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Our home is modest and completely decked out in Christmas decorations. Mom dropped out of interior design school when she got pregnant with me, but she took pride in keeping a clean, showroom-worthy home.
We have a huge Christmas tree, covered in baubles and beads and tinsel, but everything is soulless. It’s as if someone took a Pinterest post and brought it to real life. There are no happy memories, no soul to this home. All the tinsel in the world couldn’t make up for a wino mom who only wants to marry rich—for the fourth time.
I tie my hair back in a ponytail as I enter the kitchen. I’ve been growing it out for a few years now, and the light-brown locks are nearly to my waist. I grab the butter, eggs, baking soda, flour, and sugar and arrange them all on the kitchen counter before washing my hands.
Even though I’m pissed that Mom is making me do this on such short notice, I do love to bake. When I was younger, my grandma taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe, and I no longer have to look at a written recipe to make it. This recipe is in my muscle memory, and I lose myself in the meditation of baking cookies.
I hum to myself as I cream the butter and sugar together. Christmas is my favorite time of year. I love the snow, the decorations, the feelings of love and goodwill that surround me. It’s easy to lose myself in Christmas, to devote myself to feeling jolly and finding the perfect presents for my loved ones.
Before I know it, the cookie dough is ready. I roll the dough out on the counter and lean down to get the cookie cutters out when suddenly, I feel as if I’m being watched.
I turn around, noticing the window that faces Vincent’s home. His blinds are shut, and why would he even be looking at me? Watching me through the window…such a stupid thought. He doesn’t even know I exist.
I shake the thought out of my head and resume baking. Before long, the tree and star-shaped cookies are in the oven. I set a timer on my phone and look down at myself. My green Christmas sweater, patterned with little prancing reindeers, and black sweatpants are covered in flour.
Of course, they are.
Quickly, I pull the sweater off and over my head. I walk down the hallway in just my sweatpants and sports bra, taking a moment to hang the green sweater over the coat rack. I’ll grab it and toss it in the laundry before Vincent arrives. I take the stairs two at a time, heading into my room to change into clean clothes.
I shimmy into a clean pair of black leggings. I could put on jeans, but some part of me wants Vincent to stare. To see how tight these pants are against my ass.
Maybe it’ll get him away from my mother…
In only a bra and leggings, I look at myself in the mirror. I try to imagine myself from Vincent’s point of view. Blue eyes, small breasts, long legs. But with my long hair and a trim figure, he probably sees me as a little girl instead of a woman.
Suddenly, I have an idea. Before I can stop myself, I lift my practical sports bra over my head and run to my dresser. I reach way, way back into my underwear drawer and feel around for the soft fabric. I feel the cool air on my breasts as I grab it and pull it out: the lacy black push-up bra that I bought on an impulse on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know why I did; it isn’t like I have anyone to wear it for.
At least, not until now.
I slip on the bra and marvel at myself in the mirror for another moment. This bra makes me look like I actually have something to show off up here, and I feel sexy. I run a hand over each breast, admiring the small curve of cleavage. I wonder if Vincent will notice or even care.
The timer on my phone begins to beep. Crap, the cookies are ready! I pull on a red sweater patterned with tiny elves and give myself one last glance in the mirror, letting my hair out of its ponytail. As I exit my bedroom and speed-walk down the hall, trying to get to the kitchen before Vincent arrives, my mom squeals from the living room.
“Honey! Vincent’s on his way over. I just saw him through the window,” she calls as I jog down the stairs and quickly head into the kitchen.
My mother is wearing a fitted satin dress in emerald green, and though she’s showing far too much cleavage for my taste, the dress suits her. She has on a velvet Santa hat and bright red lipstick, with false eyelashes an inch and a half long. If it weren’t for the ugly snarl on her face when she sees my outfit, she would almost look beautiful.
“You couldn’t dress up a little?” she hisses, grabbing my forearm.
“Let go, Mom!” I say, pulling away. She pinches the fabric of my sweater between two fingers and grimaces.
“Polyester. I raised you better than polyester Christmas sweaters. Where did you even find this?” She’s speaking to me as if the sweater is an affront to her entire way of life. Which is typical for her.
“Mom, the cookies are going to burn,” I growl right as Vincent knocks at the door.
She whips around, letting out an excited squeal. As if she were a little girl seeing Santa. I roll my eyes and rush to the oven, where I pull the cookies out just in time. Removing them from the pan, I see that they’re a little golden on the bottom, but I got to them just in time. Even a minute more, and they would have been ruined.
I let out a breath as I set up the cooling racks on our kitchen island. I can hear my mother opening the front door and putting on the sickly sweet voice she only uses when she’s trying to sleep with someone. Unfortunately, I know it well.
“Viiiiinceeeeeent!” she drawls, dragging out each vowel impossibly long. “You’re just in time. I just finished making my mother’s famous Christmas cookies. You’ve got to come and try them.”
Anger and jealousy rise in my chest. Not that I expect anything better from my mother, but it still pisses me off. She makes me bake cookies with no notice at all and then passes the work off as her own, all so she can get laid.
My hands are shaking with rage as I arrange the cookies on the cooling racks. I can’t hear what Vincent says in response, but my anger turns to panic as I realize he’s coming inside. My heart races behind my lace bra, and I freeze in place, staring wide-eyed as my mother and my secret crush enter the kitchen.
