I blink up to his face and catch the gentle sympathy there. Oof. He’s right. Andrew doesn’t need to know, because he wouldn’t care one way or another.
chapter two
I’m praying that everyone is still asleep when I sneak back out of Benny’s room, and for the most part, the house is silent and still. My plan: Wake up Theo, ask him to come talk to me in the kitchen—no, not the kitchen, too close to the mudroom—before anyone else is up. Clear the air. Make sure we know it was a fluke, nothing to be weird about. It was the eggnog kissing! Definitely nothing anyone else needs to know about.
Am I being too paranoid about a sloppy kiss and a boob grope? Without a doubt. But Theo is like family, and these things tend to get messy. Let me not be the proverbial stick of dynamite in this comfortable chosen-family dynamic.
Look back on a hundred other mornings here, and I’m usually awake in the kitchen, quietly cheating at solitaire while Ricky, Andrew and Theo’s dad, munches on cookies and zombie-sips his coffee, slowly coming to life. Maelyn Jones, you and me are two peas in a pod, he’ll say once he’s verbal. We both wake up with the sun. But this particular morning, Ricky isn’t up yet. In his place is Theo, bent over a giant bowl of Lucky Charms.
It’s still disorienting to see him with short hair. For as long as I can remember Theo had dark, wavy surfer hair he’d sometimes pull into a short ponytail, but it’s gone, cut off only days before we all arrived at the cabin. Now I stand in the doorway, surrounded by strands of metallic garland and tissue paper holly the twins and Andrew hung up yesterday morning, staring at the top of Theo’s short-haired head and thinking he looks like a stranger.
I know he knows I’m here, but he doesn’t acknowledge me; he’s feigning a deep fascination with the nutritional information on the cereal box in front of him. Milk drips from his chin, and he swipes it away with the back of his hand.
My stomach turns to stone. “Hey,” I say, folding a stray dish towel.
He still doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
“You sleep okay?”
“Sure.”
I cross my arms in front of me and am reminded that I’m braless, in pajamas. The linoleum floor is freezing beneath my bare feet. “You’re up early.”
One bulky shoulder lifts and drops. “Yeah.”
When I blink, I suddenly see what’s happening with clear eyes. I’m not dealing with Lifelong Friend Theo right now. This is Next Morning Theo. This is the Theo most girls see. My mistake was in assuming that I’m not most girls.
I move to the coffeepot, stuffing a filter in, filling it with dark roast, setting it to brew. The deep headiness of coffee fills my head, and, for only a breath, it distracts me from my angst.
I glance at the empty Advent calendar on the counter— empty not because yesterday was Christmas but because Andrew loves chocolate and finished it five days ago. His and Theo’s mom, Lisa, made some sort of cookie bars on the first day of vacation, but they’ve barely been touched because nobody is willing to risk a tooth after watching Dad crack one of his.
I know every dish in this kitchen, know each potholder, towel, and place mat. This place is more precious to me than even my own childhood home, and I don’t want to tarnish it with stupid, eggnog-soaked decisions.
I take a deep breath and think of why we come here: To spend quality time with our chosen family. To celebrate togetherness. We drive each other crazy sometimes, but I love this place; I look forward to coming here all year.
Theo drops his spoon onto the table, clattering me back into this tense, loaded room. He shakes the cereal box over his bowl, refilling it.
I try to engage again: “Hungry?”
He grunts. “Yeah.”
I give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Lord knows I am. Maybe I should apologize, make sure we’re on the same page. “Listen, Theo. About last night . . .”
He laughs into a bite of cereal. “Last night was nothing, Mae. I should have known you’d make a huge deal out of it.”
I blink. A huge deal?
Briefly, I imagine hurling the closest object within reach at his head. “What the hell is that—” I begin, but footsteps stop my tirade and save Theo from getting brained by a cast-iron trivet.
Ricky comes into the room, letting out a gravelly “Mornin’.”
He grabs a mug, and I grab the pot, filling his cup when he reaches out expectantly, and we shuffle toward the table: our familiar little dance. But then Ricky falters, unsure where to sit with an unexpected Theo in his chair, and he pulls out another one, sitting with a relieved groan, inhaling his coffee.
I wait for Ricky to say it. Wait for it. Maelyn Jones, you and me are two peas in a pod. But the words don’t come. Theo’s created a pocket of cold silence in the ordinarily warm space, and a tiny flicker of panic sparks beneath my ribs. Ricky is the King of Tradition, and I am the obvious heir to his throne. This is the one place in the world where I’ve never questioned what I’m doing or who I am, but last night Theo and I went off-script, and now everything is weird.
I glare across the table at him, but he doesn’t look up. He tucks into his Lucky Charms like a hungover frat boy.
Theo is a dick.
I am suddenly blindingly furious. How can he not even have the balls to look at me this morning? A few drunken kisses should be nothing to Theo Hollis, a scratch that’s easily polished. Instead, it feels like he’s deliberately gouging deeper.
Ricky slowly turns to look at me, and his questioning expression penetrates my peripheral vision. Maybe Theo is right. Maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. With effort, I blink and push back from the table to stand.
“Think I’ll take my coffee outside and enjoy the last morning here.”
There. If Theo has half a brain—which is presently up for debate—he’ll take the hint and follow me outside to talk.
But once I’m sitting on the porch swing, bundled up in a down coat, thick socks, boots, and a blanket, I’m cold from the inside out. I don’t want to shake the foundation of this special place, which is why I’ve never been tempted by Theo’s flirtation, or admitted to anyone but Benny that I have real and tender feelings for Andrew. Our parents’ bedrock friendship is far older than any of us kids.
Lisa and Mom were roommates in college. Dad, Aaron, Ricky, and Benny all lived together in a ramshackle rental off campus; they gave the old Victorian the incredibly creative name of International House of Beer, and from photos it looked like something out of Animal House. After graduation, Aaron moved to Manhattan, where he met and married Kyle Liang and they eventually adopted twins. Ricky and Lisa stayed in Utah, Benny roamed the West Coast before settling in Portland. My parents put down roots in California, where I was born and, eventually, Miles—the Surprise Baby—when I was nine. They divorced three years ago, and Mom is happily remarried. Dad . . . not so much.
Aaron has often said that these friendships saved his life when his mom and brother died unexpectedly in a car accident during junior year, and the group rallied around him to celebrate the holidays together. Even with all these ups and downs in life, the tradition stuck: every December twentieth we give ourselves over to Ricky’s highly specific and detailed Christmas itinerary. We haven’t missed a single year as long as I’ve been alive, even the year my parents divorced. That year wasn’t comfortable—strained is an understatement—but somehow spending time with our non-blood family helped soften the dislocation within our blood family.