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“Not that we don’t trust you, we just…”
Understand, he thought.
“I appreciate that,” he said. “But honestly, there’s no need to worry.”
“No need to worry?” his mother prodded, which was followed by two consecutive “No need to worrys?” from the other two women.
“Come on, everyone, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s not bring the party down. I tried my hand at a relationship, and it didn’t work out. Lesson learned. I’m completely fine. Just like I told you on the phone, several times.”
“Ugh, you’re such a bad liar, Bradley,” Lana said.
“A really bad liar,” Sara agreed.
Bradley knew from experience he was a rather excellent liar, passing himself off as a touch tipsy while he swayed through a monochromatic world tilted ninety degrees. Perhaps he was losing his edge in this regard. Not exactly an upsetting thought.
“All right. All right. You win. But you really don’t need to worry. Not tonight. I’ve put in a call to my therapist, and I’m sticking to my routine. Can we talk about something else? I want to know what everyone thinks of the tree.”
It was the perfect distraction, with Lana immediately suggesting they reorganize the ornaments chronologically while Sara insisted they should be arranged aesthetically while Bradley stalwartly defended the current organization of random chaos.
“How about a drink?” his mother asked, lifting a tray of crystal champagne glasses filled with an effervescent yellow liquid.
“Aw, Mom, you know I can’t—”
“Don’t be daft,” she scolded. “It’s sparkling apple juice. We’re doing a dry Christmas this year, of course.”
Bradley drew his chin back in surprise. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, you guys can still—”
“Absolutely not. It’s our first Christmas with my little Bradley Bear returned to us, and we want it to be perfect. Not that we realized we’d lost you, admittedly, but that’s on us—”
“Mom, it really isn’t your—”
“—so we’re going to make it up to you now.” The woman was not to be interrupted. “We want to show you our unwavering support. The whole family has agreed, haven’t we?”
Two hearty “Hear! Hears!” came from his sisters, followed by a quiet but immensely noticeable grumble of assent.
Bradley turned to where his father was sitting in his lounger. Bradley hadn’t even noticed him in the room. Had he been there the whole time? Or had he snuck in to avoid a more formal greeting with his son?
He was dressed in a beige turtleneck and a checkered green blazer that matched his wife’s wrap sweater dress.
“Father,” Bradley said.
The man gave a curt nod. “Brad.”
“Isn’t this just lovely.” His mother shoved glasses into each of their hands. “The whole family back together under one roof. It’s been far too long.” She gave a not-so-subtle look to her husband. “Cheers.”
They raised their glasses. The bubbles fizzed on Bradley’s tongue as he sipped, the drink tasting sweet instead of sinister. He was soothed by the notion his addiction would have nothing more to contend with tonight than an overindulgence in sugar, and warmed by the fact the women in his family had known exactly what he needed without him having to ask. It would get easier, he knew, but firsts were always difficult. Dr. Rahi told him this often. Just get through this week. Get through this month. This year. This Christmas. It will get easier. Then, sometimes, it will get harder. Until it gets easier again.
He was also relieved to know his father was on strict behaviour watch by his mother, and with the man’s quiet demeanour—the strong, silent type, as Mom liked to spin it—Bradley might be able to enjoy himself just fine this evening.
His mother brought out prepared papers for Christmas charades alongside dips and cheese plates and other appetizers they didn’t really need but ate nonetheless. Holiday melodies jingled in the background while his father watched the World Juniors preview show with closed captioning. After three rounds of charades that Bradley and Lana won handily over Sara and Mom—much to Sara’s dismay but his mother’s apparent delight—they moved over to the dining room table, which was adorned with fine china plates holding red-and-white napkins carefully folded into French pleats and topped with silver Christmas crackers. The centrepiece was an ensemble of vivid greens, snow-dusted pine cones, and simple white candles. The siblings oohed and aahed over every detail. “It smells/looks so good,” they said each time they scooped or speared an item onto their plates.
Bradley smothered his food in gravy. The four of them chattered away. Mom described her latest sewing project. Sara (and Lana) complained about their downstairs neighbour. Lana (and Sara) went on about the epic clothing sale they were planning to line up early for on Boxing Day morning. His father chimed in with “Sounds like a wonderful project, darling,” or “You should report him to your landlord, Sara,” or “That’s a fine idea, Lana.” But for the most part, he seemed content to remain in the background.
“You should totally come with us on Boxing Day,” Lana said to Bradley.
“Totally.”
“Sure, maybe I will.” Bradley forked another bite of turkey, savouring how melt-in-the-mouth moist it was. He felt good, normal, better than normal. Happy and present, like his life was resetting to before his failings, to before he stupidly thought he could handle a relationship, even if it was with someone as bright and determined and beautiful as—
