“No. Wait, you don’t have to do that,” I say, but Olivia waves me off.
“Only if I can control the music,” Charlie says. “And the temperature in the car. I don’t want to sweat all the way down there. And you’ll owe me a favor that I can cash in whenever I want. No questions asked.”
Olivia and I share a look.
“What time are we starting this journey?” Wes asks.
“Around nine. After we’ve eaten so Nonna won’t have any reason to be looking for us.”
“I’ll be ready,” Wes says.
“Me too,” Charlie says. “This plan is something the old Sophie would have done. I like it.”
While Christmas Day tradition means we’ll sit down to a formal meal at noon that includes all the traditional foods you expect—turkey, dressing, green beans, sweet potato casserole—Christmas Eve is the complete opposite.
Nonna loves to celebrate our Sicilian roots, so the buffet stretched out across the kitchen island includes several different pasta dishes, eggplant, stuffed artichokes, and panelle. There’s an assortment of salami and cheeses, dried fruits and olives. There are also fig cookies, almond cookies, and cannoli. The tables are covered in red tablecloths and small white poinsettias sit in clusters in the center. Christmas music plays in the background, but all of the songs are in Italian and seem like they were recorded in the 1950s.
Jake and Graham wander into the kitchen and stop next to where Olivia and I are sitting at the table.
“So I heard that jackass showed up here this morning,” Jake says after swallowing a bite of cookie.
First thing Wes did was tell Charlie that Griffin came by. Then Charlie told Nonna, and that’s all it took to activate the phone tree.
“Yeah. He wanted to talk.”
Graham rolls his eyes. “I never liked him.”
“Please,” Olivia says. “You barely knew him.”
“Let’s just say it didn’t take long for me to form my opinion,” Graham says.
“Don’t let him guilt you into getting back together, if that’s not what you want,” Jake says with a pointed look. Then they move on to the cookie trays.
Most of my family have been heaping unwanted advice on me all day. I could strangle Wes for telling them Griffin showed up here.
Charlie slides into the chair next to Olivia. “We can’t take my truck. I’m almost on empty.”
I shush him and scan the room. But everyone is laughing and talking and not paying us any attention.
“We’re taking my car,” I say.
Our cover story is that Charlie, Olivia, and I are going to Wes’s to binge-watch Christmas movies. We talked Sara into distracting anyone who comes looking for us. It’s not a great plan, but with the house filled to capacity—and hopefully all of the adults being overserved—it’s not likely anyone will be hunting us down. In fact, I’m expecting them all to fall into a food coma within the hour.
Twenty minutes later, the three of us head to the street where my car is parked. Wes is sitting on the hood, waiting for us.
“Who’s driving?” Charlie asks.
“It’ll be safest if we switch off every hour and a half,” Wes says as he jumps off my car. “So two of us will take turns on the way down and two of us will get us home.”
“You should’ve been a Boy Scout,” Charlie says.
“Iwasa Boy Scout,” Wes replies. “And so were you.”
Wes and I reach the door to the backseat at the same time. I know we’re both trying to do the same thing—save our turn for the worst shift, the one that will bring us home in the early hours of the morning.
“You drive first,” I say.
He shakes his head and smiles, his hand reaching for the handle. “No. I’m beat. I really need to nap right now, and then Charlie and I can take turns driving us back.”
