I’ve celebrated Christmas with the Jones family since I was five years old. We always meet on this day—Christmas Eve—at an old cabin high in the mountains.
And every year, Romeo asks me what time we’re meeting everyone.
My face grows pale as reality crashes over me.
I can’t eventhinkabout so much askissingMacbeth again, let alone any of the rest of the fantasies that have been playing in my mind.
I can never have her.
Because her family ismyfamily.
My parents never wanted kids. They each focused on their academic pursuits. Dad in neurology and Mom in astronomy. I was anoopsiebaby when they were in their mid-forties. They don’t do mundane things like Christmas or birthdays.
Ever since meeting Romeo in kindergarten, I’ve spent holidays with the Jones family.
I love them.
I can’t lose them.
No matter what.
Not even for Baby Jones.
And let’s say for the sake of argument that I did choose Macbeth over the rest of the family. Then what?
There’s not a closer family on the planet than the Jones family, especially after losing their mother when they were all so young. Macbeth needs them. They’re in her blood. She could never walk away, even if I could.
And I can’t.
“Hamlet and Annie aren’t going to make it this year,” Romeo says, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Annie has a concert in Los Angeles tomorrow.”
I nod. Ham's wife is a pop superstar, and she’s on a worldwide tour right now. So, we haven’t seen much of them in a few months.
“So, it looks like it’s just me and Sierra, Will and Carly, Theo and Holly, and Macbeth and you,” Romeo says.
Macbeth and me.
Even though I know he didn’t mean for it to sound like he was pairing us up, I can’t deny that I love the sound of it.
Macbeth and me. Macbeth and me. Macbeth and me.
It just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? The sound of that would never get old.
I swallow around a lump in my throat. “What about Pete? Is he coming?”
“Dad’s not quite over the flu,” Romeo explains.
“That’s too bad,” I say. And I mean it. I love Pete Jones like he’s my own dad.
Which begs the question: if I love Romeo, William, Theo, and Hamlet like brothers, and Pete like a father, why am I plagued with these veryunbrotherly thoughts of Macbeth?
The radio transmitter in the helicopter crackles to life. Romeo picks it up. “Romeo Jones. Over.”
Will, Romeo’s older brother, responds. “Car accident on Plum Ridge Lane. A car has slid into the ravine.” His voice cracks, and Romeo and I glance at each other quickly.
“Rescue mission or recovery?” I ask.
“We’re not sure yet,” Will answers, “but the car looks like…” His voice trails off.
