Kiss Her Once for Me (59)

A sparkly rainbow orb. “Do you remember Pride that year when we drunkenly tried to smuggle Fifty Licks into that drag show, and ice cream melted all over Dylan’s fanny pack?”

A giant martini glass. “Richard never let me hang that on the tree when we were married, God rest his crusty-ass soul.”

“I can’t believe y’all put my face on giant orb.”

“Remember, Dolly Parton needs to go front and center.”

“Who hid my kombucha ornament?”

I sit on the couch with Paul Hollywood snuggled against my side, sipping cups of mulled wine that magically refill themselves every time Meemaw gets up. I’m not a part of the reminiscence, but I’m not wholly separate from it, either, watching the family get lost in their shared memories of love.

I feel… well, a little drunk from the mulled wine, honestly. And I’m trying very hard not to think about the conversation with Jack in the truck or the conversation with Meemaw in the bathroom.

“All right,” Katherine declares, staring up at the Christmas tree with a misty-eyed look. “It’s done.”

It is, quite frankly, the ugliest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen. There are mismatched ornaments hung in careless clumps and twisted rainbow lights and tinsel barfed on the branches.

It’s perfect.

An Ariana Grande Christmas song starts, and Meemaw reaches for Lovey’s hand and pulls her into the center of the room to dance. Andrew does the same to Jack, tugging his sister into his arms and forcing her to do some facsimile of the Charleston. She cringes, but she’s also smiling, that half-moon that transforms her face into swooping angles and mischief. Jack smiles at her brother like loving him is the easiest thing she’s ever done.

Andrew twirls away from his sister and finds Dylan sulking on the couch. I watch the moment of deliberation. He reaches out, hoists them up, and Dylan mock-protests for a minute before succumbing to Andrew’s undeniable charms, swaying happily along. And Jack—Jack turns toward me and extends a hand.

Friends.

I take her hand. She doesn’t pull me close, like she did that night on the Burnside Bridge. Instead, she keeps me at a safe distance, only her left hand touching my right, our bodies far enough apart to save room for the Holy Ghost, as well as the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. “Santa Tell Me” fades, and a new Ariana song comes over the speaker system.

It’s “Last Christmas.”

Jack stops swaying and meets my eye. I’m not sure what I expect to find there on her unguarded face, but as Ariana’s breathy falsetto begins, Jack’s smile widens until her eyes crinkle in the corners. And then she bursts out laughing, and I’m laughing, too, because it’s all so ridiculous. Last Christmas and this Christmas and the absolute absurdity of our entire situation.

We both laugh at the private joke of this song, until Dylan snaps, “What’s so funny?” which only makes Jack laugh harder, honking and quacking. It’s a terrible laugh. I’m obsessed with it.

She steps closer, still laughing, so I can feel her hot breath on my throat, smell the cinnamon and cloves of her mulled wine. A wave of heat travels from the crown of my head down to my stomach. Jack’s body and Jack’s breath. For a moment, everything fades away. The music and the grandmas’ laughter and the rest of the family dissolves, and I feel like Jack and I are back in our snow globe built for two.

But we’re not. We are here, at her family’s cabin. My fiancé is ten feet away.

I drop Jack’s hand.

“I think that mulled wine has gone straight to my head.” Without Jack’s fingers to anchor me, I’m unsteady in my attempts to remain vertical. “It might be time for me to go to bed.”

I’m perfectly aware of the fact that it’s seven thirty, but I’m not sure I can handle one more minute around other people. I stumble in the direction of the stairs, and Jack takes a step along with me. She looks worried I’m going to fall over.

I’m worried I might fall, too. I’m going to fall right into her and never let go. I grab onto the archway leading to the stairs.

Jack comes closer. I can feel her body heat again, the warmth from the fire radiating off her skin.

“Mistletoe,” Meemaw says from across the room.

“No, this is ‘Only Thing I Ever Get for Christmas,’?” Andrew corrects her, pointing to the playlist display, where we’ve switched to a collection of Justin Bieber songs.

“No. Mistletoe.” Meemaw points somewhere north of my head, and I look up to see a bushel of green leaves wrapped in red ribbon pinned to the archway. I didn’t know people actually hung mistletoe in their houses until I saw the Kim-Prescotts’ cabin.

“That’s cute,” I say. Then I turn toward the stairs again.

“Excuse you!” Meemaw snaps, coming over to us and bringing the rest of the family with her. “You and Jack are under the mistletoe. You know the rules.”

I glare at Meemaw, but she only smiles impishly and takes another sip of her drink. “I’m not going to kiss my brother’s fiancée,” Jack says before I can formulate an argument to spare us from Meemaw’s cruel torture.

“I honestly don’t mind.” Andrew smiles and props his chin coyly on top of his closed fist. “It is mistletoe, after all.”

“This seems inappropri—”