In a Holidaze by Christina Lauren

chapter fourteen

While Ricky and Dad unload the tree from the car and get it into the stand, and the twins and Lisa dive into the boxes of ornaments to find their favorite ones to hang, I linger at the back of the room, sitting in this weird new energy. Every other year—even this one—I was down there with the kids, diving into the decorations. But if change means telling Andrew how I feel and finally quitting my job, it also means loosening my stranglehold on tradition and letting Kennedy and Zachary take the lead on decorating the tree.

And since we’re barreling into this grown-up thing, change also means helping more, and not leaving it to Aaron or Benny to clean up the cocktail-hour detritus strewn around the living room.

As I gather and carry dishes into the kitchen, I take the time to really look at the cabin. I notice scratches in the floors, wear on the banister from generations of hands sliding over the smooth wooden flourish at the bottom of the stairs. Paint is peeling near the crown molding, and faded on the walls near the front door and down the hallway. Without the lens of nostalgia, I see that this house is well loved, but worn. Those are just the cosmetic things, too. The cabin is old, spending a third of the year in snow and another third in stifling dry heat. It’s going to take more than love and appreciation to help Ricky and Lisa keep this place.

Benny comes up behind me as I’m loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. “Hey, Mayday.”

“Hey, Benihana.”

“How was the tree farm?” His smile pushes through his accent, curling around the words.

I turn to face him, leaning back against the sink. “It was awesome, actually.”

Benny’s intrigued. “‘Awesome’? I saw that handful of sticks and figured it had to be the last tree.”

“Come on,” I say. “You have to admit it’s hard not to root for the underdog. That poor tree was otherwise destined for the chipper. We saved it.”

Benny concedes this with a little eyebrow quirk, and I look over his shoulder to make sure we’re still alone. “But that wasn’t entirely why the tree farm was awesome.” I pause, biting the tip of my thumb. “I told Andrew about my feelings.”

His eyes go wide. “You did?”

“I mean,” I say, “not like, ‘I want you, Andrew, and if you proposed right now I would say yes without hesitation,’ but we made a joke about me going after what I want this week and I said that I wanted him.”

“Wow.” He steeples his hands and presses them to his lips.

“Oh, and I quit my job.”

At this, Benny takes a surprised step closer. “You what?”

“Yup. I emailed Neda and gave her my thirty days’.”

“Just like that? Just . . . now? While you were out?”

“Yes! And it’s so freeing! What a revelation. I’ll have to look for a new job—but so what? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Benny flinches. “You’re really saying that?”

I pull my shoulders to my ears, bracing as I look around the room to make sure the ceiling isn’t sagging just above my head. “Oops. Okay, that was stupid.”

“But . . . what did Andrew say?” Benny asks. “About your feelings?”

“Not much, actually.” I frown. “It wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t like he blew out a big relieved breath and told me he’s always felt the same, either.”

My brain seems to be calming incrementally the longer I’m here and not bolting awake on the plane. It’s a relief to let these things out in the open, but embarrassment sends a shiver through me. “Ugh. Actually, now that I think about it, it was a little awkward.”

“Andrew is a laid-back dude,” Benny reminds me. “Hard to rattle.”

True, but . . . “He didn’t say much.”

“He’s an American with an Aussie soul,” he says, laughing. “He tends to chew on things. Doesn’t overreact in the moment.”

I pull out a kitchen chair and sit down at the table. Benny does the same. “Maybe, but even if he never mentions it again, it’s okay.” I give him a resolved nod. “If I’m going to do this vacation over and over, I might as well just put everything out there at least once.”

“You don’t necessarily know that you’re going to do this over and over,” Benny reasons.

I’ve been thinking about this myself. “I’ve almost made it through two whole days.”

He reaches for a high five, but I leave him hanging, before tapping a single finger to the middle of his palm.

“Oi,” he protests.

Down the hallway, a commotion erupts when Kyle and Mom are caught under the mistletoe, which has apparently been transferred somewhere in the living room. Benny and I take a beat to grin at the sound of my mother laughing hysterically as Kyle plants one on her.

