“Far past your bedtime,” Ruby cuts in.
Violet pouts.
“And tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Hamish says.
This is the magic phrase, of course. She immediately wriggles down and runs for the door, calling out a good night as she goes. Oliver and Poppy are already asleep in their beds, and everyone else breaks up, some beginning to clean up the table as others escape into the living room.
I watch Gavin, but he doesn’t move to follow his parents. He’s a patient man, I’ll give him that.
“You were outside for a while,” Luna says quietly, hip-checking me as she leans across the table to gather bowls of candy.
I ignore the insinuation.
When she returns to put away more candy, she smirks. “Maybe it was agoodthing I dragged my feet that morning.”
Of course it was, but I’ll never admit it out loud. “There are too many people in here,” I hiss.
“No one’s listening. Mom’s got the music too loud.”
That’s true. She’s dancing at the sink while she does dishes. Dad’s trying to push her aside, though, and she finally relents. “You’ve been working in here long enough,” he says.
Mom takes a square of chocolate fudge on her way out the door.
I help Luna and Rhys get the table cleared off—except for our lovely gingerbread houses, of course—and wiped down. We clean the counters and put away the caramels, fudge, and cookies Mom and Dad made earlier.
“What do you plan to do with all this?” Nessa asks, surveying the abundance of sugar.
“I’m guessing my mom wants to go caroling tomorrow and give them to the neighbors. Would you want to join us?”
Nessa’s smile grows. “Count me in.”
Gavin walks Nessa and Hamish to the door and hugs them good night. I follow them from the kitchen and sit on the couchnext to Mom, enjoying the pop and crackle of the fire while they talk quietly in the vestibule.
She sips at a hot mug of tea someone must have brought her while I was helping clean up. The faint strains of “Santa Baby” filter through the doorway, but Luna’s laughter drowns it out periodically.
“Talk to me, Cal.”
My body sinks into those words. My immediate response is to want to throw up everything I’ve been keeping from my mom over the last year about school and Kayla and my overall malaise with LA, but something deep within me puts up a wall and stops me from making a—potentially—huge mistake. Mom doesn’t need to worry about me. She lives too far away to make any actual difference, and I don’t need to give her reason to lose sleep over me for the next five years.
Instead, I gesture toward the window. “This is the most picturesque Christmas we could have asked for. Not counting Luna’s wedding, obviously.”
Mom’s quiet for a beat. She must decide not to press the matter, though, because she sips her tea and pretends I didn’t deflect. “That was a wedding. This is Christmas. But we need to put up our stockings. I have them in one of my bags somewhere. Do you know if Gavin has one?”
The mantel is lined with Hamish, Ruby, Violet, and Poppy’s stockings. Once we crowd in the three from my family, and Luna, Rhys, and Oliver’s, there’s hardly going to be room for more.
The hinges creak as Gavin closes the door behind his grandparents. I’m met with an overwhelming urge to make sure he has a stocking hanging in his own house this year, not all the way across town, safely nestled with his granny.
He perches on the sofa’s arm as his dad comes down the stairs.
“Thought I’d make a pot of tea,” Don says.
“There’s already one going,” Mom tells him.
“Brilliant.”
We’re quiet while Don disappears into the kitchen.
“Your grandmother is a delight,” Mom says. “It must be so lovely having her nearby.”
