Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

JAYCEE WEAVER

Alessia

I’ve taken a lot of flak for rolling my eyes the past twenty-seven years—assuming I didn’t learn how to convey irritation until age two. At this point, the action has become an unconscious and integral part of my personality.

Before you ask, of course I’m aware how rude and disrespectful it is. Yes, my mother raised me better.

Well, she tried. For a while.

I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but some people are just so dang stupid. Or annoying.

Or, as in the case of Danger Stevens, both.

Come on. Danger Stevens? His name alone triggers an eyeroll. Did no one think to tell his parents what a ridiculous name they were bestowing on their precious lastborn child? Perhaps they intended to upgrade it from a cheesy line (a la Danger is my middle name—accompanied by a smirk, wink, and inevitable finger guns) knowing it would be a hit with the ladies.

Because if there’s one thing I know about the man, he is definitely a hit with the ladies. All the guy has to do is enter a room with his thick blond hair and gleaming smile, and bam! Anyone with two X chromosomes (and probably a few with a Y in there) perks to attention. Regardless of age.

I’ve watched it happen since middle school, through high school, then college, and presently at my place of work.

Take right now, for example. I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to know what I’ll see. Some female with pinked cheeks, tittering at the barest attention from one scruffy-faced Danger Stevens. Though, here at Valle Encantado Active Life Community, the woman’s most likely over sixty.

Since I’m currently perched near the top of a five-foot A-frame ladder and facing the wall, I don’t bother to hide my lip curl or eyeroll. Not that I usually do where Danger’s concerned. He’s well aware of my loathing for him. He likes to say it’s cute.

Gross. As if any woman wants to be called cute past the age of ten. It’s demeaning.

Gently tugging another pumpkin vine from the corner near the ceiling, I carefully wind the crepe paper greenery and place it onto my growing pile. I spent most of the morning removing hand-painted paper squashes and cornucopias from the facility’s walls now that, as of yesterday, Thanksgiving is over. Three more feet and I’ll be done.

Oops. I accidentally made eye contact. Gah! He has the nerve to wink. The man more than deserves a meme-worthy eyeroll for such audacity, so I happily comply before adding a saccharine smile and returning to my work.

As I reposition the ladder and begin the climb for the ninety-eighth time today, ignoring the disturbing age-gap flirtation happening behind me, I consider how I’ll arrange the enormous ornaments, trees, and snowflakes I spent countless hours crafting last year. I’m anxious to see how they held up in the storage room I’ve only recently been given permission to reorganize.

I’ve itched to overhaul the mess for six years, but Danae preferred to organize her own way. As in, not at all. The woman was a fabulous activities director—able to juggle three months of mobility-encouraging social events and activities without dropping a single ball—but give her a purse, desk, or closet, and, well, good luck.

Me? I don’t need luck. Organization comes as easily to me as a handspring to an Olympic gymnast. I’m that talented, too, which is why the board offered me the job when Danae declared her intent to retire and move to the humid sweat pit of San Antonio.

Why anyone would retire there is beyond me, though I guess it’s not so different from Albuquerque, aside from the rampant humidity and population. Seriously, though, ew. I don’t do humidity or crowds, but Danae seems fine with both. I’ll keep New Mexico, thank you very much. Unless by some miracle there’s a job in a small, non-humid beach town somewhere within driving distance of a mountain range with easy access to a Target and Hobby Lobby. Ha! Since that’s never happening, I’ll reside in Albuquerque until they lower my (hopefully) decrepit old corpse into the ground.

Ahem.

Apologies for the morbid moment. Today’s been… a lot.

It started with a voicemail from my father followed by a guilt-inducing text of ambiguous tone from my mother. To avoid their drama, I told them both I’d be working over Thanksgiving and the weekend, so my money’s on them each vying for dibs on Christmas.

And by “vying for dibs,” I mean my dad offering to “let” Mom have this Christmas with me as the sacrificial good guy, and Mom suggesting I spend it with Dad because he doesn’t get to see me often enough now he’s moved to Nashville. Whatever. I’m smart enough to hear what they’re not saying—they’d both rather focus on their new families than the reminder of their old one.

It's fine. I’m used to life on my own. I’ll deal with them later. Besides, I’m at work, and my attention needs to remain focused on the task at hand and not whatever my dysfunctional train wreck of a family has on their agenda.

Right, so, work. Sigh.

The weight of my new position as Activity Director presses down on my shoulders as I remove yet another delicate vine from the wall using my handy dandy stick staple remover. I rotate my shoulders and stretch my neck. I’d love to close my eyes and do a bit of deep breathing, but the top of a ladder isn’t exactly the wisest place for meditation.

One section left, I tell myself as I descend once more to add the bits of greenery to the growing pile.

