In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,37
Thanks.”
“Wanna hang later?”
I take a sip. “Hang where?”
“Downstairs? Miles and I were talking about playing some games after dinner.”
That sounds decidedly more wholesome than I was expecting. “Board or video?”
I can tell he’s getting annoyed. “Whichever gets you to play. I’ve barely seen you since you got here.”
Are we really only grounded in such childhood habits? In order to spend time together, do we have to find a game to play? It feels so obvious.
Before I can answer, Aaron speaks up from where he’s now squeezing in between Lisa and Mom hanging ornaments. “Interesting choice here.” He’s definitely been working out because he winces as he tries to hang an ornament and finally just . . . weakly tosses it in the direction of his target, hoping it hooks on the landing. “Were they all out of normal trees?”
“It’s the one Mae wanted,” Andrew says from out of sight on the other side of the pine. “I like it.”
My chest fills with warm, glowing embers.
Mom comes up behind me, putting her arms around my waist and her chin on my shoulder. “I agree with Andrew.”
She hums happily, and at the sound of her voice, my stomach drops to my feet with a daughter’s instinctive uneasiness: somehow, in the past hour, I managed to keep from pondering how I’ll tell my mother that I quit my job, that I did it impulsively, and that I have no idea what I’m doing next.
It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. None of this is going to stick.
She kisses me, saying, “Love you, Noodle,” against my cheek.
I’ll tell her later. If and when I have to.
Despite the jokes about this wacky, knobby tree, I can tell from their expressions that everyone sort of digs it. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation plays on the TV in the background, and while we watch Clark Griswold attempt to bring his mammoth tree inside, we do our best to fill this tiny one with lights, and ornaments, and the popcorn garland the twins and Mom spent the evening making. By the time we’re done decorating, the room is bursting with joy. It’s nearly impossible to see any bit of actual tree underneath all the everything, but it is, oddly, perfect.
However, it takes almost a half hour to get a reasonably acceptable group photo in front of it. With this many people, of course it’s expected there will be a few closed eyes, or a handful of awkward expressions. If only we were that lucky. Lisa sets up a tripod but can’t get the timer right. In two photos Zachary is picking his nose, in one he’s trying to feed the treasure to Miso. We catch Miles midsneeze; Mom can’t get her Rudolph earrings to flash in sync with the camera. Theo is looking at his phone in one, and checking to see if his zipper is down in the next. (It was.) For the next, Miso jumps in front of the camera. Then Miso jumps on Kennedy and it takes a little while to calm her down. Ricky’s kissing Lisa in one and can’t manage a casual smile in the others. The more we point it out, the worse it gets.
I remind myself that change is also not crying out “But—tradition!” when Theo impatiently steps in for Lisa and resets the tripod with his phone.
Good news: now we’re all in frame. Bad news: Kyle’s highlighter is so on point and in focus that he looks like a disco ball.
“Fuck it,” he says just as the oven timer goes off for dinner. “Good enough.”
• • •
After we’ve stuffed ourselves, we scatter around the living room, falling into a comfortable quiet.
The living room is a majestic place—I mean, it is massive—with vaulted log ceilings and old wood floors covered in wide woven rugs. Along one long wall, the fire crackles and snaps, heating the room to just below too warm. It’s wood from town and nothing smells like it. I want to find a candle of this, incense, room spray. I want every living room in every house I live in for the rest of time to smell like the Hollis cabin does on December evenings.
The hearth is expansive; when we were about seven, and our chore was sweeping out the fireplace at the end of the holiday, Theo and I could almost stand up inside it. The flames actually roar to life. Even once they mellow into a rumbling, crackling simmer, the blaze still feels like a living, breathing creature in