In a Holidaze by Christina Lauren
chapter twenty-five
St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Park City is an intensely stunning old stone-and-wood building set in the middle of a snow-covered field. In the summer, it is surrounded by towering trees of fluffy green, but this time of year, the branches are bare and decorated with the crystalline splendor of winter.
We go to the early Christmas Mass service—Mom, Miles, Lisa, and I—in part so that we don’t lose much time with the rest of the group, but also to avoid the chaos of younger kids later in the morning.
Although I love our church back home, the fact that I come to St. Mary’s only once or twice a year gives it this deeply nostalgic place in my life. Inside, it is beautiful simplicity: softly arched ceilings, crisscrossed pale wood beams, unassuming stone walls. Smooth wooden pews and tall windows that keep the space bright and clear.
And then, unfortunately, there’s the altar—the one thing that demonstrates that I am a terrible Catholic and probably going straight to hell no matter how I spend my Sundays. With arched stone framing an equally arched window, it looks so much like a vagina from where we sit to the side that neither Miles nor I can ever look at it without breaking into suppressed laughter.
Today, though, I stare directly at it for a full five minutes before realizing I am looking into the dark depths of the building’s vaginal canal. What’s wrong with me?
I blink away, focusing down on my hands in my lap. I’m warmly bracketed by my mother on my left and Lisa on my right. Their arms are pressed along mine; such a simple point of contact but so oddly grounding. My two mothers— one by birth and upbringing, one that Mom chose as her closest friend. You’d think things would be weird with Lisa today, after my emotional fiasco with both of her sons over the last couple of days, but it’s not.
Probably because she’s known me longer than anyone aside from my parents. She pulled me aside on the walk to the car this morning and said, “I want you to know that no matter what, I am always—always—here for you.” It wasn’t a long exchange, just a hug and a sad, understanding smile, but it was exactly what I needed to hear to let the air out of that stress steam-pipe. Disappointing the adults in my life is kryptonite to my peace of mind.
Of all of us here, Mom is the most devout, but we each have our own relationship with church. Mine has generally skewed more toward sentimental comfort: I love the songs, the community, the breathtaking beauty of church architecture (minus the vagina). I love the consistency of the rituals. Mom never demanded that we believe everything she believes—after all, Dad has a firm disinterest in all things religion—or do everything the church wants us to do, which is good, because I found that I was never able to accept the Bible as nonfiction. Mom only asks that we come and listen respectfully, and that we work to be good and kind, and live generous lives.
But this is now, and my first time inside a church after having real and irrefutable proof that there is another power, bigger than me, at work in this world. I’m still not sure what exactly that power is, but I guess I have to acknowledge there is way more out there than what I understand. I believe now that the universe delivers random acts of kindness, and it’s on us to decide what to do with them.
It’s on me to figure out how to move on from this past week and find happiness—whether that’s with Andrew, or on some other path in my life.
As the priest delivers his tranquil homily about the Gospel of Luke, I close my eyes and try to blur out all sound and images. I try to be present in this quiet moment, to soak up the warmth of my mom at my side and the solid shape of the pew at my back. I’m trying as hard as I can to not silently wish for more—for Andrew’s forgiveness, or for a job I look forward to doing each day. I’ve spent years not trusting my ability to make decisions and quietly letting life just happen to me. It can’t be a coincidence that the moment I stopped being passive and followed my instincts, everything seemed to fall into place. I know what makes me happy—trusting myself. What a gift, right? I found happiness.
Now I just have to figure out if there’s any way I can get it back.
Mom leans over and stretches to reach my ear. “Are you okay?”
My mother never speaks during service—especially not Christmas Mass—unless it’s to hiss at us to be quiet. But she would rather cut off her own arm than let her kids struggle through something alone.
“Just thinking,” I whisper back. “I want you to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself.”
“I am always proud of you.” She wraps her hand around mine. “I trust you. The only person whose expectations you have to live up to is yourself.” She lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses it. “I want you to find what makes you happy.”
She sits back up, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the way her words just delivered a glowing ember into my heart. This is real. I have so many things to work on, but it’s like my boulder moment all over again, like watching a puzzle slot into place.
The only person whose expectations you have to live up to is yourself.
When I thought it didn’t matter and no one would remember, I finally started living authentically. I quit my job. I was honest about my feelings. I went after what I wanted without fear.
