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Back at the apartment,Aubrey's getting dinner ready in the tiny kitchen. London drifts over to help chop vegetables while Leo sets the table. Watching them, I'm struck by inspiration.
"You all don't have a Christmas tree yet, right?"
London glances over, wary. "Wasn't really in the budget this year. We'll decorate other ways."
I wave him off. “Nope. We’re getting a tree.” I turn to his brother. “Leo, feel like picking out a tree with me? Your brother can put those muscles to use getting it upstairs.”
Leo's pumped, but London looks pissed. "Riot, that's not—"
"I want to," I insist, holding his stare.Don't fight me on this. Just let me do this one thing for you.
Finally, London sighs, nodding as his eyes soften. "A real tree would be nice," Aubrey says softly. "Thank you, Riot. That's very kind."
Grinning, Leo tosses me my coat. London shakes his head, but I see his reluctant smile.
Leo bounds down the steps of the apartment building toward my shiny black Maserati parked at the curb.
"Whoa, nice ride!" He runs an admiring hand along the glossy hood. "A Maserati, huh? Now this is a sweet car."
Opening the doors, I see the look of wonder on his face and can't help but chuckle. "One of the few perks of being a Kensington."
We climb inside, the leather seats creaking. Leo props his feet up on the dashboard like he owns the place already. Shaking my head, I start the throaty engine.
"So what's your deal, anyway?" Leo asks as I navigate the slushy streets toward the tree lot. "You and London used to hate each other, right?"
I grip the steering wheel. "Let's just say we've had our differences on the ice. But lately that's been changing."
He snorts. "Into what, friends?"
I nearly swerve at Leo's directness. The kid doesn't mince words. I clear my throat, avoiding his piercing stare. "We're... still figuring that out, honestly."
Leo seems to accept my evasion, launching into speculation about what model car he'll buy when he's rich as we pull into the crowded tree lot.
We wander the rows of fragrant firs, Leo giving each tree a critical inspection. I trail behind, laughing under my breath. His enthusiasm takes me back to childhood trips with my mom, when everything was still magical. When she still cared enough to try.
"What was London like growing up?" I ask as Leo circles a big ass Douglas fir.
His eyes brighten at the chance to share. "Oh man, London was the coolest big brother. He always let me tag along to play street hockey with his friends. And he'd sneak me candy from the corner store even when Mom said no and it was his last dollar."
Leo's admiration and love for his brother washes over me. The more I learn about the forces that shaped London, the more I want to unravel the complex man beneath the bravado and sharpened edges.
"What about you?" Leo tosses back. "Any embarrassing stories from when you were a kid?"
I rub my neck, chuckling. "Well, there was this one Christmas where I was so eager to show off my new hockey stick that I swung it in the house and shattered an antique vase..."
As we browse, we share stories from our childhood and it's like we've known each other forever. With Leo, it's simple in a way it rarely is for me. I find myself hoping this tentative bond outlasts the holidays.
"This one!" Leo proclaims finally, patting a full 6-foot fir. I admire his choice, awash in nostalgia and promise. Together, we haul it to the counter to purchase.
I feel his excitement like a static charge as we haul it to my car and strap it to the roof. I’m not even bothered by the scratches the branches are gonna leave on my paint job.
On the drive back, I'm trying to figure out how to distract London from getting pissed off by me buying his family the tree. He’s got a shit ton of pride, and I know this is going to rub him the wrong way. But I want to experience this family tradition with him. We need to regain some of that childlike wonder we’ve lost. We’re barely adults, and I’m tired of hating the holidays.
London waits on the front steps when we return, messy blond hair under that goddamn backwards hat, eyeing the strapped-down tree skeptically, even as his lips quirk. "Not too shabby, Golden Boy."
I smirk, admiring the play of his leg muscles as he hauls the tree upstairs. Together, we maneuver it into the living room. Leo blasts cheesy Christmas songs, fishing dusty ornaments and strings of lights out of a box.
We make quick work decorating the fragrant fir in strings of popcorn and handmade ornaments from London and Leo’s childhood. Leo nearly takes out the whole tree showing me how to loop the lights, but his laughter fills the little apartment with warmth.