“Need help, Alley Cat?”

I swallow a groan.

“Hello?” He snaps his fingers inches from my face. “Alley Cat?”

My hand shoots up and swats away the insulting digits while I throw him my very best glare.

“It’s Alessia,” I hiss, turning away and grasping onto the ladder for one last ascent. “And I’m fine.”

“I like Alley Cat.”

“I prefer Alessia.”

“Nicknames not your thing?”

I throw him a frown over one shoulder. “I am not a feral feline.”

“Walks like a duck, talks like a duck…” he trails off.

Without bothering to look, I know he’s giving an unaffected shrug and smirk—signature moves. Plus, we’ve been performing some iteration of this since the sixth grade.

The realization drops on my head like the condensation beads clinging from the yellowed stain in the ceiling above me. I barely resist the urge to place a hand on my head to check for moisture.

Sixth. Grade.

I’ve been doing the same dance with Danger Stevens for going on eighteen years. Either he’s next-level stupid, or he’s the most persistent man to walk the earth.

“Or maybe I enjoy a bit of predictability in an otherwise unpredictable world.”

The hand curled around the staple remover freezes mid-scrape. He heard that?

“You have a terrible habit of muttering to yourself, Alley Cat.”

“Sometimes a girl needs intelligent conversation.”

The final staple pops free, but I’m not fast enough, so the paper vine slides down the wall. He catches the strand between two fingers effortlessly, then proceeds to wind it into a perfect circle with surprising gentleness while maintaining thorough, smirking eye contact.

Why does God have to stack the deck for some people, hmm? Charm, confidence, and good looks—totally unfair for the rest of us.

“Thank you,” I grit out, finally breaking his amused grayish-blue gaze.

“Difficult for you, wasn’t it?” There’s a smile in his voice that drives me batty.

“Everything is more difficult when you’re around.”

He emits a low humming noise in the back of his throat that sends a shiver from my neck down to my goosebump covered arms. Nuh-uh. It’s only the breeze from the heater vent nearby. Danger Stevens is a flirt, just like Dad, which means I’m the last woman on earth he’d ever appeal to.

Plus, I’ve got way too much to accomplish here with only me to do the work. It’s how I prefer to work.

“Don’t you have someone else to pester? I’m busy.”

He’s undeterred, thanks to my mouth’s inability to use a tone as harsh as my words.

“Everybody needs help now and then, Als. There’s no shame in asking or accepting when you do.”

I throw him an unimpressed look and resume my work. He releases a soft scoffing sound but goes on his merry way. Against my better judgment, I glance over my shoulder to watch his retreat.

His stride is missing its usual swagger, and for a moment I feel bad for treating him the way I do. Until he glances back and catches me staring, and his self-satisfied smirk is enough to absolve me from any guilty feelings. Somebody needs to keep that head of his from growing bigger than his body can support.

Danger Stevens doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t need anyone’s help, certainly not his. I’ve essentially been on my own my whole life, and I’m totally fine.

Dan

That woman, she kills me. So much attitude, so much animosity. For me. Only for me.

Not gonna lie, I kind of love it.

Before you get your shorts in a knot thinking I’m some kind of masochist, misogynist, or worse, let me clarify. I’m no fan of pain—mine or anyone else’s. Also, not a tool who gets his kicks driving feisty women crazy. Nor am I, despite what Alessia Catano says, a skeevy Casanova who expects women to fall at his feet and those who don’t are merely a challenge.

Womankind is a beautiful mystery, but as the only male raised in a household overflowing with females—my grandmother, mother, aunt, cousin, and three know-it-all sisters—I’ve seen behind the curtain. I have better insight to the frightening inner workings of the feminine mind than most men could handle. That’s how I know Alley Cat only thinks she loathes me. If she bothered to get to know the actual me instead of making assumptions, her tune would change. Except she’s not about to let that happen anytime soon, so I’ll allow her to continue using me as a human scratching post.

For now.

A final glance over my shoulder sends me off with the satisfying view of Alessia’s adorable scowl. She shakes her head, muttering to herself as she straightens her stack of paper vines and squashes. Not bothering to smother my grin, I head down the hall toward Silas’s apartment.

He answers my knock with an incomprehensible grumble.

“You decent?” After last week, I have one hand over my eyes with my gaze firmly trained on the floor just in case. He’s pretty fit for an old guy, but I didn’t need to find that out firsthand.

“Don’t be a baby. I had my shorts on.”

“Baby? Pardon me if I don’t consider three-sizes-too-big tighty-whities ‘decent.’ Or shorts, for that matter.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ you ain’t got, kid.” Silas slaps my hand from my brow, shaking his head as he shuffles toward the living room. “For Pete’s sake, you’re blushing harder than a virgin on her wedding night.”

