I’m ready to go home.
By the time it ends and only a few people, including James, linger, I realize Eric is completely toasted. He can barely stand on his two feet and guzzles his cocktail in seconds. I shoot James a worried look and he nods at me as if to let me know he’s got his eye on him.
“James has been watching you all night,” Mom singsongs into my ear. “Please go on a date with him, honey. You two would make such pretty babies. We adore him.”
I shrivel at her words. Not because I think so lowly of James. It’s just the truth of whom I love is bordering on humiliating. Shameful. Wrong.
Mom leaves my side to whisper something to James. He stiffens and forces a smile at her. Eric flinches, squeezing his eyes shut as if to tune out what’s being said.
Why can’t she leave things alone just this once?
The last of the guests leave. James is now practically holding Eric up, murmuring things to him. My stepbrother looks broken. It makes my chest ache.
“Oh, look, babe,” Mike says, tugging Mom to him. “Mistletoe.”
She laughs as he pulls her to his lips for a kiss. Of course, our sisters decide to show up, running past us barefoot but still in their party dresses with Barbies in hand.
“Ewwww,” Ruthie exclaims. “Mistletoe is gross. It makes everyone kiss.”
“I’m not kissing you,” Layla says with a huff, “just because you’re my sister.”
I shoot the girls a warning look. No mall. No ice cream.
Ruthie’s expression turns wicked. “They kissed. Yuck!”
Mom and Mike both laugh, obviously unaware of what Ruthie means. Eric makes a groaning sound as though he’s in pain.
“Isn’t it your bedtime?” I say to my sisters. “Go to bed.”
“Clara,” Mom says, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“She thinks we’re going to tattle on her for kissing Eric,” Layla says, and then smacks her hand over her mouth.
Ruthie scowls. “You weren’t supposed to tell! Now Clara won’t take us to the mall!”
“Can we still get ice cream?” Layla asks, chin trembling. “Please.”
Mike clears his throat and points to the stairs. “Bed, now. It’s late. Go or I’ll tell Santa you two are naughty.”
“James, honey, maybe it’s time to go,” Mom says, voice tight. “We have a bunch of tired people around here.”
The girls scurry off. Eric shakes his head and staggers toward Mike.
“No,” he says, voice slurring slightly. “I need a witness for when Dad tries to murder me.”
Oh my God.
“What’s going on?” Mom demands.
Mike looks at Eric and then at me. As if a puzzle comes together in his mind, he stiffens. Then, his face reddens with anger. I’ve seen this look a time or two when Eric was a kid, right before Mike’s belt came off. But Eric’s a grown man. Mike won’t whip him for misbehaving. Will he?
“I love Clara,” Eric says, voice wobbling. “I’m sorry.”
“Eric,” I croak out. “Don’t.”
He shakes his head violently. “No. I have to tell them.”
“Tell us what?” Mom hisses. “James, you really ought to go home now.”
