Winter Break (Chasing Chase London #6)

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“Let It Snow”—Boyz II Men

On Christmas morning, I wake to the sound of Lily’s feet thundering down the steep wooden staircase. I’m surprised Mom’s not out their fretting that she’ll break her neck, since the place was built in the seventies, before they cared if people pitched headfirst to their deaths. Probably another reason the parents didn’t want to sell the place—nothing is up to code.

I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t stop thinking about how weird it will be to go downstairs and smile at all the aunts and uncles, pretending we belong here when we don’t. Dad is part of this family. Mom isn’t. Diana is Dad’s sister. Mom inserted herself into their lives, imposing on them by moving us all into their house. And now she’s bringing our sorrow and shame into their Christmas, reminding them of it every time they look at her, and by extension, at me and Lily.

We should not have come. I roll over and shove my face into the too-soft feather pillow to quell the urge to scream into the abyss like Chase London.

I hope Dad is eating rocks for breakfast instead of his traditional contribution to Christmas breakfast.

I punch the pillow with both fists, since that’s quieter than a growl of frustration.

I don’t really hope that for Dad.

What I really hope is that I’ll walk downstairs and find him sitting with Lily on his knee while she tears into her presents. He’ll be holding one of the cringey coffee mugs that have made their way here over the years, mostly courtesy of Uncle Carl’s students and Uncle Frederick’s travels. He’ll shoot me his crooked grin and give me a hard time about sleeping in. He’ll tell us it was all a mistake, but it’s been sorted now and he’s never leaving again. Then he’ll playfully smack Mom on the backside and tell her we’re back in the south, “so get me a plate, woman.”

And she’ll giggle like they’re not old—gross—and go get him a plate of his famous orange rolls, along with her frittata and whatever random recipe Uncle Seamus found on the road and brought home to share.

I give up on going back to sleep and toss off the blankets. It’s like a furnace up here, thanks to the fact that it’s warm enough to wear jeans and a t-shirt outside but they always insist on lighting the fireplace on Christmas morning. Not to mention the crappy design of the house lets all the hot air go straight to the second floor. I don’t feel like going down in my pajamas, but I know Mom will bitch about it and make me go put them back on for our family pictures if I change.

The moment I step out of my room to head down, the smell of Dad’s orange rolls fills my nostrils. My knees nearly buckle, and my heart starts hammering slow and hard in my chest. I try to breathe, blinking back the sting in my eyes. Am I losing my mind? Did I wish so hard for Dad that I made it came true, like a real Christmas miracle?

My legs tremble as I hurry downstairs, not even careful that I could pitch headfirst down the slick, polished wooden steps. I hurry through the living room, where Lily is opening presents in front of the fireplace while everyone watches with rapt attention and Mom snaps pictures with her phone. I step into the kitchen, where trays of orange rolls sit on the table, dripping with glaze, as picture perfect as they look in the spread in the ancient copy of Southern Living magazine where Dad found the recipe. Carols play softly from a speaker in the corner, but I hardly hear the music over the rushing of blood in my ears.

I look around, halfway expecting to see him, but the room is empty. Maybe they’re just cinnamon rolls.

Swallowing hard, I approach the table, leaning over and taking in a deep, slow breath. The delicate scents of cinnamon and sugar fill my senses, along with a tendril of bitter orange.

Snapping upright, I march back into the living room.

“Who made orange rolls?” I demand, glaring at the adults, who all look up at me with dumbfounded expressions, like they didn’t do anything wrong.

“I did,” Mom says after a pause.

“Why would you do that?” I say quietly, my voice shaking with rage.

“Honey…” Mom says, glancing around at Dad’s family. How could they have let her do that? How could she even have asked?

“You make frittata,” I grit out through clenched teeth, my fists clenching at my sides.

“Your sister wanted orange rolls,” Mom says, giving me a tight smile as she strokes her hand over the top of Lily’s head.

“They’re my favorite,” Lily says, finally lifting her head to beam up at me.

“That’s Dad’s recipe,” I snarl at Mom, not daring to look at the others. I know I’m making a scene, but I can’t stop myself. “You have no right!”

“Sky,” she scolds, but I spin on my heel and run for the stairs before the tears can spill over.

I thunder up the stairs, then pause halfway. “ Don’t talk about me when I’m gone!”

I run down the hall and into my room, where I throw myself on my bed and bury my face in the pillow, muffling my scream. Tears pour from my eyes, and I let them this time. There was no way our first Christmas without Dad wouldn’t suck. Technically our second, but the last time doesn’t count. This time we know he’s not coming back. We shouldn’t have even tried. Nothing is the same. Pretending only makes it more obvious.

A tap sounds at my door, and I quickly wipe my face, sniffing and trying to hide my tears.

“You up?” Meghan asks.

“Yeah,” I say, relieved it’s just her.

My cousin shuffles in, her eyes puffy and her hair sticking up in all directions. “You been downstairs to check out the Norman Fucking Rockwell charade?”

“Mom made orange rolls ,” I burst out. “ Dad’s orange rolls.”

“That’s fucked up,” Meghan says through a yawn, stretching her arms over her head.

“Right?” I ask. “She’s such a freak.”

Meghan’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes when my sister comes in holding a gift box. “I got you a present,” she says, handing it to me warily, like she thinks I might go off on her for asking for the orange rolls.

Guilt churns inside me as I take the box and pull the paper off. I stare at the white gift box inside, my heart sinking.

“Well, open it!” Lily says, bouncing on her toes in excitement.

“Where did you get this?” I ask slowly, looking at the too-familiar box.

“I bought it,” she says, a huge grin on her face.

“Dude, just open it, already,” Megan says, sounding bored.

I take the lid off reluctantly, already knowing what’s inside. I’m right. It’s the track suit Chase tried to give me.

“Nice job, Lilypad,” Megan says, glancing at it, sounding as impressed as possible for her.

“Seriously, Lily,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Where did you get this?”

“I bought it,” she says, raising her chin stubbornly. “Mom said I could.”

I rub my temples, cursing Chase London. Of course Mom finds a way to screw up even when she’s trying to be nice, and Chase has to get his way even when I say no.

“Don’t you like it?” Lily looks so hurt that I pull her in and hug her with one arm.

“Of course. I love it. Can I ask how much you paid for it?”

“Three Band-Aids,” she says proudly. “That boy you pushed traded it to me. He said I got the princess discount.”

I force a smile for her, but I’m annoyed as hell with Chase. If I refuse the gift, it will hurt Lily’s feelings, and he probably knows I won’t do that, so I’ll have to keep it.

“You pushed a boy?” Meghan asks. “I’m impressed. Does he have a name? Or dexterous fingers, perhaps?”

She wiggles her fingers at me suggestively, and I give her a death glare.

She just laughs and heaves herself up from the bed. “Don’t worry, cuz. Lots of college guys come up here with their families at Christmas. We’ll find someone to make you forget all about Chase London and his magic fingers.”

“He has magic fingers?” Lily asks, bouncing with excitement.

“No,” I say firmly, wanting to strangle my cousin. If Lily ever repeats that to Chase, he’ll think I said that, and the level of humiliation will cause spontaneous combustion.