In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,6
he’s surprised at the degree of my alarm, and he puts a reassuring hand on my arm, misinterpreting my meltdown: “I won’t tell anyone else.”
Mortification and guilt surge in my throat. “I—I can’t believe he told you.”
“He didn’t,” Andrew says. “I came back to the house last night because I left my phone in the kitchen, and saw you two.”
Andrew saw us? Please, let me die here.
“Come on, don’t make such a big deal about a little kissing. You’re talking to the guy whose mom moves the mistletoe around the house every day. Half this group has kissed each other at some point.” He gives me a noogie and, if possible, my mortification deepens. “Dad sent me out here to call you in for breakfast.” He playfully jabs my shoulder, like a pal. “I just wanted to give you some shit.”
With a little wink, Andrew turns and heads back into the house, and I am left trying to find my sanity.
• • •
Inside, holiday music still tinkles silvery through the air. The living room is now home to the remnants of Christmas: a stack of broken-down boxes, trash bags stuffed with wrapping paper, and storage bins full of folded ribbons to reuse next year. Suitcases have been lined up near the front door. While I was freaking out on the porch, the kitchen filled, and I’ve apparently just missed the hilarity of Dad and Aaron getting caught on the landing together under Lisa’s location-hopping mistletoe.
Breakfast is already in full swing: Mom has added the last bit of ham to eggs and potatoes and whatever else was still in the fridge for a casserole. Lisa pulls some Danish sigtebrød out of the pantry, and Ricky piles plates with pancakes and bacon. We’re a sluggish bunch, full of the months’ worth of calories we each ingested in the past two days, but I know, too, that we’re shuffling around morosely because it’s our last morning together. I’m not the only person in this room dreading returning to the humdrum of a nine-to-five life.
In a few hours Mom, Dad, Miles, and I will load up and drive to the airport. We’ll fly back to Oakland together, and then separate at arrivals. Mom’s new husband, Victor, will be back from his annual trip with his two grown daughters and will have flowers and kisses for Mom. Dad will drive alone back to his condo near UCSF. We probably won’t see him for weeks.
And on Monday, I’ll return to a job I don’t have the guts to quit. The life I want to enjoy. I just don’t. In a twist of stellar timing, my phone chimes brightly with a reminder to email a profit-and-loss spreadsheet to my boss by tomorrow morning. I haven’t even opened my laptop since we arrived. Guess I know what I’ll be doing on the drive to the airport. Every cell in my body feels droopy when I think about it.
We all find our seats around steaming platters of food.
Phones are supposed to be off-limits during meals, but Miles and his enormous brown eyes always manage to get away with murder, and nobody wants the hassle of arguing with Theo, who is now nose-deep in Instagram, liking photo after photo of models, muscle cars, and golden retrievers. He still won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not even here.
I can feel Benny watching me with that gentle, perceptive way of his, and I meet his eyes briefly. I hope he reads the skywriting there: ANDREW SAW ME AND THEO MAKING OUT AND I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO DISSOLVE THROUGH THE FLOORBOARDS NOW.
Kyle hums while he pours a mug of coffee. He must have a Hangover Jesus somewhere, suffering for his sins, because even after the cocktailpalooza last night, Kyle still looks like he could glide onto any Broadway stage and dance his way into next week. By contrast, his husband, Aaron, didn’t drink a drop but looks haggard anyway: He’s been going through a bit of a midlife crisis.
Apparently it started when one of their friends commented that Aaron’s hair was mostly gray but looks good for a guy his age. Kyle swears it was said with the best of intentions, but Aaron didn’t care; his hair is now dyed so black it looks like a hole in whatever room he’s in. He’s spent most of this trip working out like a madman and frowning into mirrors. Aaron’s not suffering from a hangover;