My feet feel the floor; my back feels the pew.
I am aware of the fresh, clear air inside, of the hum and vibration of hundreds of bodies all around me. With Mom echoing my wish back to me, I have an idea.
• • •
Miles shoulders up to me as we crunch our way back up the driveway toward the cabin. “You good?”
It’s the first time we’ve talked, really, since that morning on the porch, and there’s no doubt in my mind that my seventeen-year-old brother is super confused about what the hell has happened to his boring, levelheaded sister.
“I’m okay.” I blow out a controlled breath. “Had a weird week.”
“Sounds like it.”
I stop a few feet from the base of the porch steps, looking up at the cabin. With a conspiratorial little nod to me, Mom follows Lisa up the steps, stomping her boots on the porch and disappearing into the warm indoors. But even though I know that part of my fix-it plan for the day is set in motion, dismay slides coolly from my throat into my gut. Today is our last full day here.
Miles drags his shiny shoes across the wet path to the house. Mom won’t be happy about the slush and salt that’s soaking into the hems of his best church pants, but I’m not ready to go in yet, either. If my brother wants to dawdle, so be it.
“Theo said he wishes he didn’t lose it with you the other day,” he says.
Oh.
His words pull my attention away from the cabin and back to him. Miles is already taller than Dad. It’s so easy to see him as an eternal kid, but in only a few months he’s going to leave home for college. He’ll launch, and he will be just fine.
I squint from the sun reflecting off the snow-covered yard. “Theo said that?”
He nods. “Last night. Sort of out of the blue. What happened between you guys?”
“That’s between me and Theo.”
He blinks past me, shifting on his feet.
“What else is bugging you, cutie?” I ask.
“Is it true Ricky and Lisa are selling the cabin?”
I chew on this, unsure how much to say before they can tell us all themselves. “I think so. That’s the rumor, at least. Who’d you hear it from?”
“Dad said something.” He stares up at the cabin, frowning. “Sucks. I wish Mom or Dad would buy it.”
There’s a creak in my mind, the slow opening of a treasure chest. I kiss my brother again and jog up the stairs, chasing after my second good idea in a single morning.
• • •
“Benito Mussolini,” I say, sweeping into the blessedly quiet living room. “Fancy meeting you here.”
The Christmas tree glimmers like a display of jewels in the corner; the fireplace cracks and pops nearby. Upstairs I can hear the twins racing around, probably still in their pajamas and high on all of the sugar they found in their stockings.
“Well.” Benny looks up from his book and tucks his thumb in to hold his spot. “What an unexpectedly chipper greeting.”
“I am in an unexpectedly chipper mood. It is Christmas, after all.” I point to the hallway. “Come talk to me?”
He stands, following me, and we make our way upstairs, and then upstairs again into the attic. I don’t see Theo anywhere along the way, and Andrew is probably out in the Boathouse with his guitar and regret. But it’s for the best: I can’t have this conversation if he’s around.
It’s cold up here relative to the crackling heat of the living room, and Benny pulls a blanket from the bed for me to wrap around my shoulders, and then grabs his green cashmere sweater. This is a Peak Benny moment—having enough money to buy cashmere but using it to buy a sweater that looks identical to the one he’s always worn.
Sitting in a rickety chair near the window, he motions for me to take a seat in the sturdier option—a wooden stool—and pushes his hair out of his face. “How’re you doing, Noodle?”
“In the grand scheme of life, I am great. Unemployed but healthy, and have a pretty amazing community, if you do say so yourself.” I pause, watching a bird land on a branch outside the small attic window. “But in the realm of romantic love, I am—how do I say it? Quite shitty.”
He laughs despite the dark truth of this. “Was it good while it lasted?”
“The blip of my romantic life with Andrew Polley Hollis? Yes, Benny, it was truly blissful.”
Benny’s smile tilts down at the edges and before I realize it, it’s turned into a full-blown frown. For years he’s listened to me pine hopelessly over Andrew. The summer before ninth grade, Benny caught me writing our names together on a receipt from Park City Mountain, and I was so embarrassed, I attempted to burn the evidence in one of Lisa’s scented candles. I ended up setting a pillowcase on fire. Benny sat with me through four hours of the online fire safety class my parents made me do so I didn’t have to be alone all day.
