“You seemed like you were having fun, though,” he tells me sheepishly. He gives me a hangdog expression—the kind I’m sure has worked for him before. “I’ll come back with my wallet to get these. I promise.”
“Sure you will,” I say in a monotone, sounding like the cafeteria lady at school when someone in the line “forgets” their swipe card.
“No, seriously,” he says, scrolling on his phone and then heading toward the door. Obviously something more exciting has come up. “I will. See ya, Bailey.”
I lift my hand in the most unenthusiastic wave possible. As bizarre as it seems, I think maybe I was wondering, in my deep subconscious, if Jacob Marley could be mistletoe-worthy. But now that I know he wasn’t taking any of this seriously—or more precisely, taking me and my time seriously—um, no.
That little flip my heart did earlier? Total flop.
I wander over to the colorful display of romance novels, their bright covers with cute couples tugging on my heartstrings, and sigh. Why can’t life be like a love story?
Saturday is my favorite day of the week, and Saturdays in December are really my favorite because the Briggs family cookie bakeathon is in full effect. I walk down the hall as my older brother, Liam, sprints past me in the opposite direction, shoving what appears to be a gingersnap in his mouth. “Going for bagels with the boys,” he calls over his shoulder, the front door slamming behind him. Only the sugar trail from the now-eaten cookie left behind on the carpet runner proves he was there at all.
Liam’s a freshman at Boston University. Despite all the family time we’ve spent together over the past year, we still were all super excited to have him home for a month. However, it’s been two weeks now, which means the novelty has worn off and he’s back to being the annoying brother who leaves his wet towels on the floor in the bathroom after he showers, and who drinks all the milk.
I poke my head into our family room. Our Westie, Dickens, is lying on the radiator ledge below the window in a fuzzy blue dog bed, watching the world go by. He loves to jump onto the couch and scramble onto the ledge—it’s his favorite spot. He can guard our house and stay warm. I can’t resist him—I go over and give his fluffy white head a kiss. Outside it’s sunny and bright, and I spot my dog’s persistent nemesis—a bushy-tailed, beady-eyed squirrel—climbing up the cherry-blossom tree in our front yard. Luckily for his heart rate, Dickens doesn’t see him. “You’re still the best watchdog,” I say, kissing him on the soft spot between his dark eyes and patting his warm little back. Then I head to the kitchen, the delicious smell of cookies baking making my stomach growl.
“Hi, honey,” Mom says, dropping a level cup of flour into a large glass mixing bowl. “You’re just in time to start rolling Kringles.” This is what we call our holiday sugar cookies. They’re my favorite, especially when they’re small and the edges get slightly burnt. There are a couple of cookbooks spread out, my mom’s laptop is open to a recipe for pecan tassies, and there are even some handwritten recipe cards strewn about, albeit smudged with butter. “Later we’ll make spritz.”
My younger sister, Karolyn, is arranging metal cookie cutters on our island. She’s wearing our red Mrs. Claus apron and large elf slippers, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. I might be a bit extra when it comes to the Christmas spirit, but Kar’s a close second. “I was thinking we could do a tray of little stars, then a tray of big stars.” She frowns. “Or maybe we should do all little stars.”
“Yum,” I say, grabbing a PBB off one of the cooling racks. A PBB is a peanut butter blossom: a soft peanut butter base with a Hershey’s Kiss pressed in the middle, slightly melted and mostly perfect. My mom has threatened to stop making them because my dad and Liam will eat an entire batch in one weekend. I can’t say I blame them. I finish it in two bites and pour myself a cup of coffee.
“People who haven’t baked shouldn’t get to eat,” Karolyn says, giving my hand a little slap.
I poke her back in the ribs. “Mom always says we have to eat breakfast, Kar. This is my morning protein.” I shoot Mom an apologetic glance and hold out my phone. “I guess you didn’t see my text? Phoebe’s picking me up in five minutes. We’re going skating.”
Ice-skating is fun, but we don’t do it often. The rink in our town is used for hockey practice and is open to the public basically never. Phoebe has been pestering us to go skating since the rink opened last month and sent our group chat an urgent text message complete with the siren and SOS emojis.
Mom shakes her head. “Nope, I haven’t been looking at my phone. We were kind of counting on you to help, Bails.” She looks around our kitchen. “Cookie swap is this Thursday and we are waaaaay behind. Liam already ditched us.”
A few years ago, my mom decided to hold a cookie swap for our neighbors—basically a holiday party where everyone brings a couple dozen of their favorite cookies. But what started out as a simple gathering has mushroomed into a full-blown party with invitations and decorations and appetizers. It is all hands on deck now to make sure the night runs smoothly. Cookie swap is one of my favorite nights of the year. Because cookies, obviously. But also because it’s a fun way to get into the holiday spirit.
My shoulders sag. I really do want to help. “Sorry, Mom. I mean, I don’t have to go. But this afternoon is the only time we could all make it. It’s me, Phoebe, Mellie, and Caitlin. They’re kind of counting on me being there. Holiday ice doesn’t stay around forever.” I leave out the part that we only just managed to put a plan together an hour ago. Because really, I knew the cookie swap would come together, but getting my friends together on a Saturday afternoon is all kinds of difficult.
“It’s fine, Bails. Go,” she tells me, opening the cabinet and taking out more baking soda, baking powder, and a twist-tied bag of confectioner’s sugar. “We’ll soldier on without you.”
Kar slumps down on one of the island stools. “I thought this was supposed to be a family activity,” she says, pouting. “Dad’s at the gym, Liam’s off with his friends, and now you’re going skating? Thanks a lot for leaving me with Mom.”
“Ha!” Mom comes up behind Kar and kisses the top of her head. Our mom is actually the best and we all know it. She’s smart and funny, and she always tries to be there for us, whether it’s showing up at Liam’s cross-country meets, sewing sequins on Karolyn’s dance costumes, or making sure to stock up on the granola I like even if it means an extra shopping trip. She likes the same shows and movies that I do, and she never gets mad if I borrow her boots or spill something on the rug. I actually really like hanging out with her. But not right now.
“I’ll frost the Kringles when I get home,” I promise, feeling guilty. “Just leave that part for me.”