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“I just think there has to be something between serial monogamy and total sexual anarchy."
“Whatever it is, I don’t think our parents have found it.” This makes her laugh again, finally, which smooths my ruffled feathers. "I love my mom to death, but she's like a kid who wants to ride the Ferris wheel one more time, forever.”
“Are you going to miss being with her over Christmas?”
“For better or worse, Christmas has always been my dad’s holiday.”
“What’s he like?”
“You see my mom? Picture the complete opposite of that, with a beard.”
Noelle lets out a full-on belly laugh, then claps her hand over her mouth. She’s a little tipsy, and it looks good on her. But I’m pretty sure it’s written somewhere in the big-brother handbook that I shouldn’t be buying my underaged stepsister alcohol.
“My dad’s kind of a hard ass,” I tell her, “but he means well. If it were up to him, I’d be working at the log-cabin resort he owns, just outside of Cambridge. It’s where I grew up.”
“Did your mom live there, too?”
I shake my head. “My dad and his folks raised me. After I was born, my mom pretty much figured her half of the job was done. My grandparents made sure my dad finished high school, but besides that, he pretty much put his own life on hold as soon as I entered the picture.”
“Damn,” Noelle says. “That’s really admirable, especially for a teenager.”
“Yeah. And he never lets me forget it, which is part of the reason I stay away most of the year.” I know it took a lot of heart and plenty of sacrifice to raise a kid at sixteen, especially with my mom popping in and out on no particular schedule. But it sucks to be constantly reminded that you’re the reason your dad has no life.
“You guys don’t get along?” Noelle asks.
“He’s not my favorite person, and the feeling’s mutual.”
"Why do you keep going back if you don’t like it there?"
"Honestly? Because if I didn't visit, nobody would. My grandparents are both gone. My dad’s a pain in my ass, but I don’t like the thought of him being alone on Christmas. We did have some good times, back in the day."
"Does he have a girlfriend?"
I have to laugh. "As far as I know, my dad hasn't so much as kissed a woman in years."
“How would you know if you hardly ever visit him?”
“It’s a well-kept secret that sexual repression leaves a particular stink on a man. One that only other men can pick up on. I doubt he even remembers how to have a good time.”
“That’s pretty sad,” she says. Her phone vibrates in her purse. She pulls it out to check her messages. “I guess I’ll start bugging my friends. See whose parents are willing to take in a stray for Christmas.”
It occurs to me that I could invite her to celebrate Christmas with me, at my dad’s. But that’s fucking crazy. I barely know this girl, and more importantly, she barely knows me. She’d almost certainly have a much better holiday staying with friends.
Still, the way she talked about shopping for presents, and her strong reaction to learning her childhood home was on the market, makes me wonder if the Maple Ridge Resort experience might be exactly what she’s after.
I mean, this girl probably looks forward to decorating the tree every year, and I doubt she cares if snow melts down her back while she’s making snow angels. Lots of people rent the same cabins year after year because they want that quintessential holiday-in-Vermont experience.
What kind of stepbrother would I be if I left her out in the cold on Christmas?
Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with the way her cheeks flush when she’s tipsy. Or how glossy her lips look with whiskey on them. Or the fact that I can see the points of her nipples through her dress, and what a goddamn shame it is that I can’t taste them...
Nope. Nothing to do with any of that.
“This is gonna sound crazy,” I say. “But you could come celebrate Christmas with me.”
Noelle bites her lip. “You’re right, that does sound crazy.”
“Just humor me for a second. Picture it. A spacious mountain lodge with a Christmas tree twice your height in the family room. Hot chocolate by a cozy fire. Gramma Bell’s glazed ham and warm apple crisp, prepared for you by a master chef.”
