"Then he should keep his opinions to himself," she fires back, and I snort because she's absolutely right.
Erin promises Ruth a pie from the two of them, and Ruth accepts with a graciousness that seems entirely unlike her. The magic of Christmas, I suppose.
Next stop is Mr. J's place, because he needs a ride to his brother's house on the other side of town and Erin has been driving him for years.
He sits in the passenger seat in a pressed shirt and a hatI've never seen before, and he's wearing cologne that's a little too strong, but I love him for it.
I love that this man who still works six days a week at his barbershop has gotten dressed up for Christmas morning like a gentleman in an old movie, like the day deserves his best and he's going to give it.
"You know," he muses, looking out the window as we pull onto his brother's street, "your brother stole my New Year's kiss last year."
I glance at him from the back, eyebrows raised. "What a douchebag," I tell him.
"My man Rome walked in on New Year's Eve looking like the world had ended." He lifts his hat, adjusts it over his short afro, puts it back exactly where it was. "Without my sweet Erin here, I am sure it had. I had plans for that midnight kiss, old men like me don't get kisses anymore," he jokes.
He lost his wife Mae years ago. They had a long, happy life together, decades of love and laughter and he misses her still. You can hear it when he says her name, careful with it, like he's holding something precious. The men in Harbor Hill love like no other, it seems.
"But you can't compete with a man in love," Mr. J continues, waving a hand philosophically.
I reach forward to hug him from my seat in the back, and he smiles at me sideways, pleased with himself.
"Save yours this year," he advises as we pull into his brother's driveway. "Your New Year's kiss. Don't waste it on just anyone."
"Who says I have someone to waste it on?"
He rolls his eyes as we exit the car, like I've said something ridiculous and he's too polite to call me on it.
Erin and I help him to the door, one of us on each arm, and his brother opens it before we even knock. The smell of cooking pours out, the sound of a television playing something cheerful, the warmth of a house full of family hitting us like a wave.
Mr. J squeezes my hand at the threshold and with one last kiss on his weathered cheek, he goes inside without looking back.
His nieces and nephews and all their children pour out onto the porch to wish us Merry Christmas, and suddenly I'm enveloped in hugs from people I've never met.
They don't care that they've never seen me before. They know Erin, so I'm automatically family. One grand-niece, no older than thirteen, bounces on the spot in front of me with barely contained excitement.
"Can I practice cornrows on your hair please?" she begs. "No one here lets me."
Her mother drags her inside with an eye roll and tells me over her shoulder that I've just been saved from pain like no other. I'm still smiling when we get back to the car.
The King/Edwards house is full when we arrive with Rome, every room warm and loud and exactly right.
Gran is in her chair at the head of the kitchen island, holding court in a red blouse with earrings that catch the light every time she moves. She looks like the queen of a very small, very chaotic kingdom.
"There she is," she announces when I come through the kitchen door, opening her arms wide. "Merry Christmas, my precious girl."
"Merry Christmas, Gran." I kiss both her cheeks and hug her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.
Beth and Vera are at the stove practicing magic, the kind that makes the whole house smell like Christmas. Roasts and herbs and something sweet baking in the oven.
Poppy is in the living room with Ramsey, her laugh carrying through the walls, the soundtrack of every family gathering.
Rome and Erin are on the couch with his arm around her shoulders and her legs tucked under her, a glass of something in her hand already. They look like a photograph you'd put on a mantel.
I've never celebrated Christmas like this. My parents never cared enough to make it matter, and when it was just me and Rome, we did the whole thing with a tree and presents, but Christmas with two people is nothing like this.
This is chaos and warmth and too many voices talking over each other and love so thick in the air you could choke on it.
I stop in the doorway and take in all of them, and I make myself a promise. No matter what happens with Hopkins or Stanford, no matter where life takes me, I will celebrate Christmas here, with my family, for as long as they'll have me.
