The Plight Before Christmas(100)

“Who in the hell can possibly follow that, Sweet Pea?” Allen praises her with obvious pride giving her a side hug before clapping his hands. “Let’s eat!”

“But Gramps!” Gracie cries, “I didn’t get to sing!”

“You and everyone else will get their turn after we eat the roast beast,” Dad announces in his Grinchiest tone.

Trying desperately to reign myself in to join them, I swallow repeatedly as life resumes around me, and they scatter, heading toward the dining room. Gracie flanks Whitney on the way to the table. “Auntie Whit! You never sang like that before! That was so good!”

It’s when Whitney bends to thank her, embracing her with a kiss to the forehead, that I see the glimmer of the tiny tear stains on her cheeks. The sight of them guts me.

Releasing Gracie, Whitney glances over to me and smiles, tilting her head in motion for me to join her. I have no idea what I give her in return as she keeps her smile but averts her gaze while helping Ruby set the table.

I slide my hands in my sweats and stare on at her, feeling Serena’s eyes on me as she strolls past me toward the kitchen and pauses, Peyton’s sippy cup in hand.

“Just say it,” I speak up, my eyes trained on Whitney.

“Do I have to? All I ask is that you just take a second to think—”

“I’ve had seventeen years of seconds to think about her,” I turn my head to face Serena, “I don’t need another fucking one.”





The motorcade takes off as I watch the cars head down the steep driveway one by one before turning in the direction of the den. Much to my dismay, the last three hours have been filled to the brim with activity.

Dinner was followed by more karaoke, and after, our tradition of opening one present each on Christmas Eve. Thankfully my mother had the foresight to get a present for Eli to open—which turned out to be a bit lackluster, a simple pack of white cotton T-shirts. Not at all seeming disappointed, he genuinely thanked her for them with a smile on his face, which further softened my heart.

As eventful as the night has been, it’s been a living hell for me trying to keep myself in check as each hour passed. Anticipation built as Eli and I exchanged one raw and loaded look after another while the rest of the family bustled around us.

Said family safely on their way to church, I stand in wait at the front door in my robe, the same anticipation racing through me as the house remains eerily quiet.

“Eli?” I take a step toward the den just as my cell phone rattles in my pocket with an incoming text.

Eli: Meet me out back.

Heading into the den—my heart pounding twice as fast as my steps—I open the sliding glass door and walk onto the lit porch to see Eli standing in the middle of the backyard. He’s staring up at the moon, his back to me. Moving toward him, I’m stopped short when I see a hand-sized book on the railing of the porch, a large red bow covering most of it. Picking it up, I take the stairs toward him and stop on the bottom step as he speaks from where he stands.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking heard,” he rasps out softly, turning to face me. The combination of the moon and porch cast him in enough light for me to make out the hopeful glint in his eyes. “Your voice…Whitney…Did you sing that for me?”

Swallowing, the answer burns a hole in my throat as I avert my gaze.

“Bee…please don’t look away. Tell me the truth.”

When I look back over to him, his eyes search mine. Even with several feet of space between us, it’s as if he’s standing right in front of me. All I can do is nod.

I move to take a step forward, and he shakes his head.

“Please don’t. I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself around you and…I really need to right now.” He swallows. “Just let me try to get this out, okay?”

I nod, and he exhales heavily. “Let’s start with this.”

Lifting his cell phone from his pocket, he taps a few keys, and a second later, my phone rattles. Opening the text, I see it’s a picture of a picture. Though a little grainy, I can clearly make out a beautiful couple huddling around a teenaged boy in a hospital bed. He’s hairless and grinning as though he doesn’t have a care in the world—but visibly ravaged by illness. It’s the crystal blue eyes that give it away, and my jaw goes slack.

“I was the poster child,” he says softly. “Leukemia.”

I gaze at the photo in shock, my eyes flying back to his as the gravity of what he’s confessing runs through me.

“I don’t remember much about my life in L.A. at all. I remember what our house looked like, a few childhood friends I rode bikes with. That we were well to do, that my parents entertained a lot, and my father worked constantly. The rest of my significant memories took place in a hospital. I was diagnosed at eleven, plagued with sickness shortly after, and fought it for nearly eight horrific years.”

I stare on, disbelieving.

“I had to smile. I had to pretend the needles didn’t hurt. I had to be the happy kid with leukemia because my parents fell apart every single time I closed my eyes. They spent the entirety of my teens preparing for my inevitable death, fighting in hushed whispers until eventually, I believed it too.” He shakes his head and toes the snow-covered ground with a boot. “I can’t believe this is still so hard for me to talk about after all this time.”