“Okay, okay, everyone in position,” Papa says after a long wheezing laugh. “Juju, tilt your head back a little, to your left. Jackson, your hand should be on Juju’s right arm. Margaret, come forward a tiny bit so I can see you over your son’s enormous head.”
“Hey!” Jackson protests. “My head is normal for my size.”
“You’ve had an enormous head since the day you were born,” Mom says.
I lose it and have to get resituated, clearing my throat and wiping my eyes before settling into a calmer smile. It’s hard to taper into a calmer smile when you’re laughing too hard.
“Now is not the time to talk about my head,” Jackson says.
Papa cackles and shakes out his hands, trying to steady himself. “Okay, everyone, hold still.”
The click of the camera finally comes, and Papa barks out instructions for us to adjust here and there until he’s happy. When we get up, we have to help Dad to his feet, and he stretches, his back letting out a loud crack as he does.
“I’m sending you my chiropractor bill,” he says, pointing at Jackson.
“Let’s see.” Jackson is already next to Papa, checking out the photos. He puts his fist to his mouth and snorts. “Oh, these are golden,” he says.
The fun continues throughout our Christmas Eve dinner. The prime rib is delicious, and according to Mom, my homemade rolls are to die for. Rich, buttery smells waft in the air, Christmas music is playing in the background, and I’m content. It’s so good to have my family here, to sit down andbreathe.
And there’s nonstop entertainment. Jackson has had three generous fingers of Jameson, which means his filter is nonexistent.
“So, Jackson,” Mom says sweetly, “how’s…what was her name again?”
Jackson’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. “Which one?”
I nearly choke on my wine. “Which one?” I repeat, leaning forward. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Hey, I’m single. It’s okay to mingle.” He tries to look serious, but his grin ruins it. “And let me tell you, I’m mingling.”
I groan. “Gross.”
“It’d be selfish to only let one person get close to this,” he says, pointing his hands toward his chest.
My eyes narrow. “How did we come from the same genetic pool?”
Dad chuckles. “Son, is this why you never bring anyone around us? Unable to pick one person who can enjoy all this? Or afraid we’ll scare them off?”
Jackson raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I can assure you—no one scares them off.” He leans in. “These girls are bold. Did I tell you about the one I couldn’t get to leave? She spent the night and the next morning woke up with an outline of all the things she wanted to do…in my condo. And might I add, I didn’t want her to spend the night in the first place.”
“Yeah, no…I didn’t need to hear that,” I say.
“You act like it’s scandalous. It’s not,” Jackson insists, pointing at me with his fork. “You just think anything involving sex is scandalous.”
“Okay, ew.” I put my hands over my ears. “And not true. But we’re eating. And okay, maybe a little bit true when it comes toyoursex life.”
Mom’s laughing so hard she’s blotting her eyes with a napkin. “Can wepleaseget through one holiday without turning dinner into a tabloid headline?”
“No,” I say at the same time Jackson says, “Absolutely not.”
The next morning is present time. Wrapping paper is everywhere, and we have hot cocoa and the cinnamon rolls I made last night for breakfast.
It’s perfect—until Mom says, “Don’t forget, dinner with the Whitmans at Elm & Echo tonight!”
Cue my stomach doing that twisty thing.
Goldie will be there, which is great. I love Goldie. But Camden will also be there, and I’ve beenverysuccessfully avoiding him ever since my blowup at his restaurant a couple of weeks ago. My record is flawless. I’d like to keep it that way.
Except…apparently Camden’s in rare form tonight.
