Pushing my concern aside, I look at her, and ask, “You're dressed already?”
“I’ve been up since six,” she admits.
“What time is it now?”
“The clock on the stove said seven-thirty before I came back.”
“No,” I whine and close my eyes again. “It’s too early. And I’m too damn tired.”
“Too bad. Besides, everyone loves waking up early on Christmas.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Parents despise it.”
She picks up a spare pillow and whacks me in the head before bouncing off the bed. “Get up, or I’ll force you to tell me where you really went the other night. Yeah, that’s right. Everleigh might have covered for you, but I’m not stupid, Sister. You claimed to take a walk outside. I know that doesn’t equate to being gone for hours.” She claps her hands. “Chop, chop.” And then she’s out of my room, and I’m left staring up at my ceiling. Again.
I didn’t realize I was gone for hours until I undressed and climbed into bed that night. Roadwork on the 401 interfered with us getting back across the river after we left Harrison Heights, but that’s not the only thing that made time drag. Being at that warehouse did. Standing there and watching two guys go through the motions before Colson claimed their spot ate up precious minutes that I didn’t have an excuse for.
Too in the midst of questioning what Colson and I had, and the truths he kept from me, I linger in bed. I think of Finn and their dad. He admitted to Colson’s accusations, and I know I shouldn’t ignore that. The way they took advantage of Janie’s addiction just so they could win a game no one else was playing. He didn’t apologize—at least not from what I remember—and I guess I can see why. He’s not ashamed of the money he’s made or following the only way of life he’s ever known. But I think heisashamed over how he’s treated his brother. I like to think that this is his way of making up for it. Had he known Colson was his family all this time, maybe he would’ve done better.
I don’t know him well, but it’s clear he extended an olive branch that night when he warned Colson about his boss, Tommy. He doesn’t want to see him caught up, and I can appreciate that because I don’t want to see it, either.
Once I’m near ready to walk out the door, I grab my phone off my nightstand and check for messages. There are none. I’m not sure what I expect. A message from Colson?Do I even want that?
I glance at the date on the phone, December 25th staring back at me. Holiday cheer is nowhere in sight this year. I’m not excited to exchange presents or spend time with my loved ones. Well, aside from Olive. I’m still not sure what I’m going to say when I show up to my parents’. I haven’t talked to them since Thanksgiving. There’s a lot that hasn’t been said. A lot of words hovering in the air.
I push that to the back of my mind, though, figuring I’ll deal with it when I get there. I pull up my text thread with Colson. Skimming back to a few of our last conversations when things were good between us. When life wasn’t dragging him under water every chance it got. There was so much love in those exchanges.
It’s absolutely mind-blowing how much I care for him. How quickly I’m tossing the idea of never talking to him again out the window. The truth is, my love for Colson expands to distances I never knew existed. It’s almost toxic how I’d do anything, even get in a car with a complete stranger, to get to him.
I send him a simpleMerry Christmastext. I can’t imagine him being alone today. Not when he should be surrounded by at least one person who loves him.
I walkinto the foyer of the home where I grew up. Mom decorated it beautifully. As she always does for the holidays. Outside, icicle lights hang from the eaves and wreaths fill everywindow. It smells like cinnamon and pine trees inside. Just like it used to when we were kids and would race down the stairs to see if Santa left presents for us.
Spoiler, he always did.
Mom and Dad don’t greet us as we close the door behind us and toe our shoes off. It almost sounds like no one is home. Our purses get propped on the hook near the door, along with our coats, and we find the living room. A fake Christmas tree reaches for the ceiling, the star on top only inches from touching it. Lights wind around it and ornaments hang from nearly every branch. It’s full and beautiful and brimming with gift boxes underneath with carefully crafted wrapping paper. It should spark the holiday spirit for me but doesn’t. I’m still thinking about that text and how I haven’t received one back.
“Mom! Dad! We’re here!” Olive makes a beeline for the kitchen, and I follow close behind. It’s there we find Mom behind the stove, working to whip up our Christmas dinner. It reminds me too much of Thanksgiving. The way she prepared that entire meal for it to fall flat.
“Girls!” Mom’s voice is light and airy and full of happiness. The opposite of how she sounded during our last conversation. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sets down the oven mitts that are in her hands. She rushes toward the both of us. “I am so glad to see you two.” Both of her arms grab hold of us, and we get crushed to her chest, giggles coming out of Olive and me.
It’s almost like we’re little girls again, and I sigh into her neck. She smells like home. Like summer afternoons with homemade lemonade. Like brownie batter on winter days when we’d bake over playing outside in the cold. More than either of those two, she’s pure comfort and tenderness. Like her hug is powerful enough and so full of love that it might weld the brokenpieces of my heart back together. Even the pieces she and Dad broke last month.
As soon as the hug ends, guilt rips at me. Guilt over not staying on Thanksgiving. Over not listening. Over being too caught up in my own selfish emotions to hear where she was truly coming from when it came to Dad. Over not talking to her or Dad since.
What kind of daughter am I?
She looks at us when she pulls away, no signs of disappointment present like I worried about on the drive over. “You two are so beautiful it makes my eyes hurt.” She doesn’t look at me any differently after I walked out on her Thanksgiving night. She acts as if there’s not a rift between us, and while that might normally bother me, I’m beyond grateful for it today.
“Mom,” Olive whines, but she’s smiling.
“What? It’s true. Go look in the mirror; your eyes might hurt, too!” We chuckle at her ridiculousness before she motions us toward the island. “I was just about to take my cookie dough out of the freezer. How about you two roll it out for me? Just like old times.”
We spend the next two hours making cookies.
Olive and I sit side by side. Mom puts on a holiday playlist, and we sing along while rolling chocolate chip cookie dough into small balls. We line three baking sheets with them, and eventually Dad walks in. His gruff voice is laden with sleep. Mom lifts her head in greeting and gives him the brightest smile I’ve seen in a long time. Or maybe she’s always looked at him like this, and I was too caught up in his recent affair for months to see it.
I don’t know how I feel about it anymore. All I know is I’m happy I’m not hanging onto the secret of it. That it isn’t weighing me down. Still, it feels slightly uncomfortable to be inthe same space as him, which only makes me think back on the conversation I had with Mom.
