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“Let me get that,” Dad said.

My little brother looked back and forth between us. “You guys match.”

Jodie’s mouth fell open. “Oh my God! You guys wore matching sweaters! It’s so cute how you planned this!”

I looked down at my red Christmas tree sweater and then at his in surprise. We were wearing the exact same thing.

Jeremy grinned at me. “All planned. We always loved sweater weather, isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Then he came over and put an arm around me, breaking my no-touching rule within five seconds of me making it.

I wanted to smack him off me. I forced a smile instead.

“So how long have you two been sneaking around?” Dad asked, coming back from the coatrack.

Jeremy looked down at me. “Oh, I don’t know. How long would you say it’s been, Anna? Four, five…?”

“Weeks,” I said quickly.

“Weeks,” he agreed. “Feels like four or five minutes.”

I choked.

A smoke alarm went off. Again.

“Shit shit shit!” Jodie darted for the oven and my dad grabbed the fire extinguisher for the third time today.

I knocked Jeremy’s arm off me while everyone was distracted. “I said no touching!” I whispered.

“This has to be at least reasonably believable,” he whispered back, looking amused.

I narrowed my eyes at him. He was loving this.

Mom opened the oven and smoke wafted out.

“It’s the candied yams,” Mom announced. “How hot was this oven, Jodie?”

“Five hundred?” my sister said, craning to watch Mom pull the blackened dish out. “The directions said to torch the marshmallows, so I put it on broil.”

Devon smirked. “When, six months ago?”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

Mom floated the smoking casserole dish out to the backyard while Dad fanned the alarm and Ivan opened windows in what was becoming a well-rehearsed routine.

“We can just scrape that off, right?” Jodie said, following behind her.

Ivan was shaking his head and mumbling in Spanish.

Jeremy leaned over. “Why did they let her cook?” he whispered.

“She begged. Mom’s tired of hosting and my townhome is too small. We all offered to help, but she wanted to do it on her own.”

“Remember when she used to make us mac and cheese and it was always soggy?” he said quietly. “And the cheese powder was clumpy? You’d take a bite and cheese dust balls would burst open in your mouth?”

I laughed, despite myself.

“The side dishes have been self-destructing one by one,” I said quietly. “We already lost the stuffing and the mashed potatoes.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “How do you mess up potatoes?”