“People who like each other? People who say what they mean? I don’t know… people who don’t analyze every conversation for hidden meanings and power dynamics.”
Vick laughs. “Reed, you are literally sitting at a table surrounded by friends.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
I struggle to find words for the distinction that feels so obvious to me. “You basically have to be nice to me.”
Kash snorts. “I definitely do not.”
Vick punches him in the arm, and Paolo gestures for me to continue. I scratch my head. “Eliza is… genuine. Real. When she talks about her goats, she lights up with joy. When she problem-solves, she just does it. No committees or feasibility studies or risk assessments. But she’s aggressively confident about all of it.”
“So basically, you’re attracted to someone who’s nothing like your parents,” Paolo observes.
The accuracy of that statement hits harder than I expected. “When you put it like that…”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Kash says. “Your parents are corporate sharks who think empathy is a weakness. Finding someone who’s the opposite makes sense.”
“What if I’m just rebelling? What if this is some psychological reaction to my upbringing?”
“Or…” Vick suggests, “what if you’re just a person who knows what makes you happy, and you’re finally brave enough to pursue it?”
I consider this, watching condensation drip down my glass. “I’m not brave. If I were brave, I would have told my father to shove his job offer instead of standing there like a statue while he humiliated me.”
My friends are quiet enough for me to hear the holiday music piping through the bar. Our server, dressed in an elf costume, comes to clear our empty glasses, and I realize we’ve been here a long time. This place feels like home in a way my apartment never has, probably because it’s full of people who choose to be here rather than people obligated by blood or business connections.
“So, what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Vick asks.
“Survive,” I say. “Try not to say anything that reveals how privileged and out of touch I am. Hope her family doesn’t decide I’m too much of a risk.”
“Risk?” Paolo’s eyebrows go up.
“Risk to Eliza. Risk of hurting her.” I finish my beer and signal the server for another round. “Her sisters are protective. If they think I’m manipulating them…”
“Are you manipulating them?” Kash asks.
The question stops me cold. “Of course not.” I stare at my friends. “But I don’t know how to do this. I always mess things up with women.”
“Worrying about how she feels is probably a good sign,” Vick observes. “Means it matters.”
The elf announces last call, so we order a round of Thunder Struck and move to discuss everything except my love life—Paolo’s trip to Colombia for Christmas, Vick’s mother yearning for grandchildren, Kash explaining to his parents yet again that Solstice is different from the Lunar New Year.
My thoughts keep drifting to Eliza. The way she laughs, how it sounds a little like a donkey… The fierce concentration on her face when she’s working. The softness in her voice when she talked me through cat cookie assembly.
By the time the guys drop me at home, I’m slightly buzzed and completely overthinking tomorrow.
What does one wear to a family cookie exchange? My usual button-down and khakis feel too formal, but jeans might be too casual. Do I bring something to go with the cookies? Should I offer to help with cleanup? What if they ask about my family? What if they already know about my father’s public humiliation of me?
I sleep fitfully and, in the morning, I pull half my wardrobe out of the closet, trying to find something that says “responsible adult who cares about your sister” without screaming “trust fund baby who’s never done a real day’s work.”
A simple sweater, maybe? The navy one that Paolo says brings out my eyes? Or is that trying too hard?
By the time I decide on dark jeans and a forest green Henley—casual but not sloppy, approachable but not desperate—it’s past ten, and I should have been at Esther’s house twenty minutes ago.
I grab a carton of nonalcoholic eggnog since I didn’t have time to age the good kind, check my reflection one more time, and drive across town with my stomach in knots.
Esther Storm’s house glows with warm light, and I can hear laughter and conversation through the windows. Multiple cars line the street of colorful homes, and there’s a hand-painted sign out front that says Storm Chalet. It strikes me—it’s a really big deal to be invited here.