When I was nineteen, Benny was the first to run into the room after I’d gouged my forehead because I was supposed to be unloading the dishwasher, but instead was watching Andrew strum his guitar at the kitchen table. I stood up without looking, cracking my head on an open cabinet door. There are probably a hundred stories like this, and Benny has witnessed nearly all of them.
“I’m sad for you,” he says now.
“I’m sad for me, too,” I say, but swallow past the lump of genuine grief in my throat, “but I guess there’s a good lesson here: You can’t erase mistakes. You just have to figure out how to fix them.”
“Is that what we’re doing up here?”
“Actually,” I say, sliding my hands between my knees, “yes. But I’m not here to brainstorm the Andrew problem.”
His brows furrow, and he reaches into his bag for his one-hitter. “What’s up?”
“You said something in the diner about Spotify.”
He nods, flicking his lighter. The spark leaves a firework of light on my retinas that’s slow to fade. He inhales deeply and exhales to the side so it doesn’t cloud between us, before sitting back. “I did say something about that, didn’t I?”
“I realize this is incredibly intrusive, but it was a surprise to hear that you can pay a hundred dollars for my coffee when you don’t have smaller bills.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding with his attention fixed to something just past my shoulder, “it’s been a surprise. A nice one.”
“When did—?” I start, and then try again, fumbling. “I mean, we had no idea.”
“Well, to be fair, I wasn’t being secretive; we don’t usually sully the holiday with talk of coin,” he says, grinning at me. “But truth be told, I only recently sold a chunk of my shares. You know me.” He gestures to his ripped jeans. “I don’t care about stuff so much. I’d rather use it up and wear it out. I’ve really had no idea what to do with all this money. Got a guy advising me now. He’s good. Smart. Trustworthy, I think.”
“Well,” I say, and my stomach gets all twisty and nervous even approaching this, “I’m worried about being a terrible friend cliché by doing this, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about helping me do something.”
Benny gives a hint of a smile. “I think I know where this is going.”
I blink. “Where is this going?”
He lifts his chin. “Go ahead.”
My shoulders are slowly hunching higher and higher on my neck in preemptive regret, but I wince it out: “I was thinking maybe you could cosign a loan for me to buy the cabin?” His expression shifts. I’ve clearly surprised him, so I rush to add, “I can probably cover the down payment—I’ve saved. And once I have a new job, I can pay the mortgage. I live at home, I don’t have any expenses really. I’m sure I’ll find a job relatively quickly, and it would just be cosignature, I swear.”
He’s still frowning, and I am mortified but push on. “You could live here rent free and just do your Benny thing. Play your guitar. Putz around. I’d pay the mortgage and as I save, maybe I can pay for larger things, too. It would be an investment. I also realize this is dependent on what they’re asking—okay, it’s dependent on a lot of things . . .” I pause to finally take a breath. “I just don’t want us to lose this place.”
“I don’t want us to lose it, either.” He studies me for a few quiet seconds. “It matters to you that you own it?”
I shake my head. “I mean, I know that owning a home— especially an old one, and especially in another state—isn’t easy. But if you lived here, maybe it would be easier? I don’t know. I realize this sounds crazy, and to be honest the details only occurred to me about a half hour ago. It’s not so much about me owning it as it is about all of us having this place to come together. I do ultimately think this is one of the things I was sent back to fix.”
He nods like he understands. “I see.”
“Think about it,” I say, quickly adding, “Or don’t. I mean, I have no idea if I’ve insulted you, or—”
“You haven’t in the slightest.”
“—or whether this is even something people do?” I grimace apologetically. “I feel really naive all of a sudden.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with a smile, and then leans forward, taking my hands. “You haven’t insulted me, and you don’t sound naive at all, honey. I wasn’t trying to let you flounder; I was trying to figure out your motivations and whether I would be taking something away from you that I hadn’t considered.”
“Taking—?” I shake my head. “I don’t understand.” “Taking your opportunity to own this place. I’ve already made an offer to Ricky and Lisa.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out except for a wheezy zombie creak. Finally, “An offer on the cabin?”