But back to business: “Tomorrow is December twenty-second,” I say. “Day three.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Well, I’m thinking there might be a pattern here.” I tick off on my fingers: “The first time, I was sent back to the plane on the first night. The second time, I only made it to the second morning. There’s a really good chance I’ll make it to the third day—tomorrow—but then have to start all over again.” Seriously, could anything sound more terrible? Having to live in a time loop over and over, and each time you add just one new day at the end?

Torture.

“I’m not sure that’s the only possibility,” Benny says, and takes my hands in his. “You always hold back so much. Maybe it’s not about making the right choices exactly, but making the right choices because you’re finally being you. Maybe that’s what you needed.”

“Or maybe it has nothing to do with me? I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I’m just tired of being so careful all the time.”

He leans back with a bright smile, pointing at me. “Exactly.”

• • •

With these words echoing in my thoughts, I follow Benny back into the living room, where the twins are directing the tree decoration. Kyle is mixing new drinks for whoever wants them, Aaron is on the couch in a fitted tracksuit, Dad is on his stomach under the tree, futzing with the stand, and Theo approaches, handing me a tumbler with a clear, sparkling liquid—very little ice—and a slice of lime. His expression is tentative and guilty, like he feels the wedge between us but obviously has no idea what’s causing it.

I haven’t given myself a second to mourn the change in our relationship, and how I know that even if everyone else has the luxury of ignorance, I don’t. Our mistake—and Theo’s reaction the next day—would have created a fracture in this weird, wonderful group. There’s no question about that now.

Friends our whole lives, and Theo couldn’t put on a brave face over his denied boner for a single morning? This group survived the awkwardness of my parents’ divorce, so I trust that it can handle something infinitely less dramatic than that, but I never want to take these friendships for granted.

I bend, smelling the drink.

“It’s just sparkling water,” he says, mildly offended.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Wanna hang later?”

I take a sip. “Hang where?”

“Downstairs? Miles and I were talking about playing some games after dinner.”

That sounds decidedly more wholesome than I was expecting. “Board or video?”

I can tell he’s getting annoyed. “Whichever gets you to play. I’ve barely seen you since you got here.”

Are we really only grounded in such childhood habits? In order to spend time together, do we have to find a game to play? It feels so obvious.

Before I can answer, Aaron speaks up from where he’s now squeezing in between Lisa and Mom hanging ornaments. “Interesting choice here.” He’s definitely been working out because he winces as he tries to hang an ornament and finally just . . . weakly tosses it in the direction of his target, hoping it hooks on the landing. “Were they all out of normal trees?”

“It’s the one Mae wanted,” Andrew says from out of sight on the other side of the pine. “I like it.”

My chest fills with warm, glowing embers.

Mom comes up behind me, putting her arms around my waist and her chin on my shoulder. “I agree with Andrew.”

She hums happily, and at the sound of her voice, my stomach drops to my feet with a daughter’s instinctive uneasiness: somehow, in the past hour, I managed to keep from pondering how I’ll tell my mother that I quit my job, that I did it impulsively, and that I have no idea what I’m doing next.

It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. None of this is going to stick.

She kisses me, saying, “Love you, Noodle,” against my cheek.

I’ll tell her later. If and when I have to.

Despite the jokes about this wacky, knobby tree, I can tell from their expressions that everyone sort of digs it. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation plays on the TV in the background, and while we watch Clark Griswold attempt to bring his mammoth tree inside, we do our best to fill this tiny one with lights, and ornaments, and the popcorn garland the twins and Mom spent the evening making. By the time we’re done decorating, the room is bursting with joy. It’s nearly impossible to see any bit of actual tree underneath all the everything, but it is, oddly, perfect.

