Chapter 13

13

Holiday break begins with a rainstorm. It never gets cold enough to snow before Christmas, but I guess something has to fall down from the sky. For two days, rain lashes the windows and pushes our inflatable snowman decorations onto the grass. We stay indoors and feed our boredom with Christmas movies. When we get tired of that, Thora insists we stage the holiday card she wants to send from her family.

“You mean our family?” I ask.

“No, I mean Pickles, BooBoo, and myself.”

She dresses in green velvet and lounges in front of the fireplace with the cats in her arms. Daphne captures three whole photos before Pickles scratches his way free.

When the weather finally clears, Danielle and I go shopping for family gifts. Daphne tags along, which I’m grateful for, because it means Danielle won’t have a chance to ask about Irene. We make our way around town, hitting up the mall, the bookstore, and Balthazar’s Antiques. None of us suggests treading into Candlehawk.

“Is Thora working today?” Danielle asks after we dip into a beauty store for some bath bombs. “We should go by The Chimney. I’m craving their fried pickles.”

“I could go for a virgin piña colada,” Daphne says. “Shopping is stressful. I need something to take the edge off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, slinging my arm around her shoulders. Truth be told, I’ve been over this shopping thing for at least an hour. I’ve already picked out presents for Mom, Dad, and Thora, and now everything I see is starting to remind me of either Tally or Irene. I can’t buy a gift for either one of them, though for vastly different reasons.

We slip into the warm, bustling tavern that is The Chimney just as the lunch hour is winding down. Thora spots us and signals to the hostess to put us in our favorite booth, the one by the jukebox. We slide into the high-backed booth and have a basket of fried pickles delivered within two minutes.

“Thora’s the best,” Danielle says, devouring the snack. “She always knows exactly what we want.”

“She’s people-smart,” Daphne says astutely. “That’s what Mom says.”

“How did I miss that gene?” I ask.

“You’re people-smart,” Danielle says. “Maybe not, like, on a Thora level, but you’re pretty sufficient.”

“A ringing endorsement. Thank you.”

Danielle shrugs. “Irene is the only person I know who’s actually on par with Thora.”

I say nothing, trying to keep my expression neutral.

“Is that why Thora doesn’t like her?” Daphne asks.

I look around. “Did she say that?”

“Um.” Daphne’s ears turn red—a gene my sisters and I most definitely share. “I mean, I think she’s just protective of you.”

“Thora doesn’t like anyone I date,” I grumble.

As if on cue, Thora appears out of nowhere, carrying two nonalcoholic piña coladas for Daphne. “Did I hear my name?”

“No,” I say, avoiding her eyes.

“We’re talking about Scottie’s love life,” Danielle says. I glower at her across the pickle basket.

“Ah yes, her love life,” Thora says.

“Why do you have to say it like that?” I ask.

“Because I’m not sure it involves actual love?”

My face burns. I grind my teeth and try not to lose my temper.

“Not even with Irene?” Daphne asks. Her smile becomes mischievous. “My friend’s sister showed us that video of her kissing you at the Emporium. It was so romantic.”

“That was … whatever,” I say, keenly aware of Thora’s eyes on me.

“Was it romantic?” Daphne asks breathlessly.

“No,” I say shortly at the same time that Danielle says, “Yes.” I flat-out glare at her, but she stares defiantly back.

“I just don’t want Scottie to get hurt,” Thora says pointedly.

“Irene’s not going to hurt her,” Danielle says.

“Can we please stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here?”

Thora and Danielle settle, both of them sighing. Daphne pats my back and slides over her extra piña colada.

“Drink up,” she says knowingly. “It will settle your nerves.”

I inhale the sugary drink and let their conversation wash over me. My body feels all out of whack, like my emotions are sumo wrestling each other. I don’t care how much Danielle brings her up: I don’t want to talk about Irene. It’s just too confusing. How can I be crushing on her and grieving Tally at the same time? Because that’s what this is: grief. I may have thought I was finally getting over Tally, especially with the high I was on from basketball, but kissing Irene brought a rush of heartache to the surface. Her kiss was the first one I’ve had since my breakup, and even though it was great, it was different. It made all these feelings flood back.

I just wish I could box up my new feelings for Irene, tag the box with Do not open until breakup grief is over, and store it in my attic, out of sight and out of mind. I mean, I’m not even sure these flutters of excitement I’m feeling are a crush. I’m not thinking about Irene all the time like I did with Tally. I’m not obsessively checking her social media. I miss her, but I’m not bursting out of my skin with longing for her. I haven’t even talked to her in days. Is that normal?