He squeezes my hands. “The first time you lived through this week, you didn’t know until the last day that Ricky and Lisa were selling it. And I mean, who knows? Maybe I would have stepped in later and made an offer, but I know myself. I’m hesitant to make commitments to big things. Maybe I would have just been sad like the rest of us, and briefly considered buying it, but by the time I got back to Portland I bet I’d have talked myself out of it. But you told me the very first day. So,” he says, and smiles again, “I was here all week, thinking about how much I love this place and trying to imagine never being here with all of you again. Knowing what was coming made it easier for me to get used to the idea of taking that leap. And it also let me pry a little with Ricky.” His smile turns wolfish. “Subtly, of course. Just a question here or there.”
“I’m sorry.” I hold my hands out, unwilling to unleash the euphoria. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’m buying the cabin.”
I bolt out of my seat, tackling him in a hug. His chair cracks and breaks; we fall in a dusty tumble to the wood floor.
“I take it that’s okay with you?” Benny laughs beneath me.
• • •
I’m confident that my next conversation cannot top the perfection of how things just went with Benny, but I’m relieved that when Theo sees me come down into the basement, he doesn’t stand up to immediately leave.
In fact, he smiles.
He sits up at the small card table, wearing a Captain America Christmas sweater that looks at least one size too small and cupping his hands around a mug of coffee. “I was looking for you earlier.”
“That would make one of you,” I say, laughing as I sit down. “Most people in this house seem to turn the other way when I walk in.”
“Aw, it isn’t that bad, is it?”
I shake my head. “I’m just kidding. Everyone has been amazingly patient with my mental calamity, as expected.”
“Except me.”
I laugh at this, unexpectedly loud. “Except you.”
“Look,” he says. “I was a jerk yesterday. I’m sorry. You know me—sometimes I just need a day to cool my head.”
I don’t think I realized how upset I’ve been about the fissure in our relationship until he says that, and I feel the tears rising like a wave in my throat. Of course I know that about him. I’ve always known that he is slow to anger and even slower to defuse. So why didn’t I ever give him the benefit of the doubt the first time around? In hindsight, he just needed to be left alone the morning after we kissed, to be allowed to dig out from his own mortifi-cation. All this time I’ve been upset with him for simply being exactly the person I always knew he was.
But before I can swallow them down, the tears are pouring over. He immediately jumps up and rushes around the table, kneeling to hug me. I’m sure he’s bewildered by my reaction, but he has no way of knowing how badly I needed to hear this apology—for something this version of Theo didn’t even do. It’s like being angry at someone after they behaved badly in a dream; it isn’t Theo’s fault that I needed days of emotional space from him.
His question is a low rumble against my shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Even the idea of going through it all again feels, mentally, like running into a brick wall. I also know that it won’t help matters: If Theo was struggling with the idea of me with Andrew, the last thing he needs to hear is what happened in some alternate version of reality. Telling him won’t make me feel better, won’t help Theo feel better, and it won’t help anything between me and Andrew.
“Do you mind if we skip the whole download?” I say. “I’m realizing that, in this particular situation, I should probably just move forward.”
He pulls back and lifts his chin, studying me sweetly. “Okay. I’ll let it go. But if you change your mind, you know I’m always here to give you bad advice.”
I laugh. “Thanks.”
After a long beat of contemplative silence, he asks, “So you were really into my brother all this time?”
I nod. “Since you and I were thirteen.”
He whistles, low and sympathetic. “That’s a long time, Mae. Holy shit.”
“Is it weird to admit to you that I don’t know what it would feel like to not be infatuated with Andrew?”
“It’s not weird at all,” he says. “I mean, it’s cool you’re talking about it with me, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I mess things up with you two?”
This makes me laugh. “Fear not. I did that entirely on my own.”
“Do you think you can fix it?”
I chew my lip. “I’m going to give it a try.”
Theo rises from his knees to sit in the chair beside mine. “I don’t really know what happened with you two, but Andrew is super private. So the fact that he was immediately so up front about what was going on was pretty crazy.” He runs his thumbnail along a scratch in the table. “I think that’s what I was probably reacting to yesterday. The familiarity. It made me think you guys had been a thing for a long time.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”
“He was acting settled, you know? So, take that for what it’s worth, but I think if you really have feelings for him, it’s worth fighting a little longer before you give up.”
I look at the time on my phone and realize that if I’m going to grand-gesture this thing, I’d better get started.
“It would be easier to cut off my own arm than get over your brother, so I’m not giving up.” I stand, and then bend to kiss his cheek. “I’ve got some plans up my sleeve. Wish me luck.”