However, it takes almost a half hour to get a reasonably acceptable group photo in front of it. With this many people, of course it’s expected there will be a few closed eyes, or a handful of awkward expressions. If only we were that lucky. Lisa sets up a tripod but can’t get the timer right. In two photos Zachary is picking his nose, in one he’s trying to feed the treasure to Miso. We catch Miles midsneeze; Mom can’t get her Rudolph earrings to flash in sync with the camera. Theo is looking at his phone in one, and checking to see if his zipper is down in the next. (It was.) For the next, Miso jumps in front of the camera. Then Miso jumps on Kennedy and it takes a little while to calm her down. Ricky’s kissing Lisa in one and can’t manage a casual smile in the others. The more we point it out, the worse it gets.

I remind myself that change is also not crying out “But—tradition!” when Theo impatiently steps in for Lisa and resets the tripod with his phone.

Good news: now we’re all in frame. Bad news: Kyle’s highlighter is so on point and in focus that he looks like a disco ball.

“Fuck it,” he says just as the oven timer goes off for dinner. “Good enough.”

• • •

After we’ve stuffed ourselves, we scatter around the living room, falling into a comfortable quiet.

The living room is a majestic place—I mean, it is massive—with vaulted log ceilings and old wood floors covered in wide woven rugs. Along one long wall, the fire crackles and snaps, heating the room to just below too warm. It’s wood from town and nothing smells like it. I want to find a candle of this, incense, room spray. I want every living room in every house I live in for the rest of time to smell like the Hollis cabin does on December evenings.

The hearth is expansive; when we were about seven, and our chore was sweeping out the fireplace at the end of the holiday, Theo and I could almost stand up inside it. The flames actually roar to life. Even once they mellow into a rumbling, crackling simmer, the blaze still feels like a living, breathing creature in here with us.

A plate of cookies sits on the coffee table. Mom and Dad occupy opposite sides of the love seat, reading their respective books. Benny, Kyle, and Aaron are doing a puzzle on the floor with Kennedy while Zachary sits on Benny’s back and pretends he’s a motorcycle. Christmas music plays quietly in the background, and Lisa futzes around, adjusting the lights, poking the fire, fetching throw blankets for us. Ricky is on a call in the kitchen, and Theo slumps on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

Seeing him sparks a memory in me: this night, the first time around, I was sitting next to him and we spent the evening going down various Instagram rabbit holes together, totally oblivious to other people around us. Which was such a teenage-y thing to do, now that I think about it. Why didn’t we hang with the others, and how often were we like that? Is that why Andrew thought that Theo and I . . . ?

Maybe if I had spent this evening just enjoying the ritual and the sheer bliss that comes from being in a room full of people I adore, things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did.

I shuffle over to the tree, sliding beneath it and lying on my back so I can look up through the gnarled branches. It’s a kaleidoscope of color and texture: the smooth light bulbs, the prickly pine needles. Ornaments of glass, and silk, and spiky metallic stars. A little wooden drummer Theo gave Ricky nearly twenty years ago. Laminated paper ornaments of our handprints from preschool, handmade ceramic blobs that were supposed to be pigs, or cows, or dogs. Nothing matches; there’s no theme. But there is so much love in this tree, so much history.

Beside me, a shadow blocks the heat and light of the fire, before sliding beneath the tree. I turn my head, coming eye to twinkling eye with Andrew.

My heart trips over itself. After the tree farm, I wasn’t sure whether he’d keep his distance.

“This looks like a good idea,” he says, turning his face up to the branches overhead. His profile is illuminated with blues and yellows, reds and greens. A few lights make flashing patterns through the ornaments and onto his cheekbones. “Smells good, too.”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I shift a little, scooting deeper beneath the branches. I wonder what we look like from the outside: two sets of legs, sticking out from under the tree like the Wicked Witch of the East trapped beneath Dorothy’s house. “A good thinking spot.”

“And what were you thinking about?” he asks.

“I was thinking about how much I like this tree.”

He reaches over, eyes unfocused as he moves his thumb across my cheek. An echo of electricity lingers on my skin once he’s lifted his hand, and it takes me a second to focus on the thumb he’s showing me. “Drop of water,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Must have dripped from the tree.”

