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“I know, but Thanksgiving was so lousy without you.”
“Trust me, mine was lousier. Those people…brrrr. Scary.”
“That bad?”
“They’re like…” I search for the right description. “The rich villains in a 1950s movie, trying to keep their son away from the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Except with hip haircuts.”
My mother chuckles.
“I have no idea how Reagan turned out so well-adjusted. If he didn’t look exactly like his father, I would question whether they stole him as a baby. Or bought him from some destitute, single teenage mother whose parents were ultra religious.”
“You do have a vivid imagination.”
“You haven’t met them.”
“Do you think I will? Is this serious?” Mom’s voice gets a little shrilly. Like she can’t decide if she should be excited or alarmed.
“I don’t know…” I feign. “I mean, he’s amazing and sweet and funny and generous and…he’s my best friend.”
“Ohhhhhh. Alice, you’re in love with him.”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Probably? I think I might be. Don’t tell Dad yet.”
When she doesn’t say anything I get a little worried. “Ma?”
“Promise me something?”
“Yeah…” I reply, already wary of what’s coming.
“Love with everything you’ve got, but never forget yourself.”
“Why would you say that?” I’m almost a little offended. Does she not trust me to take care of myself?
“Because I know you. Because when you’re in, you’re in a thousand percent. And you’ve never spoken of a boy this way before.”
It’s seventy-five degrees and sunny on Christmas Day, the sky completely cloudless. And surreal––Christmas lights and palm trees should not go together.
Reagan has been summoned to his parents’ house. He begged me to go with him, but I’ve had enough of the Reynolds’s house of horrors to last me a lifetime. I’m sure they were ecstatic when he told them I was having Christmas at Aunt Peg’s.
“The turkey is almost ready.” Aunt Peg leans further out of the kitchen window. “Wheels! Did you hear me? The turkey is almost ready. Time to get cleaned up.”
The macaw squawks.
“I’m comin’!” he bellows back.
“Men,” she says, her matte peach-colored lips pursing. Her perfectly blown-out hair swings as she crosses the room to place a breadbasket full of assorted rolls on the table, which is all set up for the meal with Christmas-themed plates and linens. The entire trailer is decorated.
I smile. “What does he do out there?”
“He loves his plants. He just loves ’em. Growing some fancy hybrids, says they could be medicinal.”
Through the glass sliding door, I watch Wheels bending over a bench to sink his hands into a terra-cotta pot.
“So––tell me all about him,” she intones, her excitement palpable.
The idiotic grin I can’t seem to shake should be a good indication. “He’s…nice.”
Aunt Peg frowns. “Nice? You can do better than that.” Joining me at the table, she sits and arranges her red silk caftan while she waits for me to elaborate with a dimpled smile.
I grab a piece of bread out of the basket and munch on it. “He’s amazing. He’s kind and funny and…he’s the best.”
She smiles encouragingly.
“And…and he’s going to medical school next year. And I’ll be here, focusing on getting my degree…” The thought of not seeing him every day makes my stomach hurt. And then there’s Jordan. She’ll be taking classes with him. Best not think about it now, or it’ll ruin my appetite.
“His parents are wealthy and not very nice.” I smooth my napkin. “Not that those two things go hand in hand. I’m just saying that I’m pretty sure they don’t approve of me.”
The back door slides open and Wheels comes up the ramp. “I’m getting cleaned up. Gimme fifteen minutes.” He disappears into the bedroom and Aunt Peg levels me with an intent stare.
“I’m going to say something to you that my mother, your grandmother, God rest her soul, should’ve said to me if she’d ever imparted a kind word, which she never did because she was a religious zealot and an all-around mean person––” Peg leans in, expression solemn. “Fuck more, worry less.”
A burst of choking laughter hurls out of me. “Aunt Peg!”
“It’s the secret to a happy life.” She grins brightly. “And good skin.”
Peg’s skin is flawless porcelain perfection.
A knock at the front door gets the macaw squawking. We both lean to the left so we can see out the glass picture window. Sunglasses on, hands shoved in the pockets of his gray trousers, Reagan stands patiently.
The sight of him makes my hopelessly devoted heart skip a beat.
Aunt Peg’s ginger eyebrows nearly reach her hairline. She stands. “Oh, yes. He looks like a real nice guy.”
I bite down on my cheek to stave off a grin while she goes to answer the door.
Two hours later, we’re all sporting food babies made of turkey, stuffing, and candied yams, and surfing a tryptophan high. My aunt loves to cook as much as she loves to eat and it shows.
