In a Holidaze

“That,” Andrew says, pointing at me with an elated grin, “is the best story I’ve ever heard. Goddammit, please let that be true.”

“And three,” I say without fully considering that my brother is sitting right here, “I broke up with my last boyfriend because he tasted like ketchup.”

Miles falls over as if he’s been shot, convulsing on the floor.

Both Theo and Andrew narrow their eyes thoughtfully.

“No way is that true,” Theo says, shaking his head. “He always tasted like ketchup? What does that even mean?

Number three is the lie.”

“Agree,” Miles moans from the floor. “Besides, I don’t think that’s possible because you’ve never kissed anyone before.”

I practically cackle. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

But Andrew just watches me, eyes still narrowed. “Toothbrush. That’s the lie. You wouldn’t ever do that, no matter how much you hate someone.”

I point at him, grinning. “You’re right. That was the lie.”

“Wait. I hope that’s not why you broke up with Austin,” Miles grumbles. “I liked him.”

“It’s one of the reasons. And you only liked him because he let you drive his car.”

I watch, surprised and mesmerized, as a pink flush works its way up Andrew’s neck and across his cheeks. He looks flustered and a little annoyed. Is Andrew Hollis jealous?

• • •

Once we’re done with our ridiculous game, and no one feels like actually playing cards or Clue or any one of the other fifty or so board games, the boys all file upstairs to get snacks, leaving me alone to curl up on my bottom bunk and succumb to the exhaustion of constantly whirring thoughts.

The craziness of the last few days catches up with me, and I nap like I’ve never slept before, so deep and heavy that it’s almost like a post-Thanksgiving slumber, or a Benadrylinduced blackout.

I come out of it slowly, thickly, at a vague, papery rustle nearby. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adapt; the sun has set outside, leaving the basement window wells black. Across the room, another page turns; the sound of paper crackles through the cool stillness.

At my sharp inhale, I hear the book close. A click of the far floor lamp, and then the space is gently illuminated.

“She lives.” Andrew. Alertness comes at me like a shove.

My voice is thick and scratchy. “What time is it?”

He peeks at his watch. In his other hand, he’s holding a paperback. “Six. Dinner should be ready soon.”

I slept for two hours? Wow.

“Where is everyone?”

He looks toward the stairs, like he might be able to see from where he’s sitting at the card table. “The twins were making more popcorn garlands with your mom. It’s snowing again, so the dads are shoveling. My mom is, um”—he winces—“baking something.”

I make the eep face, and he nods in agreement. “I think this one is some sort of coffee cake.”

“I threw the cookies out.” I push off the covers and sit up, running a hand over the back of my neck. It’s warm under all the layers, and I feel groggy and overheated.

His eyes widen. “Rebel.”

I stretch, groaning.

“You okay?”

I look up. “Just oddly exhausted.” Who knew time travel was so draining? No. Wait. Who knew time travel was real?

He turns the folding chair he’s on around and sits backward on it. “Maybe some ketchup would perk you up.”

I point a playfully accusing finger at him. “Are you stuck on that?”

“Maybe.” Quiet eats up the space between us until with a sly grin Andrew finally adds, “I’m just wondering if you meant—” He motions to his face. “Or . . .” He tilts his head to the side, winking.

Bursting out laughing, I say, “You are a pig.”

His eyes go wide in playful outrage. “I’m the pig?”

Upstairs, I hear a lot of pots banging and boys shouting, followed by Mom yelling something. “What is even happening up there?”

“Your mom was going to start dinner soon,” he says, “but Benny told Theo and Miles to do it.” He sees the surprise in my expression. “Benny said something about you wanting us all to help out more.”

“How nice of him to give me credit while I was taking a monster nap.”

Andrew laughs, his throat moving with the sound. Slowly, quiet swallows us again as he sets the book down. I want to ask him about the way he held me on the sled. I want to ask him about the foot-hug under the table. I really want to ask him why he seems jealous of my ex.

“What’re you doing down here?” I ask instead. “There are about seven hundred more comfortable places to read in this house.”

“I came down to get you,” he says, “but couldn’t bring myself to wake you up.”

“So you just hung out nearby while I slept?” I ask, grinning over at him in the dim room.

“You were cute. You kept smiling in your sleep.”