I laugh. “Are you saying I have a moisture problem again?”

Andrew blinks before he bursts out laughing. “What?”

Oh, crap. That wasn’t this timeline. That was before. This Andrew isn’t in on the inside joke. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

His eyes gleam in delight. “Did you actually just say you have a moisture problem?”

“No.” I might die from this. “Yes.” I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “Ignore it. Let’s move on.”

I can tell he’s a cat who’d like to play with this mouse a bit longer, but he gives me a little shrug, gamely singing, “Okay.” Andrew turns his attention to the branches above him, using his old-man voice. “Maisie?”

“Yes, Mandrew?”

“You know what just occurred to me?”

“What just occurred to you?”

“We brought this tree in, like, two hours ago. What if there’s a squirrel still living in there?”

We stare at each other, wide-eyed, and shout in unison: “Ahhh!”

I’ve completely forgotten that my phone is in my pocket until it buzzes, interrupting our laughter. There is no one in the world I need to talk to right now who isn’t in this room with me, so I ignore it. It immediately buzzes again.

“Your butt is vibrating,” Andrew says.

“If it’s my boss replying to me right now, I’m going to need something stronger than sparkling water.” I pull it out and look. It isn’t Neda, thankfully; it’s a text from Theo.

No punctuation, no context. Just Theo, typing like a teenager.

I realize Andrew is reading over my shoulder when he lets out a little laugh through his nose. “See?”

I feel myself recoil. “See what?”

He lifts his chin, indicating my phone. “You haven’t spent any time with him, and he’s grumpy.”

“We were just talking earlier,” I counter, not quite a lie.

“Are you mad at him?” he asks.

I swallow, staring up at the lights. A scattered view blinks in and out of focus. “Not exactly.”

“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

I turn my head, and Andrew blinks, brows pulled low.

“It’s hard to explain,” I admit. “I’m not mad at him, I’m just aware that he and I are close because we’ve known each other forever, but not because we’re actually close anymore.” I shrug. “Just normal drifting that happens when people grow up, I guess.”

He smiles at that. “Mae . . .”

I grin back at him. “Yes?”

Andrew clears his throat, a sweetly pointed ahem. “About what you said earlier.”

Oh.

“Yeah?” The paradox of a hammering heart and dissolving stomach makes me feel light-headed.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says.

Ugh. The worst thing he could say right now.

“You don’t have to let me down easy, Andrew.” I reach over and playfully smack him and the tree trembles above us.

“Andrew, Mae, what are you doing in there?” Mom calls out.

“Nothing!” we answer in unison.

“Well, don’t shake the tree,” she chides.

Again, we answer together: “We won’t!”

He turns back to me, whispering, “Are you sure Theo doesn’t think you’re into him?”

“Are you saying I’ve given him the impression that I am?”

“No, but if I assumed . . . maybe Theo assumed, too.”

Well, huh. I guess if Theo thought I was into him, it might explain why he was so cold the morning after I pushed him away.

I shake my head, and Andrew turns his face back up to the lights so it’s hard to read his expression. “Is it weird that I sort of worried you’d . . .” He flounders a little. “I don’t know, get together and then get hurt?”

I can’t even wrap my head around this. Andrew worried that I would date Theo and get my heart broken? Am I in the Upside Down? “Um, yes, it is very weird.”

Andrew gives a helpless shrug in response. “He’s a player. You’re good.”

This actually makes me laugh. “I’m good?”

“I don’t mean—romantically, or, like, sexually,” he says, chuckling with the slightest edge of discomfort. “Not that I would know about that. I meant your soul.”

“What are you even talking about?” It’s a good thing I’m lying down.

“Okay, bad word choice. I mean, you’re a good person.” He turns and looks right at me. We’re so close. “You love being here, you love each of us for exactly who we are. You’re, like, the most generous and least judgmental person I’ve ever known.”

