“What’s going on?” I stage whisper. “Where is everybody?”
“My husband and our father and brother are out doing ‘last-minute shopping,’” she says, busting out the air quotes.
I settle onto the couch next to her. “So they’re at the indoor driving range. What about your adorable children?”
“Your adorable boyfriend took them sledding, and I’m enjoying the quiet for a second while Mom’s wrapping gifts.” She slumps against the couch, closing her eyes with a smile. “You know, he tried to make it seem like he doesn’t like kids, but he’s actually pretty great with them. I guess we’ll see if he survives the afternoon.”
“I can’t believe you sent Ginny and the triplets off with a stranger.”
Celeste cracks an eye open. “No, I sent them off with your boyfriend.”
Right. My boyfriend. My totally trustworthy, totally real boyfriend.
“Gotta say, I’m impressed,” she says. “I never pegged you for the himbo type.”
That stops me short. “Would we say Gabe’s a himbo?”
She shrugs. “He’s pretty. He’s enthusiastic. He’s uncomplicated. Perfect fling material.”
“He’s not a fling,” I say flatly.
She just waves a hand. “He made it clear this morning that you’re keeping things casual. Good for you for scratching an itch.”
“He saidwhat?” For all Celeste knows, I’ve been planning a future with Gabe, but here she is casually dropping bombshells. Typical sibling insensitivity. “Our relationship might be new, but it’s not a fling.”
“Sure.” She’s got the smug certainty that only an older sister can pull off. “The hot younger guy you’re dating, the one who works with his hands instead of his brain, he’s absolutely your type. You’re probably going to be together forever. Let me know when to start shopping for flower girl dresses.”
“We’re not…” I break off with a huff. Sarcasm aside, she’s not wrong; I’ll probably never see Gabe again after this week, and my family definitely won’t. But my stomach clenches at the thought of him telling everyone we’re not serious when I’m already wondering how I’m going to let him go once this is all over. And it’s not just because he had his tongue everywhere that mattered last night, although that doesn’t hurt.
I settle on mumbling, “He uses his brain.” Which is true, and screw Celeste for not seeing that.
“Well,” she says, “whatever you’ve got going on, he’s definitely hot. Good for you.”
Right. May as well lean into this whole mess with some younger sibling bravado.
“Verygood for me. Youwishyou had some of that hot himbo action.” My heart’s not really in my exaggerated eyebrow waggle, but it makes her laugh, which makes me laugh, and by the time Mom queues up her holiday playlist and summons us to help wrap her mountain of gifts for the grandkids, it almost feels like a normal Christmas Eve.
We’re arranging the newly wrapped presents around the tree as Harry Connick Jr. serenades us about his heart finding Christmas when our chill adult afternoon is interrupted by a commotion at the back door.
“Tristan, Kayleigh, and Madison, take your boots off first! Ginny, where’d you leave your hat and mittens?”
Moments later a horde of stomping feet and red noses come thundering into the living room to greet me with a shouted chorus of, “Aunt Darby!”
“What did you get us for Christmas?” Tristan asks, flinging himself onto the shimmering pile of gifts, while his slightly more refined sister Madison climbs onto my lap to whisper, “Uncle Gabe took us sledding.”
I cuddle her close, absorbing the winter chill clinging to her skin. Did my heart jolt at hearing her use that title for Gabe? Yes, a little. But it doesn’t feel safe to examine that further at the moment. “Did you have fun?”
“It was themostfun!” Kayleigh shouts, joining her sister on my lap to describe their snowy adventures. As they talk Gabe comes into the room. His nose is as red as the kids’, and he looks so solid and alive and happy that I want to plunk my nieces on the floor and run into his arms. When he spots me, he smiles a little shyly. Before I can untangle myself, my oldest niece Ginny catapults herself onto my lap on top of her sisters, causing them to wail as if they’re being crushed to death. Nobody spares a thought for Aunt Darby, struggling to breathe under this pile of children.
“That’s enough of that!” Celeste stands and claps her hands. “Rademacher children, with me. It’s time for Christmas movies and hot chocolate.”
Her small army whoops and storms out of the room, leaving me, Gabe, and my mother, who seems perfectly content to ignore the weirdness crackling between me and the alleged himbo.
“Gabe, there’s one more box of ornaments in the basement. Could you please run down and get them, then help Darby fill out the bald spots on the tree? It’s sitting by the foot of the stairs.”
He and I both look at the tree, which is already groaning with orbs and stars and bears and angels, but it’s not worth arguing the point. If Mom wants something decorated more than it already is, then by God, it’s getting decorated.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, jogging out of the room to return moments later with a large red tote marked “childhood ornaments.”
