only lasts a moment before he pulls away and adjusts his glasses.

"Are you ready?"

I am. I nod. He nods back.

"Let us go then, you and I."

Somewhere from the dark recesses of my memory, the line sparks a light. I'm thrown back to my childhood, when he would recite poetry in lieu of reading bedtime stories, and Prufrock reared its head more than any other. Some ancient corner of my mind drags up the words that follow.

I look outside. Night is falling early, the sun sinking over the horizon, but it doesn't feel as dark as before. "When the evening is spread out against the sky," I murmur. Dad gives me a strange look, as though I've just spoken in tongues.

"You know Prufrock?"

I return his strange look. "Yeah," I say, shouldering my bag. I realize all is not lost with my father. We just run on different wavelengths. "It's your favorite poem."

He looks wistful for a moment. A distant smile returns. "I had forgotten that," he muses. Then his eyes refocus. He takes my bag from me. "Let's go."

❆ ❆ ❆

you know me and my family chapters! i hope you liked this little insight into liam's family before we get back to the weird old winter wonderland and the reintroduction of an old flame ... i can't wait!