And beneath these confusing feelings, there’s a mean little voice that pipes up whenever I imagine kissing Irene again. A voice that is deeply intertwined with the same insecurity Tally brought out in me.

Irene had your car towed. She humiliated you. She stood there callously while you cried.

How can I possibly reconcile having a crush on someone who bullied me? What does it say about my self-worth that I’m drawn to girls who hurt me?

---

On Christmas Eve night, my sisters bundle up in their peacoats while I throw on the fleece I insist is warm enough even though it’s not. Mom wears her beautiful cream-colored coat and Dad sports his old brown jacket that smells like peppermint. We traipse out of the house and begin our walk toward Saint Gabriel’s for the vigil Mass. The air is crisp and still, just cold enough to feel romantic.

Daphne points out the Christmas wreaths on the neighbors’ doors. Mom and Dad huff at the Haliburton-Riveras’ notion of decorating, which is a lone, ceramic candy cane hanging in their foyer window. Thora snaps a picture of Mom sticking out her tongue.

We turn onto the main road and walk past Irene’s neighborhood. I try not to think about her, but it’s like trying not to picture the color red.

The church is just beginning to fill up when we arrive. Poinsettias line the entryway and a wooden Nativity scene adorns the altar. The church smells like incense and old ladies’ perfume, and the rumbling of voices is happy and warm. We slide into an empty pew toward the back and tug off our jackets.

“Oh look, Regina George is here,” Thora says dryly.

“What?”

I follow her gaze to the opposite side of the church. Irene is kneeling in a pew with her family, wearing a jade sweater with her dark hair falling over the side. My blood warms; my breath catches.

“Didn’t you know she would be here?” Thora asks.

“I didn’t even know we went to the same church.”

“Let’s throw some holy water on her. Maybe she’ll burst into flames.”

Irene must feel me looking, because she turns her head and meets my eyes. I feel myself blushing, but I don’t look away. She smirks and raises a single palm to say hi.

I raise my palm in return. Then I bow my head and mime praying very solemnly. Even from across the church, I can see her rolling her eyes.

---

When Mass ends, I’m eager to leave so I can catch Irene in the parking lot. I’ve spent the last ten minutes thinking about what I’ll say. I might be confused about my feelings for her, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss my chance to wish her a merry Christmas.

I shoot a look at my parents, wondering when they’ll be ready to leave, but they’re bellowing the last verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” like their lives depend on it. Finally, once the choir finishes and the majority of people have left, Mom and Dad pick up their coats and gesture for us to leave. I’m so antsy that I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet.

I needn’t have worried, though. The second we get outside, I feel a tug at my elbow.

“Didn’t know you were so into Christmas hymns,” Irene says. She’s standing alone, her family nowhere in sight. Her lipstick shines against the exterior lights.

I blink, trying to find my voice. “I am very devout.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Couldn’t you feel my prayers wafting toward you? Dear God, please bless my ruthless enemy on Christmas, even if she is a cheerleader…”

“Hmm. I guess my prayer for you to get a better sense of humor didn’t work.” Her eyes twinkle as they roam over my face. “Listen. Do you want to drive around and look at lights?”

“Oh. Um.” I’m suddenly flustered. For some reason, my mind gets caught on the logistics. “I don’t have my car. We walked here.”

“I have mine.” Her eyes take on that challenging look she had at the Emporium after-party. “We could get hot chocolate. My treat.”

My family is watching us now. Thora has her arms crossed, but Daphne looks starstruck. Mom and Dad are beaming.

“Hi, Irene!” Mom says.

Now it’s Irene’s turn to be flustered. “Oh hey, hi! Great to see you. Merry Christmas. Feliz Navidad. Happy holidays.”

“You’re babbling,” I say under my breath.

She looks pointedly at me. “Hot chocolate?”

“Um—yes. Mom, Dad?”

“Be home by midnight,” Mom says, winking.

“Enjoy your romantic winter wonderland!” Dad says, but I’m already tugging Irene’s hand and leading her away.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter.

“I love them,” she says easily.

Somehow we’re still holding hands. I drop hers and clear my throat. We tuck ourselves into her car, where she blasts the heat and turns on my seat warmer. It feels familiar and new at the same time.

“I didn’t know you were Catholic,” I say as we pull out of the church parking lot.

“I didn’t know you were, either.”

“Both sides of the family. Irish and Polish.”

“Both sides for me, too. My grandparents are from Kerala.”

“Cool,” I say, though I have no idea what that means.

