7. Alex

Chapter 7

Alex

"We're going to get in trouble," she said as I unlocked the door to my aunt and uncle's house. "I'm going to get arrested, and kicked out of my apartment, and —"

"Even if the police came, which they won't, I'm family," I shrugged. She didn't look convinced as I pushed open the door.

Growing up, this house had been my second home. It had been my grandparents' house where Mom grew up before her sister Carol inherited it. When I needed a break from my whiny sister or couldn't stay quiet enough for my brother's migraines, I'd bike over to hop in the pool or play video games or basketball with my four cousins.

My memories of this house bustled with life: kids yelling with squirt guns around the yard, the parents' laughter resounding over endless games of Euchre, and rock music blaring from the teenagers' rooms upstairs. It had been my haven, my definition of how a family should feel: big, loud, and loving.

Our families spent Christmas together, cutting down the biggest fir at the tree farm and trimming it in this two-story foyer. I could almost hear the echoing laughter of my aunt, who renamed herself ‘Christmas Carol' for December, singing with Mom as they drank mulled wine and draped tinsel. Uncle Terry lifted Mallory to put my grandmother's angel on the top. All of us kids goofed around, scolded by any parents when we got too rowdy.

Of course, we all grew up eventually. My cousins went to college first, I'd gone to Princeton, Nick off to USC, and Mallory left to travel the world.

Seven years ago, Nick's acting career took off when he was cast to play the Greek god Apollo in the popular TV drama The Twelve . His stage name, Dominic Martin, had become a household name, not only for his Emmy-award winning performances, but also for his product endorsements, from sports cars to dog food. He even co-owned the Elysian tequila brand … although I wish he'd invested in a whiskey distillery.

When Nick stopped coming home for Christmas, I did too. It hadn't been intentional, but without him convincing me to catch the same flight east .. I just … stopped. And I guess I wasn't the only one.

Now this giant house was abandoned. A gust of stale air enveloped me and heavy curtains blocked the early afternoon sunlight, lending an eerie quality to the silent space. I flicked on lights, waking up dormant memories.

I dropped the baking supplies onto the kitchen island and meandered into the pantry. Grace's hot chocolate mix had been sorely lacking in the marshmallow department. I hoped since Uncle Terry built a giant fire pit in the backyard, I could raid their marshmallow stash to replace the tinge of bittersweet nostalgia. I tore open a bag and continued exploring.

I expected stockings with all seven kids' names over the mantle, but nothing hung in front of the fireplace. I recognized the sofa where we waited in joyful anticipation for Santa, all seven cousins camping out until we couldn't keep our eyes open.

I bet our parents had enjoyed our Christmas spirit, looking as hopeful as the kids in the hospital … but this year, I'd been on the other end of the magic.

I found Grace in the dining room, eyes flicking as if following a phantom, fingers gripping an armchair. When I said her name, she jolted and forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

I couldn't figure this Grace girl out. The first night I'd pegged her as naive and she'd countered that she was optimistic. Whatever it was, her innocence intrigued me, and I wanted to pinpoint was so appealing.

Dad was especially invested. When I'd returned to his room after the Santa visit, he saw a change in my expression. "She won you over, huh?"

I slumped in my chair and picked up my laptop: 87 new emails. Fuck.

As I worked my way through my inbox, Dad's eyes lingered on my face. I met his stare over my laptop screen and raised a brow.

"Listen, Alex. Grace is a special girl, and she'll overturn the world for the people she cares about. She gives with both hands and never saves anything for herself. And men like you …" He let out a long sigh. "She's not like Mallory or Victoria. Don't take advantage of her generosity."

His obsession with her annoyed me, and I didn't appreciate his implication about my sister and ex-girlfriend. Before I could defend myself, he held up his hand. "I'm closing my eyes, you're welcome to work here or catch a class at Mallory's studio."

I couldn't waste time on yoga. As he drifted off I opened a new tab, searching for a better Santa suit and trying not to think about seeing my Mrs. Claus again on Monday …

Then she'd shown up in my aunt's driveway and invited me upstairs. She seemed to regret the offer instantly, but after shoveling in the whipping wind, my bones were cold.

Plus? I fucking love hot chocolate, and I hadn't had one in ages.

Cold bones and hot chocolate. Those were the only reasons I went upstairs.

Oh, and I'd wanted to check out the man cave, which had been a pleasant surprise. My memories featured plain drywall and the awful stench of teen boy and Axe body spray, but now it was tidy, feminine, and smelled faintly of cinnamon.

