In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,34
haven’t been kids for a long time.”
The effect of his rumbling words is not unlike taking a muscle relaxant. “And your parents like hosting, I know. They love being parents, love taking care of all of us. But it’s time we all stepped up.”
He turns to start walking again. “You say that as if your parents don’t like being parents.”
Instinctively, and even though it’s Andrew asking, I tread carefully here. “You know Mom is amazing, and fiercely protective. But their relationship has always been so messy, it’s hard to push to the front sometimes.”
“We’ve never talked about the fact that your parents are divorced and still come here every year.”
“Mom’s husband, Victor—”
“The husband who does not spend Christmas with his wife?” Andrew says, grinning slyly at me.
“That’s the one. He has two daughters, and they have families of their own. They’re both on the East Coast, so even though he lives for my mother, he’s happy to get time with his girls over the holidays without the complication of stepfamilies. I know this sounds silly, because I’m supposed to be an adult and shouldn’t need my mommy and daddy to be together at Christmas, but this is the one week of the year that we act like a family again.”
“I don’t think that’s silly,” he says. “I used to feel so bad for you.”
I’m a little startled by the track change. “For me?” He nods. “Why?”
Andrew looks at me like this should be obvious.
“No, seriously,” I say. “Why?”
“Because for a few years I saw how much you struggled with your parents being together at the cabin, but it was obvious they weren’t together. You were all here physically, but there were times you looked so . . . sad,” he says. “And then the year they announced their divorce, it was like you could breathe again.”
I stare at him, stunned. He saw all that in me?
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m speaking out my ass, I don’t—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t apologize. I’m just surprised, I guess. That you saw that.”
“I’ve known you your whole life, Mae. How could I not?” He grins at me again. “And here you are this year, impulsive and taking up space and flipping all expectations. You’re all take-charge and bossy.”
“I’m just seeing things with fresh eyes, I guess. It’s time to grow up.”
Andrew bats at some fluffy snow on a branch. “Coming into this holiday like a wrecking ball.”
A rebellious streak races through me. “It’s more like, I see my life stretching out ahead of me and figure, why not go for what I want?”
“Jam and applesauce on your blintzes,” he jokes. “Cocktails on the porch. Snowball fights.”
The word rockets from me: “You.”
His smile freezes, and then slowly slips away. “Me?” An awkward laugh escapes. “Well, you’ve got me.” He grins and spreads his arms wide, gesturing around us to the trees and snow, the twinkling lights overhead.
“It’s more than wanting your company at the tree farm, and I think you know it.” My heart is racing. “But we can pretend that’s what I meant, so it doesn’t get weird.”
Andrew stares at me, and I’m both proud and horrified to realize I’ve made him speechless. “You mean . . . like . . . ?” His brows rise meaningfully.
Adrenaline spikes my blood. “Yeah. Like that.”
“I sort of assumed you and Theo—”
“No.”
“But he—”
“He may have, but I haven’t.” Guilt flashes coolly through me, and I clarify, “I’ve never felt that way about him, I mean.”
“Oh.” Even in the low light, I can tell he’s blushing hotly. Have I ruined what was burbling between us? Maybe. But all of this is instructive, I realize. At least the next time I reboot, I’ll know what not to say.
“Come on.” I tug on his sleeve. “Let’s find a tree.”
We move forward, but the silence hangs heavily. The crunch of snow between our boots, the audible gulp of Andrew swallowing a sip of cider. I scrape around in my brain for a way to change the subject, but I can’t find anything.
Finally he manages, “Do you, um, have any goals for the New Year?”
God, this is painful. And all of the answers that immediately pop to mind are things I can’t say—I’d like to figure out why I keep time traveling—or most likely impossible: I’d like to kiss you on the mouth. I’d like to quit my job . . .
I stop in the path. “Yeah. I do, actually.”
On an impulse that feels like a damn revelation, I pull