She smirks because she knows it. “How’s that AP European History working out for you?”

“Shut up. I’ll do some Googling later.”

At Sweet Noelle’s, she swings around the drive-through and orders two hot chocolates with whipped cream.

“I can pay for mine—” I say.

“Don’t start,” she says, pulling out her wallet. Her voice is almost tender, but she clears her throat and corrects it. “I have extra cash right now. Some nerd is paying me to date her.”

“Ha, ha.” I can’t say anything else because she’s catching my eye with a smirk that can only be described as flirtatious, and I feel like my stomach is full of sunbeams.

“Do you know the best street for Christmas lights?” Irene asks. She’s driving with one hand, sipping from her hot chocolate with the other. Her nails are painted a perfect Santa Claus red. I wonder what would happen if I reached across the console and took her hand again.

“I do not,” I say, trying to stay cool.

“Well, lucky for you, I do.”

We end up on the other side of town, close to the square. Irene winds the car down one street, then another, in complete control of where we’re going. I picture her family driving out here every year to see the lights. Is it a sacred tradition for them? Has she shared it with anyone else? Did she bring Charlotte here?

“Check it out,” she says, turning onto the final street.

We’re bombarded by a straight row of Christmas lights, so bright that the road itself is lit up from the reflection. At least a dozen houses are in on the magic, some of them draped in bright, solid gold, others bedazzled with flashing colored bulbs. It’s overstimulating in the best way.

“Wow,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Does Honey-Belle know this exists?”

“Who do you think showed me?”

“Should’ve known. It’s totally her brand.”

Irene laughs contentedly. “This is why I love Grandma Earl. We do what we want with zero pretense about it.”

I look over at her. “Not everyone feels that way.”

“They should.” She says it with her usual conviction, her eyes on the dazzling display in front of us. “This place is special. The people are special. I feel it every time we cheer at a football game.” She glances at me. “Or a girls’ basketball game.”

“Well played.”

She pretends to bow. It’s so corny, so unlike her, that I laugh out loud.

We inch the car forward, taking in each house as we pass. Irene decides her favorite is the twinkling ranch house with Charlie Brown cutouts that appear to be ice skating. Mine is a blinding two-story with reindeer silhouettes across the roof. The radio plays “Last Christmas” by Wham! and we reach to turn it up at the same time. Our fingers brush and I feel the electricity on our skin, radiant enough to power this street full of lights.

---

“Are you in any rush to get home?” Irene asks as we’re driving back.

“No, why?”

“Let’s stop at my house for a minute. I got you something.”

My heart beats faster. “Like a gift?”

“No, like anthrax.” She side-eyes me. “Yes, a gift.”

We park in her driveway, a place I’ve been many times, and walk into her home, a place I’ve only wondered about. A disjointed part of my brain, the one that lives in an alternate universe where none of this ever happened, cannot process what I’m doing here, sneaking into Irene Abraham’s house on Christmas Eve.

The house is warm and soft lit. The color scheme is different from my family’s home: more sepia and tangerine, wood tones and marble surfaces. There’s an ornate kitchen chest with a porcelain elephant centerpiece. I count two espresso machines on the counter. Irene pulls off her boots and places them on a shoe rack near the door, then gestures for me to do the same. A golden retriever pads over and Irene kneels down to rub her ears.

“Hi, Mary.”

I laugh. “Your dog’s name is Mary?”

She rolls her eyes. “My brother named her when he was learning about the Nativity. My dad calls her ‘Holy Mary, mother of Dog.’”

“I’m obsessed with your dad. That bomber jacket he was wearing at church? Iconic.”

She watches me for a moment. “Come see the tree.”

She tugs on my wrist but quickly lets go. I follow her into the family room, where she sits on her feet next to the glowing Christmas tree. I hesitate before dropping down next to her.

“It’s fake,” she says. “My mom got tired of the needles.”

“Beautiful, though.”

I touch my finger to a golden light. It’s warm, then it burns. I reach for an ornament instead. It’s handmade from construction paper. The kind of thing a kid brings home from school.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, finding the faded photo glued to the middle. “Please tell me this is you.”

“Of course it’s me. Look at that style game.”

Little Irene wears a sparkly headband, polka-dot sweater, and toothless grin. She might be six or seven years old. There’s no scar in her eyebrow, but her eyes are exactly the same.

“Enough of that,” Irene says with a self-conscious laugh. “Here.”

She hands me a perfectly wrapped box. I rip the paper as gently as I can, acutely aware of her watching me. When I open the case inside, I find a black, thick-banded wristwatch in the exact style I would choose for myself.

