The Plight Before Christmas(22)

I doubt he had no one to spend Christmas with. He probably opted out of any one of his weekday girl invitations to show just how serious they shouldn’t take him. Eli is not a commitment man, nor a family man, which only makes me curious as to why he chose to spend his holiday stuck in the middle of the mountains with my family. Instead of asking the question on the forefront, I fork some lasagna and shove it in my mouth.

“So, you two know each other?” Dad speaks up, finally catching on while hinting for some back story.

Wonderful.

“Yes, Sir,” Eli answers, “we dated in college.”

“How long?” Thatch asks.

“Briefly,” I reply.

“Wasn’t that brief,” Eli says, challenging me, “eight months.”

“That’s a pretty long time,” my father agrees.

“A blip,” I say.

“Old College flames,” Dad muses, “Isn’t that something.” He reaches for and squeezes Mom’s hand, oblivious to the growing tension. “I got lucky in high school. She told me off the day I met her, and I’ve been chasing her every day since.” They share a smile, and I feel Eli’s eyes on me again.

“Whitney spoke of you often. I know the story.”

“Do you?” My mother smiles.

He wipes his mouth and again lifts his gaze to mine. “She never shied away from talking about her family.”

“So, what’s on the agenda tomorrow?” I ask Dad, trying to bring the questions to a halt.

“It’s all in the emails. So, you two—”

Gracie has the good sense to speak up. “Gramps, Auntie Whit doesn’t want to talk about it, gah, so stop asking questions.”

“Thank you, nine-year-old,” I scold every adult at the table, “for being able to pick up on crystal clear social cues. Sorry,” I offer Eli in a bullshit apology, clearly substituting my discomfort to insinuate his own.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I’m totally fine with it.”

“It was delicious, Mom. Thank you.” I toss my napkin down before standing and grabbing a few plates. “I’ve got the dishes.”

Eli stands. “I’ll help.”

Perfect.





Drying the last plate, I glance over at Whitney, who’s scrubbing the empty lasagna pan.

“Tastes just like I remember it,” I compliment, in an attempt to jog her memory of the first time she cooked for me.

She makes a non-committal noise, working the scrubber like it’s her job.

“Want me to work on it a minute?”

“I’ve got it.”

We’ve barely had a minute alone since we started cleaning due to the bustling chaos around us. It’s clear there’s a delicate Collin’s family ecosystem in which chores are doled out by age per family. I’ve been assigned to Whitney moving forward because she’s the only one who didn’t, in Brenden’s words, “spouse up.”

Upon closer inspection, I notice she’s gained a little healthy weight over the years—which I appreciate. She was a little on the thin side in college. Her hair is the same length as it was back then, running just past her shoulders, her lashes still ridiculously long. Aside from the outrageous amount of makeup she’s wearing—which she seems to not at all give a fuck about—she looks very much the same.

“So, advertising—”

“If you recall, I was in some of the same business classes you took. Same professors.”

“I know, but I thought you’d—”

“Do something with it? I did. I use both majors.”

“Creating jingles for campaigns? You were so goo—”

“Let’s drop that, all right? Work is not a good subject for me right now.”

“Dropped.”

“Why are you here?” she whispers. “Seriously, Eli, you don’t like Christmas. Or holidays, period.”

“Your brother invited me.”

“Fine. Why did you say yes?”

“Because I wanted to come.”

“Just like that?”

I take the pan she’s been scrubbing from her hands. “Just like that.”

She’s fighting herself to ask if I knew that Brenden was her brother, but she doesn’t.

“You look the same,” I say softly. “Maybe a little more made up.”

She rolls her eyes.

“What’s with the makeup anyway?”

“Gracie did it. She wants to be a makeup artist, and I’m being supportive. She’s been practicing a lot.”

“This is after practice?”

Wrong thing to say.

She smacks the faucet handle up and rinses her hands, and I know my time is almost up. “I think I’m done here.”

When she turns to leave me, I grip her wrist with suds-covered hands to stop her. She stares at my hand clamped around her wrist, and her mouth parts slightly as she glances up. I feel it, too, but I can’t decipher if it’s memory, familiarity, or both. I know she can see the confirmation in my own expression.

“Whitney, I didn’t come with intent to ruin your Christmas. I was hoping I could—”

“So, you knew Brenden was my brother?”