He leaned into the nickname because leaning into something was easier than explaining. He grew the feathered dark hair. He kept the stubble. He wore the jacket like a dare. Cockiness was a coat you could put on when the other coat—the one labeled fear—did not match the weather of a party.
Mikey did not know any of that. Mikey knew that Uncle Jake could skate like a magic trick and that the mirror ball made snow out of light and that Christmas Eve was supposed to feel like this: loud, silly, and full of permission.
After they laughed themselves upright, Elena stood first and offered Jake a hand with theatrical courtesy, velvet and faux fur and glitter already beginning their long conspiracy with the carpet.
"Your classic is showing," she said.
"My classic just met the floor," Jake said. "Fair fight."
Mikey circled them like a small planet that refused to obey ordinary gravity.
"You guys fell funny," he announced. "Can I have cocoa now? I did the science of not falling for a whole ten minutes before that."
Jake looked at Elena, then at the kid, then back at Elena as if she might vanish if he blinked wrong.