Silas gestures toward the couch and plops onto the leather recliner he should’ve replaced a decade ago. He won’t, though, because the mechanism still works. And while the seat’s ripped to shreds, he finally got the cushion the way he wants it—worn to the shape of his butt. I’ll take his word for it. The accidental peepshow last week burned a hole in my retinas that may never heal.

“Speaking of wedding nights…”

My head whips his way, terrified for the direction this conversation is headed, but Silas keeps talking without any mercy for the horrific images he’s spawned in my brain.

“I’m gonna ask Peggy to tie the knot.”

Whew. “Oh yeah? Somebody’s a fast worker.”

“At my age, son, you don’t let the grass grow under your feet.”

“Better under than over,” I say with a shrug.

His raspy cackle brings a smile to my face. Silas has always had a warped sense of humor, and he was only too happy to help develop mine as well.

I was six or seven when we moved into my grandma’s house. While my sisters helped Mom unload the truck, I stood at the end of the driveway munching an apple and staring at the old man across the street watering his bushes as though I’d never seen anyone use a garden hose before. The man nodded toward my Red Delicious, and I’ll never forget his deadpan remark.

“They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I say an apple a day will keep anyone away if you throw it hard enough.”

Took me a minute, but I got the joke, and he instantly became my favorite person. Grams warned me not to be a nuisance, but Silas eventually told her to mind her business—which was his way of saying he enjoyed having me for a shadow—and so began our friendship. He’s a gruff old cuss, but he’s the closest I’ve ever had to a granddad or father figure.

“What’s your plan?” I ask, accepting the proffered Dr Pepper he retrieved from the mini fridge beside his chair.

“Kinda thought I’d just ask.” Silas slurps his Diet Coke, grimacing at the can. “Ugh, I miss sugar. This stuff’s nasty.”

He’s not wrong about the coke. But the proposal? No, sir.

“This is Peggy you’re proposing to. The one who got away. The woman you loved, lost, and kicked yourself over for sixty years. Such a love deserves something special. You don’t pop the question over a bowl of soup while watching the evening news.”

“Soup and evening news, huh? What kind of schmuck do you take me for? We’d be having chicken and potatoes.”

“Har har. Smart aleck.”

“If you’re such an expert, how would you do it?”

Expert, right. The closest I’ve come to proposing was my epic promposal fail senior year.

Early on, I wondered briefly whether my relationship with Santana had such potential, but God spared me before we got too serious.

“Dunno,” I say after a while. “Make it personal. Meaningful.”

Silas grunts but mulls it over. We spend the next hour kicking around ideas, and by the time I leave, he has a fairly decent plan in place.

“Thanks for the help, kid,” he says with a clap on my shoulder. That’s as good as a hug for him.

“Anytime, old man.”

Alessia’s nowhere in sight, but her ladder stands at the farthest end of the long hallway. The walls are bare now that she’s removed the happy fall decorations, but if I know her, she’ll have everything festive once more before nightfall. I’ve never met a more focused soul. Or one more independent.

A dozen memories of class projects and school activities come to memory as I stride toward the front desk and wave to Pam on my way out.

“See you next week, Dan,” she calls with a merry singsong as the doors slide open.

Flashing her my best smile, I turn and walk outside backwards. “I’ll be counting the days.”

Pam’s cheeks blossom at my wink. She’s sweet. Reminds me of my aunt Mindy.

My beat up old 4Runner is unseasonably warm as I climb inside, a welcome reprieve from the chilly late autumn air. I’ve been spoiled by the warmer Texas temps these past few years, and it’s going to take a while to get used to cooler weather again.

The weather isn’t the only readjustment I’m facing, either.

Moving home to Albuquerque hasn’t been the easiest transition. While growing up in the shallow end of an Olympic-sized estrogen pool fostered a deep appreciation and respect for all things female, sometimes a dude needs to be around other dudes. So, when I got recruited to teach at an all-boys high school in Dallas right out of college, I jumped at the chance.

And it was awesome. Until it wasn’t.

Now I’m back, living across the street from my childhood home, spending way too much time with my family, and teaching English to a bunch of entitled charter school kids. Thanks to early dismissal Fridays, these weekly lunches with Silas have become the highlight of my week, and not because they give me an excuse to run into Alley Cat. She’s a bonus.

Tory’s waiting on my front porch when I get home. We’re what Grams calls Irish twins, Tory the elder by eleven whole months. I’m not surprised to see her, but I do wish my family would call before coming over. Oh well. I knew what I was in for when I bought Silas’s house.

“Hey,” she says before I’m fully out of the car. “How’s Silas?”

“Same old.”

Tory chuckles, restoring my smile. “I bet. Did he grill you about the yard?”

