“Perfect like always,” Freja says indulgently.
“Remember the year Freja threw a snowball at Santa because he told her to smile more?” Ransom reminisces.
“That man was condescending!” Freja protests.
“I hate men who ask women to smile,” Calypso interjects.
“Exactly! And I was twelve,” Freja pouts.
“You were sixteen,” Aksel states dryly. “And it wasn’t just a snowball. It had ice in it.”
“Improvised weaponry.” Ransom laughs. “Impressive aim.”
“Thank you.” Freja bows her head. “I come from a long line of women who know how to throw things.”
“Indeed,” Mama drawls as she assembles aCroque-Nuiton a lacquered tray. “My Baccarat vase still remembers.”
“This is such a calorie fest,” Calypso commentsagain.
“We only do this at Christmas.” Mama carefully balances marshmallows on skewers. “The rest of the year, sugar is banned.”
“Forsomeof us,” Freja points out. “I love my Dunkin’.”
“I can’t believe I have a daughter who eats donuts.” Mama wrinkles her nose as she hands a constructedCroque-Nuitto Latika.
Latika bites into it, eyes closing in satisfaction. “Still the best part of Christmas.”
“Excuse me,” Aksel says, lifting his mug. “I was told the mulled wine was the highlight.”
“Both things can be true,” she replies diplomatically and kisses his jaw.
Papa shifts in his chair. “Anyone going skiing tomorrow?”
“I’m taking Thomas on the bunny slope,” Aksel says proudly. “And Ember is going to take Anika.”
My niece and I have been skiing together for a few years now. After an hour or so, I hand her back to herparents so I can get to some of the challenging slopes. That is ritual, too.
“Thomas will last ten minutes and demand hot chocolate,” Latika says fondly. “But sure, ski day.”
“I’ll join you all.” Freja yawns again and looks at her watch. “Assuming I don’t get buried under a pile of correspondence from work tonight. People never stop leaking things two days before Christmas.”
“Same,” Jonathan sighs. “The House won’t vote until January, but the press won’t rest.”
I realize, as the conversation fades and one by one we head to our beds, that I haven’t said a word since we got here. I haven’t spoken at all.
One-on-one, I can hold a conversation just fine.
With Freja, I can tease and laugh and match her note for note.
With Aksel, I can be quiet, thoughtful, and dryly funny in a way that makes him snort wine through his nose.
Even with Jonathan, I know how to joke with, and ask questions that matter.
But when everyone is together—when voices rise and crisscross and become a living, breathing tapestry of conversation—I fade. I shrink.
I think too much.
Am I talking too little?