In her apartment, I'd realized that waiting for her to speak led to the most interesting revelations. I suspected most people only got happy Grace without waiting out the deeper stories, and that was what made her fascinating.

So I sat at the dining table and used one of my favorite negotiation techniques: silence. Most people think negotiation is fast, loud yelling — it is, and I love that part too — but if you stay quiet long enough, the other person will crack. I shoved a marshmallow in my mouth and held up the bag as an offering.

She released the chair and walked over, but at the last second, I smirked and tugged it away, tilting my chin to the seat next to me. When she slid into it, I pushed the bag over. She held a marshmallow on her fingertips as she glanced around the table again.

Her courage kicked in after two more marshmallows of my silence.

"Our kitchen only had room for my parents, my three older brothers, and me. As the youngest, I'd be the first to be demoted to the kids' table." The marshmallow spun between her fingertips, her gaze tracking her fidgeting. "At church, my father told the story of the Last Supper: Jesus knew it was His last night on Earth before He walked to his death. He wanted to spend it eating with all Twelve Apostles around one table." She picked apart her marshmallow, the stringy bits stretching between her fingernails. "That was the Christmas present I prayed for: A table big enough to host all my family and friends."

A table? As a little girl, she'd wanted a table for Christmas?

My Christmas wish list had been a mile long: trucks and action figures, baseball equipment, video games and skis. Never once had I thought of asking for a table big enough for my family. I hadn't needed to. It had always been there.

I ran my hand over this dining room table, fingertip catching on a small groove. If Grace was so close with her family, why did she spend her holidays with mine?

Before I could ask, she stood and ran her hands over her thighs. "We should get to work."

I ate another marshmallow before following her. She set up an apple peeling station, slid over a bowl of washed apples, and I got to work. She asked the smart speaker for Christmas music and we moved in tandem: I cored and sliced apples, dropping them into her bowls; she mixed ingredients, pounded and rolled out dough. Her face took on a tranquil expression and I fell into her rhythm, watching as she glided through my aunt's kitchen like she belonged. "Where'd you learn to bake? "

"My Nanna taught me and my three brothers. Isaac had been the manager, coordinating our assembly line. He was my oldest brother, a little older than you, I think," her eyes darted over before she sprinkled flour over her dough. "Next came Levi, five years older than me. He hated baking, so he got apple coring duty to finish first and leave." She looked at my hands, her gaze soft and affectionate. "Elijah had been in charge of spices. And once Nanna realized I liked the dough, I got promoted to this station." She fondly reached for the rolling pin and started to press it out.

All her family stories were in the past tense, I realized. Isaac was her oldest brother, not is . What changed? Had her brothers all moved away, like Nick and I had? When Mallory told childhood stories, did she say ‘Alex was my brother,' like I didn't exist anymore?

Or had something worse happened? Maybe she'd brought Shannon home and her family hadn't approved of her being a lesbian or something?

Which is stupid. And I'd been shocked Shannon's parents hadn't approved of Grace. What parent wouldn't instantly adore Grace?

I bet my parents hoped for somebody like Grace when they met Victoria, who they'd never warmed up to but accepted as my choice. Then again, nobody really liked Victoria when they first met her. Or the first twenty times.

"This was Nanna's signature dessert for church bake sales, so we made dozens. She didn't believe in ‘secret family recipes.' We all knew each step by heart to pass on to our kids someday." Her hands stayed on the rolling pin, eyes downcast and her voice tightening.

"You want to teach me?" Her skeptical gaze flicked over, and I shrugged. "Might come in handy if one of my clients acquires a bakery."

The excuse was bullshit, but her mouth lifted like she appreciated my bullshit. She waved me closer and showed me how to roll the dough, explaining that some people like a flat crust or a crumble, but her family did lattice tops. She sliced the dough into strips, and I used a ruler to ensure they were evenly cut as she rolled her eyes at my precision. But anything worth doing is worth doing right.

I replicated her expert movements, weirdly soothed while stacking strips over and under. When I finished the lattice on the first pie, I looked to her for approval. "That's it?"

"That's it," she said … but her voice cracked. I waited.

"Sometimes my mom would add this caramel glaze …" Her fingers tightened on the rolling pin, flattening the next crust. "I've tested dozens of caramel apple pie recipes, but they don't taste right."

"You can't ask her?"

