In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,33
How many things like this do we do without thinking, just because it’s the way we’ve always done it? The same food at every meal; the same games every night, with the same teams. The same songs. I’m the worst of all of us—I’m never willing to give up a single thing.
Being hit with the realization is like having a light turned on in my brain.
Holiday music plays overhead and Andrew bops contentedly along beside me. With these new eyes, I wonder if he’s been suffocating under the predictability of the holidays—if we all have.
“Do you hate the traditions?” I ask. “Snow creatures and sledding and all the games?”
He gives his answer a second of quiet consideration. “I love the sledding and don’t hate the rest. But, yeah, sometimes I want to mix it up a little. We’ve been doing the same thing for our entire lives.” He points as we approach a beautifully symmetrical Douglas fir. “How about that one?”
I scrunch my nose, shaking my head.
“I know Mom and Dad love hosting here,” he says, moving on, “but don’t you ever just want to get on a plane and do something totally wild? Go to Greece or spend New Year’s in London?” Before I can answer, he points to another tree. “That one?”
“No . . .”
“No to the tree, or to doing something totally wild?”
I smile over at him. “Both? And New Year’s in London. Hmm. Would we all be together in this imaginary scenario?”
His eyes sparkle, and sensation zips up my spine. I swear he’s never looked at me like this, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Of course.”
“Okay, then yes, that sounds amazing. Even though the cabin is my favorite place on earth, I’m starting to think that it wouldn’t be so terrible to mix things up. Maybe we should do things because we love them, not because we’ve always done them that way.” I pause, carefully wording the next question in my mind. “Andrew?”
He turns his face up to the sky, admiring a towering tree. Tiny snowflakes have started to drift down, spinning from the clouds. “Mm?”
“The cabin needs a lot of work, doesn’t it?”
His smile fades and he looks back at me. “A fair bit, yeah.”
“Like what?”
“Gotta refinish the floors,” he says. “Paint the interior and exterior. Most of the appliances are as old as I am. New roof.”
“How much is a new roof?” A ball of dread worms its way through my gut.
“The conservative estimate was twelve thousand dollars,” he says. So they’ve looked into it. “If we go with cedar shingles like the original, we’re looking at double that. Not to mention there’s probably some decking up there that will need to be replaced once we start tearing everything off.”
Holy crap.
I just come right out and ask it. “Your parents want to sell, don’t they?”
Andrew doesn’t even seem surprised by this. “I think so.”
“Do you and Theo want to sell it?”
He carefully maneuvers past two kids playing tag around a tree. “I don’t, but I’m in Denver. I don’t really feel like I can urge them to keep it when I’m not here to help out. Theo just bought that land down in Ogden. He’ll be building soon and won’t be around as much. Mom and Dad aren’t as flexible and energetic as they used to be. It’s a lot for them to take on by themselves.”
“But why should they when we’re all here?”
Andrew stops in the path and looks down at me. “You’re in California, and Kyle and Aaron are in New York.”
“I mean, we could come out and help throughout the year.”
His hair pushes out rebelliously from under his knit cap, and when his gaze fixes on me, I’m dizzy with infatuation. “Dad is proud,” he says, glancing briefly over my shoulder, I presume, to make sure that his dad is, in fact, not approaching. “He doesn’t like asking for help, and he’s terrible about accepting help offered. Especially from us kids.”
I know this is true; I can even remember times when I was younger and Ricky would insist that Mom didn’t have to cook when she was at the cabin, like he could ever stop her. But I don’t just mean help from other parents. There’s a beast in me that’s pushing against my skin from the inside, clawing its way out. I don’t want to be a child anymore.
“We aren’t kids, though.”
His gaze sinks lower, and I don’t miss the way it pauses at my mouth. “We