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Carefully, I slip out of bed. Nic doesn’t wake up, just rolls onto his side. My pajama pants are on the floor, but I can’t find my shirt, so I put on Nic’s and my cardigan, grab the big bag of presents out of my closet, and head downstairs.
Light filters in through the windows, the soft reflection of a dawn sky on a world of snow. The entire house feels muffled in the quiet expectations of a Christmas morning. Lights glow on the tree and holiday music plays softly over the sound system, setting the mood for yet another weird Foley family tradition.
When I was five, I heard my exasperated mother tell Timothy Santa wouldn’t bring him anything if he didn’t behave. I knew my brother—he wasn’t going to get a goddamn thing. He was the best to me, always looking out for me, making me laugh, and drawing me out of myself. I loved him. So I searched the house for little treasures, anything he might like that didn’t already have a clear owner and wrapped them up. In the middle of the night, I snuck downstairs to put them under the tree.
I’d scared the shit out of my father, who was in the middle of actual Santa duties, and his startled scream made me scream. We woke the whole house, and I spoiled Santa for myself and my brother. My mom threw her hands in the air, declared that we were all Santa—very Spartacus of her—and a new tradition was born.
Every year, we sneak down to the tree, sometime between midnight and 5 a.m., to leave our presents for each other. It has to be done in secret, so if anyone else comes in before we’re finished, we have to hide. One year we all tried to get it done early and everyone ended up hiding behind couches and in the curtains. Another year, Timbo was a dick and hid behind the tree, scaring the ever-loving shit out of each of us with the never-expected honk of a kazoo. After that, I committed to being the last. Even Timothy couldn’t stay awake behind a tree until 5 a.m. to scare me. At least, not with the amount he usually drinks at the Folly the night before. Since I’m always last, I arrange all the distinct piles left by everyone else until the whole thing looks cohesive, like something out of a magazine spread.
Plus, it allows me to snoop.
I’m surprised when I find two presents from Nic with my name on them since he already gave me paints. One’s heavy, one’s light. They’re both about the same size, but the heavy one is slim. I shake the heavier one.
“Merry Christmas, honey.”
I nearly drop the gift at the sound of my mother’s sleepy voice.
“When you’re finished snooping,” she says with a yawn, “come have a coffee with me in the kitchen.”
“Not snooping,” I say quickly, placing the gift back on the pile. “Merry Christmas!” I call after her.
It takes me a few more minutes to integrate the last pile of presents into the whole, and when it’s done, I wrap my cardigan tight around me and survey my work. It’s the perfect Christmas morning.
Mom already has a cup of coffee waiting for me on the table. I sit and take a sip, surprised to find she’s laced it with Bailey’s before the sun is up. I’d have snuck some in when she wasn’t looking anyway because it’s Christmas Day.
My mom preheats the oven before dropping into the chair next to me. She’s already wearing her Christmas morning outfit—a red and green murder robe and tinsel-topped kitten-heeled slippers. She looks like an unstable 1950s Mrs. Claus after a bender.
“So you and Nic,” she says cheerfully.
I take a sip of my coffee and murmur.
“We’re all happy you’re finally together—”
“We aren’t together.”
My mom’s brows draw down. “But you’re…” she makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger, poking through it with the forefinger of her other hand in freakishly rapid succession.
“Jesus, Mom.” I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “We aren’t dating. We aren’t going to date. It’s just sex and only for the holiday.”
“Just sex.” She waves that off with a laugh. “There’s a box of condoms on the top shelf in the bathroom if you run out.”
There’s always a box of condoms on that shelf. In the drawer of every bedside table in the house. Mom’s been replenishing them since we were in high school. The importance of safe sex was drilled into us from an early age.
“Seriously. It’s just a fling like Nic said.” I don’t want her to be mystified and hurt when nothing ever comes of this.
“Jessie.” Her voice takes on a stern tone and she levels a look at me over the rim of her mug. “That boy’s been through a lot. He’s fragile. Be careful with him.”
Fragile my ass. Nic will forget me and be neck-deep in pussy while I’m still crying my broken heart out with ice cream, booze, and shitty TV shows. Why can’t she see I need to be handled with care too?
Honestly, it’s like no one in my family knows me.
My mother sighs. “That divorce…she cheated on him.”
I know. The whole world knows, and it pisses me off that my mother feels the need to remind me. Addison broke him and I’m the emotional rebound to complement the physical ones the tabloids have documented since the divorce. Because regardless of what we agreed to, this has never been simple transactional sex. We know each other too well for that. I’m the next step on his way to being whole again.
It doesn’t mean he’s fallen in love with me.
There’s no point in arguing. My mother buries herself in cooking, refusing to see anything she doesn’t want to see. And she wants to see us in love.