"No." She met my eyes, her reaction so definitive I knew no amount of marshmallow-induced silence would coax out this story. The tightness of her mouth and tilt of her shoulders told me I shouldn't push her, not this time.

I dipped my chin, and she released a breath.

I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and gestured her to my aunt's cookbook shelf. I paged through the top one, no caramel. I checked the index of the second one, flipped to the page and held it up, but she'd tried that one.

The third cookbook I checked, ‘Dulce,' was full of Latin-American desserts. I forgot about my caramel mission and salivated over photos of chocolate churros and flan, thinking about the amazing Mexican restaurant in the Mission where Victoria and I had celebrated my 30th birthday and shared the sweetest dessert …

"After you finish the pies, you should make this." I displayed the tres leches cake. Grace snatched it, skimmed the contents, and flipped to another recipe.

Her eyes sparkled as she tapped on an image like runny peanut butter. "Maybe Mama called it ‘caramel' because my father refused to learn Spanish, but it could have been dulce de leche ."

She fled to the pantry and scanned the shelves, murmuring about sweetened evaporated milk and holding her fingers about three inches tall. When I found the can on a shelf above her head, she hugged the cheap milk to her chest and flounced back to the kitchen. I bit back a grin at how cute she looked hugging the tiny can.

By the time I emerged, she'd pulled pans out of the drawers. Her face beamed as she scraped out every last drop with a rubber spatula. Sliding the pans into the bottom oven reverently, she closed the door with a dreamy look before moving back to her dough.

Nearly an hour passed while we baked and talked about my work. Most people's eyes glaze over when I talk about corporate mergers, but she asked thoughtful questions about the current deal, a Silicon Valley software company acquiring a Brooklyn startup. A project I should be working on now … but my hands were covered in sticky apple juice.

"Do you like your job?" she asked.

Hmmm. Nobody had ever asked me that.

I'd wanted to be a lawyer since my first visit to Dad's firm. He let me sit at the conference table while his clients signed their closing documents, their expressions elated when he handed over the keys to their new house. I started applying to law schools right after Nick moved to LA to pursue acting and I missed him so much it hurt, so I googled 'Best Law School in California.

It wasn't my fault Stanford was 300 miles north of Hollywood.

Then I met Victoria, the only other student who aced the Contracts final. We studied together so much that dating felt inevitable. When she started at Hamilton now my body craved more. I wanted to lean down and kiss those lush lips, to press her into the cabinet and lick the caramel directly off her tongue. I wanted to lift her ass onto the counter and step between her thighs, run my mouth down her neck and —

Her eyes shyly dropped to the pan. I couldn't stand there staring, so I went for a third helping. She batted my hand away. "Save some for the pies."

"Fuck the pies."

"Even your pie?"

"We'll make more for that one."

She laughed, a resonant laugh that harmonized with the Christmas music and banished those pesky Ghosts of Christmas Past. My chest warmed like I'd finished a full mug of hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows.

"Is there any more canned milk in the pantry?"

It was a relief to twist away, to walk off this hard-on before she caught my reaction to her dessert — and her mouth. I banged around in the pantry like I was looking behind the cans, but really, I needed to cool myself off.

I couldn't get distracted. I needed to go back to San Francisco to earn my promotion. California had plenty of women who could look hot while making me dessert .

Or better yet, bring dessert to my desk while I worked.

Grace's phone rang and I poked my head out of the pantry. Her brow furrowed in concern and she swiped quickly. "Hey Mariana, is everything ok with R—" Her eyes met mine and widened in worry. "Um, our favorite patient?"

Her shoulders relaxed on an exhale of relief. "Oh, good. And no update on her …?" Her eyelids closed and her hip leaned against the counter. "Ok, so what can I help you with?" Her eyes opened and met mine, pinched in apology. "Today?"

"Yes, I could teach it, but … hold on a second." She glanced at the oven timer and held the phone to her chest. "It's a case worker from a foster care agency. Their guest speaker got the flu, she's asking if I can fill in with a training about mindful stress reduction and somatic therapy."

I had no idea what the fuck those were, but when she said the topics, her eyes brightened, so I made a mental note to look them up later. She glanced around the messy kitchen. "But I don't want to leave you with all —"

"Go," I said, relieved she would leave before I did something stupid like kiss her again. "I'll work till the pies are done."

Her shoulders dropped in relief. With grateful eyes, she reached out to brush her fingers along my sleeve before lifting the phone to her ear and saying, "Mariana? I'll be right there."