It was a warm fire, and the smell of cookies and gingerbread. It was multicoloured lights on the tree, twinkling along to a Christmas carol. It was the sound of laughter and off-key singing that was so embarrassing, it left you red-faced. It was the spicy taste of eggnog, and the cozy company of people you trulyenjoyedbeing around.
The Fraser household came with no pianist or catering. It had one bathroom that everyone had to share, and outdated wallpaper. Every Christmas decoration and ornament had a story behind it, sometimes a whole history, because it had been passed down through generations. Stockings were hanging on the fireplace with the names of pets that died fifteen years ago, and were still honoured with a bag of treats or a toy.
There were no stuffy clothes or agitated parents, or late-night pizza shared between brothers who were left on their own far too often. The homes were opposite in every way, and even though one had been poor and the other rich, it was obvious which one had more wealth.
“What are you smiling about?” Jett asked, plopping himself beside Harrison on the saggy couch. He wasn’t acting like a brat anymore. The eggnog and whiskey had brightened his mood as the hours passed by.
“Nothing really,” said Harrison. “I was thinking of how I like your version of Christmas better.”
Jett pressed his lips into a thin line, and Harrison could tell he was debating on asking for more details, but they were interrupted by Robert bringing their lasagna. They were eating in the living room because the kitchen table wasn’t for dinners, it was just extra space for meal prep.
“This is my best one yet,” Robert said, grinning. His nose and cheeks were red from the warmth of the alcohol, and he looked like he was on the verge of breaking into a jig of excitement.
“You say that every year,” Jett teased, blowing on his steaming food to cool it. “It’s been perfect since I was a kid, so stop trying to make it better.”
Robert left to get a serving for himself from the kitchen table and returned just as fast as he had disappeared. He sat in his recliner and kicked the footrest up, chuckling and grabbing the remote. “Do you boys want to check and see where Santa is?”
Harrison had no idea what Robert was talking about, so he watched silently as he found a channel with a Santa Tracker displaying graphics on the screen, pinpointing the sleigh somewhere in India.
What. The. Fuck.
The shock must have shown on his face because Jett sucked in a sharp breath, choking on a piece of sausage that went down the wrong way.
“Have you never seen this before, son?” Robert gestured to the TV, his face turning ruddier by the second. “How did your parents convince you and your brother to go to bed?”
Convince them to go to bed? Did other kids usually get a choice?
“They would tell us to go to bed,” Harrison said awkwardly. “There was no convincing involved.”
Jett finally stopped choking, but he was wheezing when he spoke. “Your parents didn’t let you stay up late enough to see Santa reach America?”
“Reach America?” Harrison felt like he was living in an alternate reality where only chaos existed. “Jett, Santa isn’treal.”
Jett’s eyes widened, and he jerked away from him, which was hard to do when the couch was so saggy. “What?” His tone was one of shock as he looked at Robert in horror. “When were you going totell me this?”
Robert hooted with laughter, smacking his thigh. “I was waiting until you were older—”
Jett burst into laughter, bending over so far that his face almost ended up in his lasagna. He stopped to look at Harrison, but then started laughing again uncontrollably.
Harrison was about to start opening windows in case there was a CO2 leak somewhere that was causing the hysteria in the Fraser men—maybe check the paint for lead?—but Jett grabbed his arm and held him in place.
“Sorry,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes while Robert did the same. “We’re joking—you were just so fucking serious I couldn’t help myself. I’m so sorry, Harrison. I swear that I don’t believe in Santa, and we know the tracker isn’t real.”
Harrison released the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding. Jett and Robert were still borderline crying, but now that he knew they were joking, he couldn’t help but join them.
“Jesus Christ, Jett.” Harrison shook his head because he couldn’t believe how good they got him. “I was about ready to call an ambulance. You were both convincing as hell.”
“We had to lighten the mood after you depressed us with your anti-Christmas storm cloud,” said Robert. “But I’m not surprised your Christmas was abnormal since your mother was a frigid bitch on a good day.”
“Dad!”
Now Harrison was the one laughing. That was one way to describe his mother.
“I wouldn’t say it unless it were true,” Robert continued, ignoring his son’s outburst. “The Killingers only started donating to ChristmasDaddies and toy drives once they realized their son was becoming famous, and they would be frowned at for not giving to charity.”
Harrison gave an agreeable nod. “I can confirm that she hated giving handouts to freeloaders, as she called them.”
“Oh, fuck her.” Jett stabbed his fork into his food. “Never mind, call her a bitch all you want.”