“I’m not—”

“You moved home when your parents split,” he rolls on. “You loved your crappy apartment and gave it up because your family needed you. You took care of Miles, you were there for your mom.”

I bite my lip, glowing from his compliments.

“Do you remember when the developers built those condos behind us?” he asks. “You were so sad because Dad liked to look at the trees while he drank his coffee in the morning, and you worried the deer wouldn’t have anyplace to go. Theo was just happy he’d have fewer leaves to rake up.”

I laugh through the fog of feelings. This is the most extensive letting-her-down-easy I could possibly imagine. It is both incredibly tender and incredibly awkward. “Well, it’s a non-issue. I’ve never been into Theo. But I’m sorry if what I said made things weird.”

He reaches up, scratches his cheek, and I’m having a hard time looking away. I never get to be this close to him. He has light stubble, but it looks soft. I can make out at least four different shades of green in his eyes. When he licks his lips, it does something electric to my pulse.

“I guess that’s what I’m saying. Had I known it was a—” He stops and seems to chew on his words. Meanwhile, my brain is a nuclear reactor, melting down. Had he known it was a what? “I’ve always really admired you,” he starts again. “You’re one of the few people in my life I hope I’ll be close to forever, and I didn’t want things to be weird after the tree farm.” He glances at me, his face illuminated. “I wasn’t sure if I responded the way I should have. I was really surprised when you said it.”

“That’s okay. I was surprised when I said it, too.”

He grins. “It took a lot of bravery to tell me how you feel, though, and I just wanted you to know—” He gestures between us. “It won’t change this.”

I know exactly what he means—we’ll be the same as we’ve always been—and of course I’m grateful for that.

But even though I never—not in my wildest dreams— imagined he would share my affection, when he says this I am consumed with rejection. I mean, of course the entire point of telling him how I felt was so that nothing would stay the same.

“Let’s move on,” I say, pushing forward.

Andrew laughs. “Okay, good idea.”

“You can travel anywhere, where do you go?”

He doesn’t even have to think about this conversational pivot: “Budapest. You?”

“Besides here?”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Yes, besides here.”

“Okay, fine.” I mentally scroll through postcard images of various locations, feeling vaguely uninspired by my own game. “No idea. Maybe Hawaii?”

“You have the entire world to choose from and you go to Hawaii?”

“What’s wrong with Hawaii?”

He shrugs. “It just feels so easy. What about Tahiti? Mallorca?”

“Sure, they sound nice.”

Andrew laughs. “Okay, it’s settled. With that attitude, I’m in charge of all of our future travel.”

The words settle heavily between us, and we both go still.

“I made it weird,” he says finally, grinning over at me.

I burst out laughing, relieved that this time it wasn’t me.

“You totally did.”

Our laughter dies away and silence engulfs us. I don’t know how to read the mood. I told him how I felt, giving him an opening to reciprocate, but he didn’t. And yet . . . there’s a strange understanding blooming between us.

“Okay, I have an idea,” he says. “No speaking for five minutes. Let’s just look up at the tree together.”

“And hope we don’t get our faces eaten off.”

He bursts out laughing again and then wipes a hand down his face, saying playfully, “God. Why can’t you ever be serious?” He wipes at his eyes. “Okay. Five minutes.”

I follow his lead and focus on the tree. “Five minutes.”

As odd an idea it is, it’s also brilliant. It saves me from having to think about what to say, which is good, because my mind is a mortified blank sheet of nothing.

For the first thirty seconds or so, I feel like I’m drowning in the sound of everything else in the room and the contrasting quiet between us. But then the stilted awareness dissolves, and I can focus on the lights, the dangling gold ornament just to my right, the laminated picture of Theo and Andrew as little kids hanging on the branch nearby. I can focus on his warm, easy presence next to me. Andrew’s arm presses along the length of mine and we just lie like that, breathing in tandem.

His stomach growls, and it makes me giggle again, and he shushes me. I turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at me, and with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, he lifts his finger to his lips and whispers, “No talking. I just want to be under the tree with you.”