It’s my turn to chuckle. “Not this time.”

Silas is a man of few words, except when it comes to lawncare, Clint Eastwood, and the Old West. And lately, Peggy James. On a visit home this past Mother’s Day, I saw the For Sale sign go up outside his house and feared the worst. I mean, the guy’s pushing eighty. Thankfully, he came outside before I panicked and explained his decision to sell and move to Valle Encantado. Since I already knew my teaching contract wasn’t being renewed, I didn’t bat an eyelash about putting in an offer. Now I’m the proud owner of the house I spent most of my spare time in as a kid. A very dated, very western house with an enormous lawn.

“Did you show him your plans for the remodel?”

I flash Tory an incredulous look. “Of course not.”

Silas has a hard time remembering it’s no longer his house.

She laughs and follows me inside. I drop my laptop bag on one of the honey oak dining chairs I inherited with the house and dig through the fridge for a couple sodas. Tory accepts her preferred Sprite while I pop the top on another Dr Pepper. The sweet fizz burns so good.

“Ew!” Tory grimaces. “Do you always have to smack and sigh?”

“Nope,” I give the p an extra pop. “Only on the first sip.”

“Ugh. Boys are gross.”

“Good thing I’m a man then, huh?”

“Are you, though?”

Sisters.

“So,” she pauses in the melodic way that says she wants me to spill tea as if I’m one of her girlfriends. Since there’s no stopping her when she wants something, I throw her a bone.

“Silas is proposing to Peggy.”

She squeals, and I shove a finger in my ear to stop the ringing.

“For the love, Tor.”

“Whatever. Tell me everything.”

It’s pointless to resist, so I do. By the end, she’s grinning. “Guess this means you’ll be seeing more of Alesssssia, then.”

I swallow a groan at her taunt. Tory’s had a front row seat to my and Alley Cat’s complicated history. Leave it to her to sniff out my feelings. Still, I’m not about to confirm or deny when we both know Alessia will never give me a chance.

So, I play innocent. “How so?”

“Didn’t you hear? Danae retired. If they’re getting married at Valle Encantado, she’ll be the one in charge of planning.”

Boom. I figured out how to get Alessia to finally see me.

Alessia

“He had the nerve to ask me if I was coming for Christmas. I was like, uh, no.” My sister, Paige, scoffs through my earpiece. “Can you believe him?”

“Dad’s never been the brightest candle in the box,” I say while wrestling a ten-foot artificial blue spruce out of storage.

She laughs. “Truth. Seriously, though. He hasn’t asked me to spend Christmas with him since the year my mosquito bites sprouted into real boobs. As if I’m going to trade Christmas with my mom for him? He’s got his new wife and half a dozen other kids he can ask. Why me?”

My laugh quickly turns into a groan as I lurch forward, tripping over my own foot because the tree I’m fighting with got stuck in the doorway. I should probably get off the phone and tackle this problem, but whenever my sister calls, I answer.

Technically, we’re half-sisters, but of the four—five? six?—siblings on our father’s side, we’re the closest. The rest are likewise being raised by their mothers in whichever cities our father had gigs over the last three decades. I’m not sure even he knows how many offspring he’s spawned. Frankly, I don’t care.

Hands on hips, I take a second to study the mass of fake greenery to figure out where it’s hung up. Maybe with one. More. Solid. Shove—

“Are you okay?” Paige pauses her rant to ask.

My own rant is on the tip of my tongue. Why is the tree not inside a box with wheels?

Because Danae.

“Yup.” Another grunt as I readjust and lean into it with my shoulder.

When I couldn’t get out of spending the week after New Year’s in Nashville for my dad’s third wedding earlier this year, Danae did the undecorating by herself. I caught a glimpse of her handiwork in the storage room afterward and developed an eye twitch that lasted through Valentine’s Day and has made a reappearance every holiday since.

Including this one.

No more, though. If I have to finance a plethora of storage bins out of my own paycheck, this space is going to be a glorious, stress-free thing of beauty by January first.

“I’m”—shove, groan—“fine.”

“Oh my gosh, are you in the bathroom? Gross, Les! Have the courtesy to put me on mute.”

“No, Paige,” I sigh, giving up temporarily to catch my breath. “I’m at work, attempting to push an oversized Christmas tree through a door that is clearly not wheelchair width. I thought everything in this building was supposed to be universal design. I will not be defeated!” A primal sound, somewhere between a yell and a grunt, rips out my mouth.

“Sounds like you’re giving birth.”

“Ugh, thanks for that image.”

This hallway echoes. What must the residents think?

“Now I’m going to be self-conscious the rest of the day.” And avoiding eye contact like it’s a disease.

Which, you know, I do often enough already.