That makes me feel better, and I hope what I say next will put him at ease. No one will expect anything from you. And trust me, Rachel will have so many presents she won’t even notice.”
In the living room, the air smells like fresh pine. I glance at the mantel to see a lit green candle. Mom must’ve done that. At least the fragrance is better than those scented sticks she used to hang on the branches to make our fake tree smell “real.”
Dad and Jake pass out the presents. A huge pile sits in front of Rachel, more than three times the gifts of anyone else. Yes, this is my family’s version of a perfect Christmas.
In my usual spot are two presents. That’s strange because my typical haul is one. There’s also another present sitting next to mine.
“That other one is for John,” Mom says.
John’s eyes widen. “Thanks. I didn’t realize I’d be spending Christmas here or I’d—”
“No worries. Now you have a little something to remember spending the holiday with us.”
I cringe. Mom makes it sound like they’ll never see John Barrington again. Okay, they won’t, but do they have to act like he’s so out of my league?
Rachel rips the paper off her first present and squeals, since the small box is from a local jewelry store. “Mom, Dad, you shouldn’t have.” She opens the box to find a diamond bracelet. “But I’m really happy you did.”
Mom’s smile widens. “You told us what you wanted several times.”
That sounds like my sister. I open my gift from my parents. Underneath the colorful wrapping paper is a white box. It’s not the same as Rachel’s, though. I’ve never received jewelry from anyone, not even Jake when we dated, but the box is too big for that. Still, I’m excited to get something. Last year, they gave me a pair of black gloves that fell apart the first time I wore them.
I remove the top and undo the tissue paper. I see black leather, and my heart drops. “Gloves. These will come in handy this winter. Thanks.”
Somehow, I sound normal, when a part of me wants to cry, especially with the way Rachel sits on the couch and gloats, showing me her bracelet. It’s not the discrepancy in the gifts that bothers me. My parents are allowed to spend their money however they want, but once again, I feel like I’m not even a part of the family.
John opens his gift. It’s a pair of black leather gloves. “We match.”
“Just like your pajamas,” Rachel says, not sounding impressed. “Though, didn’t you get a pair of gloves like that last year, Abby?”
I nod once, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Oh, these are different,” Mom says quickly, and Dad glances from her to me and then to Rachel.
I should say something, but I can’t. A part of me wonders if these gloves were intended for Rachel and Jake, since I have a second gift. My sister never gives me anything, and I can’t imagine her letting Jake get me a present. But I shouldn’t complain. I have an extra gift this year. That counts as progress, right?
My parents each open a present and Jake too.
Then it’s Rachel’s turn again. She’s like a feral cat opening the big box. “A purse by my favorite designer. Thanks, Mom and Dad.”
“You’ve been wanting that one since your birthday,” Mom says. “Your turn, Abby.”
I open the other present from my parents. The box is larger than the other, and my hands shake with excitement. I once again open the lid, pull the tissue paper back, and stare in disbelief.
Rachel leans forward, trying to see in the box. “What is it?”
I pull the gift out. “A pair of socks.”
“Not just socks. Slipper socks.” Mom sounds proud, not embarrassed by the gift. “They have the grippers on the bottom, so you won’t slip.”
I have no words and keep staring at the socks.
Don’t cry. Whatever you do. Do. Not. Cry.
“Thanks, Mrs. Sinclair,” John says, saving me once again. “We don’t want Abby to fall and hurt herself.”
The gift opening continues. Everyone likes what I got them, but I don’t—can’t—watch them open their presents. John glances my way, but if I look at him, I might break down.
Jake clears his throat, drawing my attention as he reaches for a box. “This one’s from Rachel.” The wrapping paper crinkles as he tears it off.
