“Are you all right? Your face is pink.”
“No, it’s not.” I clap, and we both turn to check the crack of light bleeding under the bathroom door. No shadows of feet. “Let’s go.”
We teleport to the limo, and then, as soon as I’m finished sputtering out eggnog, we make our grand entrance. The Watsons’ front door creaks open, Mom and Dad poking their heads out to watch. It’s a suitably chatty affair, with many ooohs and ahhhs. Or at least I assume that’s the noises they’re making; I can’t be sure until we’re sauntering down the walkway.
“Hellooooo!” I exclaim. “Wow, what a drive. What was that, like, fourteen hours in the car? You’re right, I look good for someone who’s been traveling for so long.”
“Who’s that?” Dad jerks his chin toward Hall, who has acquired sunglasses. He’s swaggering up behind me, profile swung toward the dying sun in a way that shows off his bone structure. He’s doing that frowny-squinty thing that men do on red carpets, where they’re trying to look Serious but actually look Constipated.
“That’s my date,” I purr.
“Your date?” Athena repeats incredulously, cutting between our parents to emerge on the porch. “You brought adateto Christmas?”
“Well, why wouldn’t I?” I huff. Then I stare at Mom, whose face has colored, fingertips pressing against her mouth. “What?”
“It’s just...” She drops her hands, and her eyes are filled with tears. It’s because she’s so happy to see me. And so proud. Then a hysterical laugh bobs out of her throat. “Honey, what are youwearing?”
“It’s wearingher, more like,” Felix observes from somewhere behind Dad. They’re trickling out onto the porch, gawking at us. There is good gawking and bad gawking, which I should know.
“It’s a Halloween costume,” Dad guesses, which clinches this as bad gawking. It’s bullshit, if you ask me. I’m wearing a queen’s dress! An actual queen! And I’ve got twenty-first-century hair and makeup, which means I’m pulling off this look. Bloody Mary could never. “Where’d you two meet?”
“Baseball,” I say, as Hall replies, “Whole Foods.” We both groan. Dad’s confused, but he isn’t a big talker so he drops it.
“Did you take a limo all the way from LAX after you flew in from Hawaii?” Kaia asks casually.
“That’d cost a fortune in gas,” Athena’s husband murmurs.
“Money is no object,” I begin, but Grandma’s verdict catches my ear:
“Limousines are tacky.”
Beside me, Hall deflates. I mean that literally. He goes all flat, and I can hear the air whizz out of him like a punctured bouncy castle. He keels over onto his back in the dead December grass, thoroughly two-dimensional. My family screams and screams and screams.
*
“No matter what she says,” I warn Hall as we descend in our hot-air balloon, “don’t make yourself flat again. They didn’t muchcare for that. And remember: we met when our pedal boats bumped into each other on Echo Park Lake. You were instantly smitten. I had other boyfriends on the back burner, but you won me over on our first date by hiring Gordon Ramsay to cook me a personal pan pizza.”
We’ve spun back the clock again and, this time around, we’re in matching tuxedoes that glitter like disco balls. We’re also in top hats, which I’ve decided to bring back in style. A scarlet birdcage veil wafts from the brim of mine, studded with tiny crystals.
“Hello, relatives!” I boom through a megaphone as the hot air balloon makes contact with the front yard. Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Kaia, Felix, Athena, their spouses, and however many nieces and nephews I have (after five, one stops keeping track) gather on the lawn to gape at me.
I spread my arms, smacking Hall in the face. Behold! I am both fashionably lateandmaking a hell of an entrance, which means I’ve won.
“Sweetheart!” Grandpa cries. “Love it! What a show!”
“What are you doing to my lawn?” Grandma hollers. “You can’t just park that thing here! What if it blows into the house?”
“What if it blows down the mountain?” Felix adds. He elbows Kaia. “Or right into town. Punctured on the tower of Town Hall like the giant peach from that movie.”
In spite of her incredible voice, Kaia is the quietest of the Hughes siblings, which has the effect of making her seem more intelligent. Her approval therefore matters more than Athena’s or Felix’s. She appraises me narrowly from under the brim of her hat, clothes hanging from her waifish frame. Minimalist floral tattoos swim up and down her arms. Her low, smoky-voiced verdict: “I think it’s cool.”
I preen.
But then she tacks on: “Did you fly that here all the way from Los Angeles? Did you have to make a stop nearby for the special purpose of getting in a hot-air balloon?” and I wish she’d be quiet again and stop considering logistics. She does go silent, but only because she can’t go more than a minute without vaping.
“Where’d you even get one of those?” Dad wants to know. “Who let you fly that by yourself? Don’t you need an instructor?”
Mom, who started this process being delighted, clutches his arm. “Oh, Jim, this looks dangerous. Help her get out of there.”