“I—”

“I kept the receipt in case you don’t like it.”

“No, I love it,” I say breathlessly. “I don’t have a watch.”

“I know.” Her tone shifts to something more familiar. “I thought you could use something to help you run on time.”

Her eyes are dancing. I mean to look away from them, but the chance for that passes. I’m looking at her and she’s looking at me and it’s far too late to pretend otherwise.

She bites her lip. “Well—let’s see how it looks.”

She wraps the watch around my wrist. Her fingers on my skin are fire. I’ve never stopped to notice our hands together, the contrast of skin tones, the interplay of her polished rings and my bitten-down fingernails. She has a white scar near her knuckle that shines as clearly as the one on her eyebrow. Without thinking, I brush my thumb over it.

“Curling iron,” she says. “Seventh grade.” She twines our fingers together.

“My hands are sweaty,” I whisper, like I’m trying to give her a reason to let go.

“No shit,” she says with that sparkle in her eyes.

I stare at her mouth. I want so badly to lean in, but where would that lead? What would it mean?

“Scottie,” she says softly. “Don’t overthink it.”

“Overthink what?”

“Kissing me.”

I laugh unexpectedly, because it’s the most Irene-ish presumption ever. “God, you’re cocky.”

“I’m right.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me. A real date.”

It hangs there in the air between us. I search her eyes and she lets me. The sincerity in them scares me so much that I have to look away.

“Scottie.” Her voice is a whisper. “I like you. It’s crazy and unexpected, but there it is. Something is working here.”

“You can’t like me. That’s not … we’re not…”

“What?”

I shake my head. “This whole thing started because we hated each other, and then we got into a car accident and I paid you to be my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, it’ll make a great story for our kids. Will you lighten up? We’re allowed to like each other.”

I turn my head away. “I don’t get it. You could have anyone.”

“So could you, asshole,” she says. “Why does anyone like anyone? We just do. It’s pretty simple.”

“But I’m—I’m a—”

“Ginger?” She tsks. “Yeah, it’s surprising to me, too, but I did have a thing for Anne of Green Gables in second grade.”

I laugh out loud. “Shut up.”

She smiles. It’s open and earnest and wanting. “I love when I get you to laugh.”

We look at each other again. My heart is drumming beneath my sweater. Irene inches forward the slightest bit, and so do I, and we hesitate for only a moment.

“Don’t overthink it,” she whispers again.

Our mouths find each other easily. It’s just as amazing as the kiss at the Emporium, but this time, it’s only for us. She lays her hand along my jaw and kisses me like she means it, and I am breathless and weightless and dizzy at the very fact of her. Lips and tongue and teeth, her hair and her skin and her perfume, but more than anything, her very essence, her fire and flaws and that steely determination to be better, to always be better.

I don’t let myself think about the things still unresolved: the tow truck and her cruelty and the hurt I can’t reconcile. But even more tangled than that, the pain I’ve been carrying that has nothing to do with Irene and everything to do with the last girl I loved and the crater she left inside me.

“Are you okay?” Irene asks.

I pull back and paw the tears off my cheeks. “Sorry. Just—stupid emotions.”

Her eyes flicker in the glow of the tree lights. “Do you wanna talk it out?”

We hover on the edge of something. It’s so quiet I can hear my new watch ticking.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. “Are you over Charlotte?”

She tilts her head, searching me. I wonder if she can see the truth on my face: that I want her to say no. I want to know I’m not alone in this pain, this confusion. I want to know she understands how it feels to be falling in new love and bleeding from old love at the same time.

“Yeah, I am.” She brushes my hair back from my forehead, her touch exceedingly gentle. “But you’re not over Tally, are you?”

My eyes burn with more tears. I give her the only truth I can. “I want to be.”

She swallows and nods solemnly. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sit with it for a second.”

We breathe in the stillness. My emotions are crashing all over the place. I trace my finger over her curling iron scar again, but before she can take my hand, I pull away.

“Can you drive me home?”

Irene’s face falls. “Yeah, of course.”

She gives me a hand off the floor. We keep quiet as we tug on our shoes, button our coats, pet Mary goodnight. We get back into her car and make the thirty-second drive to my house.

“Scottie,” Irene says when I move to get out of the car.

“Yeah?”

“Take all the time you need. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I give her the bravest smile I can muster. I’m not sure when I’ll see her again. “Merry Christmas, Abraham.”

She smiles sadly back. “Merry Christmas, Zajac.”