A Wright Christmas

I swallowed back the lump in my throat as I left her to practice for our final weekend. I changed back into my jeans and headed out to my borrowed car. The wind had really picked up. It was beginning to look dangerous out here. I wondered if we were going to have to cancel the show tonight if it snowed.

I plopped down into the car and slammed the door shut against the whistling wind. I put the heat on full blast and checked my phone to make sure Isaac was home.

Peyton, change of plans. I don’t think it’s a good idea to bake cookies. We’ll see you at the show tonight.My mouth fell open. What the hell? What had changed?

Of course I was nervous about getting too involved with him when I was leaving so soon. But that made me want to spend every minute alone with him. Not…this.

Is everything okay?My stomach twisted, even as I sent the text message. Because clearly…everything was not okay.

Everything is fine. I don’t think we’ll have enough time, and Aly has been throwing tantrums all day. Trying not to reward her bad behavior.Okay, that sounded reasonable. If that was all this was. But something told me that this wasn’t all that it was. I couldn’t shake it.

See you tonight.I was frustrated, but it wasn’t like I could argue with him. He was a dad first and foremost. We’d been living in some kind of alternate reality, where his mom and sister were taking care of his kid so that we could have time together. But it wasn’t always going to be like that. And I was leaving in a week. Did I even have a right to be upset?

With a sigh, I drove away from the studio. Piper and Blaire were at work, and I didn’t feel like being alone right now. So, I went to the one place that I knew someone would be home—Abuelita Nina’s.

The wind buffeted against me as I rushed for the door. I glanced grimly up at the darkening sky as I knocked. I didn’t wait for her to answer before stepping inside.

“Abuelita?” I called.

“Peyton?” she asked, stepping out of the kitchen, holding a bowl in her hand.

“Hola, Abuelita. What are you making?”

“It’s Las Posadas, mija.”

A sigh escaped my lips, more like a groan than anything. I’d forgotten. I didn’t celebrate back in New York. Even though I knew a few Mexican Americans who hosted traditional Las Posadas parties in the city, it just wasn’t the same. Not compared to being with my abuelita.

For the nine days before Christmas, we celebrated the journey Mary and Joseph had taken to get to the inn with food and a party and a traditional piñata. As a child, I had looked forward to it every year. My mom and abuelita would be in the kitchen all week, making tamales and atole. Then, us kids would get to knock down the star piñata—a symbol of the star that guided the Three Wise Men—filled with candy and treats. Then, we’d end with a Mexican hot chocolate and buñuelos.

Abuelita must have recognized the pain and confusion written on my face. “Come. I just made a fresh pot of hot chocolate.”

“Chili powder?” I asked hopefully.

“I know which child you are,” she said with a laugh.

I followed her into the kitchen and slumped into a seat at the breakfast nook. She put a mug in my hands, and the hot chocolate, sweet and spicy, tasted better than any I could get in the city.

My abuelita returned to her kneading, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Buñuelos?” I asked hopefully.

They were a traditional Christmas sweet treat—round, fried discs sprinkled with sugar. When they were still warm, I could eat them by the plate full.

“I was making the dough ahead of time, but I can fry up a few for you.”

“Gracias.”

“Now, tell Abuelita what is wrong.”

“I’m leaving in a week.”

“That is a problem. You should stay.”

I chuckled. Of course that would be her solution. “I can’t stay. My entire life is in New York.”

“No, your entire life is here,” she said, adding a disc to the frying pan. “Dance is there for you.”

I frowned down into my hot chocolate. I hadn’t ever considered it like that, but she was right. My family was here. Isaac was here. My childhood was here. New York held a lot, but mostly, it had dance.

“I don’t want to give up dancing,” I told her. “But…I think something is growing between me and Isaac again. I don’t know what to do.”

“If you’re leaving in a week, then you break it off. He’s been through too much, mija.” She waved a spatula at me. “But if you find a compromise, then you make it work. If it’s real, it will work.”

“It feels real,” I whispered.