The Speed of Light: A Novel(12)

I blink, let out a breath. “Thank you.”

He nods. “It was good to see you, too. Merry Christmas.” Then he turns away to help his mom finish putting on her coat. A pang of guilt hits me—Walter is a good guy. It’s too bad I don’t have feelings for him. It would make sense for us to end up together. He’s been a part of my life forever.

But life doesn’t always make sense.

My buzz fades as I watch him go.





CHAPTER FIVE

The guests are gone; Dad shuts the porch light off, signifying the end of the night, and I follow him into the kitchen.

“We started without you,” Mom says as we walk in.

I smile, expecting to see Emmett sitting next to her, but it’s Connor at the kitchen bar, carefully slathering pale-green frosting onto a star-shaped sugar cookie.

He looks up at me and grins. “I haven’t done this in years.”

My neck warms, and I smile back but turn to Mom. “Where’s Emmett?”

“Probably playing video games,” Dad mutters.

“He was tired.” Mom shoots Dad a warning glance as she shakes red sprinkles onto a cookie.

“Well, I might head to bed myself,” Dad says. “You guys look like you can handle this, huh?”

Mom rolls her eyes, but she lets him kiss her good night, giving him permission to retreat to the bedroom.

I chuckle as I rummage through the silverware drawer for another butter knife, then sit down on a stool on the opposite side of Mom and Connor. The three of us settle in to frost, Mom breaking the contented silence to sprinkle Connor with her typical flurry of nosy questions—pointed but polite, more interview than interrogation. As impressive as it is annoying.

Mom looks out the window. “It’s getting even worse out there.” She turns to Connor. “You are definitely staying here tonight—no arguments.”

He raises his hands as if in surrender, one of them holding a butter knife globbed with green frosting. “Okay.”

I smile, then continue gliding the knife across each cookie methodically, slathering on frosting the way I like it—thick and plentiful, because no calories exist at Christmastime. I hum along to the holiday tunes that have been playing steadily in the background all evening, leaning back periodically to stretch and try to avoid the stares of Mom’s decidedly creepy army of porcelain snowman figurines lined along the windowsill above the sink.

Finally, Mom sets her knife down with a sigh. “I think we’re done.” I smile at her but notice the slump of exhaustion in her shoulders. She has put together this entire party, taken care of Grandma, kept the peace between Dad and Emmett, and welcomed a stranger into her home. And she has frosted the damn cookies.

An impressive feat; and yet, something is different this year.

She hasn’t been humming along to the holiday tunes, her laughter carrying above the music from a joke Dad told. The spark I’m used to seeing in her eyes when all of us are gathered under one roof, warm and safe together at Christmas, isn’t there this year.

My mind pulls out a long-ago memory of the last time I saw this. Emmett was a baby and had gotten sick right before Christmas—just a virus, and yet he was feverish, miserable, crying constantly. Mom had insisted we’d still have our normal festivities, but even at thirteen I couldn’t miss the forced cheeriness in her voice, the haggard look in her eyes.

Back then, my brother’s fever had thankfully broken by Christmas morning.

But this year is different. Mom’s worried about a sick child whose illness won’t go away.

The wine, apparently, has given me clarity—and emotion. I thrust forward and hug her tightly, basking in the comfort of the flowery perfume she has worn all my life. After a moment of surprise, she hugs me back. “Thank you,” I whisper. We pull back, and she wipes her eyes. “I’ve got this, Mom. You go to bed.”

She surveys the rows of red, green, and white cookies that fill the counter, then blinks at me. “Are you sure?” She leans in, lowers her voice. “You shouldn’t stay up too late, Monie. Your doctor said rest is important.”

Even her comment—and the fact that Connor surely heard it—can’t burst my wine bubble. “I’ll go to bed right after I’m done cleaning up, Mom. I promise.”

She nods, then squeezes my arm. “Merry Christmas, hon. I’m so happy you’re home.” Then she turns to Connor. “I’m glad you’re here, too, and so grateful you helped our Simone this evening.”

Connor looks down—I’m pretty sure he’s blushing, but then again, so am I.

After Mom leaves, there’s a beat of silence, save for the Christmas music. I take a deep breath. “My mom set out some blankets by the couch—I’ll try to keep it down in here as I get this all put away.”

“No way,” Connor says. “I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to.”

He shrugs. “It’ll go a lot faster with two people.”

We’re locked in an epic battle of Midwestern politeness, and the match goes to him because I can’t argue with his logic. We place the cookies into faded blue Tupperware containers and stack them in the refrigerator, and within minutes the kitchen is clear of all evidence of a frosting operation.

I settle back into one of the stools at the counter and pour more wine into my almost-empty glass. “You know, we really shouldn’t let this go to waste.”