In a Holidaze

Am I being too paranoid about a sloppy kiss and a boob grope? Without a doubt. But Theo is like family, and these things tend to get messy. Let me not be the proverbial stick of dynamite in this comfortable chosen-family dynamic.

Look back on a hundred other mornings here, and I’m usually awake in the kitchen, quietly cheating at solitaire while Ricky, Andrew and Theo’s dad, munches on cookies and zombie-sips his coffee, slowly coming to life. Maelyn Jones, you and me are two peas in a pod, he’ll say once he’s verbal. We both wake up with the sun. But this particular morning, Ricky isn’t up yet. In his place is Theo, bent over a giant bowl of Lucky Charms.

It’s still disorienting to see him with short hair. For as long as I can remember Theo had dark, wavy surfer hair he’d sometimes pull into a short ponytail, but it’s gone, cut off only days before we all arrived at the cabin. Now I stand in the doorway, surrounded by strands of metallic garland and tissue paper holly the twins and Andrew hung up yesterday morning, staring at the top of Theo’s short-haired head and thinking he looks like a stranger.

I know he knows I’m here, but he doesn’t acknowledge me; he’s feigning a deep fascination with the nutritional information on the cereal box in front of him. Milk drips from his chin, and he swipes it away with the back of his hand.

My stomach turns to stone. “Hey,” I say, folding a stray dish towel.

He still doesn’t look up. “Hey.”

“You sleep okay?”

“Sure.”

I cross my arms in front of me and am reminded that I’m braless, in pajamas. The linoleum floor is freezing beneath my bare feet. “You’re up early.”

One bulky shoulder lifts and drops. “Yeah.”

When I blink, I suddenly see what’s happening with clear eyes. I’m not dealing with Lifelong Friend Theo right now. This is Next Morning Theo. This is the Theo most girls see. My mistake was in assuming that I’m not most girls.

I move to the coffeepot, stuffing a filter in, filling it with dark roast, setting it to brew. The deep headiness of coffee fills my head, and, for only a breath, it distracts me from my angst.

I glance at the empty Advent calendar on the counter— empty not because yesterday was Christmas but because Andrew loves chocolate and finished it five days ago. His and Theo’s mom, Lisa, made some sort of cookie bars on the first day of vacation, but they’ve barely been touched because nobody is willing to risk a tooth after watching Dad crack one of his.

I know every dish in this kitchen, know each potholder, towel, and place mat. This place is more precious to me than even my own childhood home, and I don’t want to tarnish it with stupid, eggnog-soaked decisions.

I take a deep breath and think of why we come here: To spend quality time with our chosen family. To celebrate togetherness. We drive each other crazy sometimes, but I love this place; I look forward to coming here all year.

Theo drops his spoon onto the table, clattering me back into this tense, loaded room. He shakes the cereal box over his bowl, refilling it.

I try to engage again: “Hungry?”

He grunts. “Yeah.”

I give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Lord knows I am. Maybe I should apologize, make sure we’re on the same page. “Listen, Theo. About last night . . .”

He laughs into a bite of cereal. “Last night was nothing, Mae. I should have known you’d make a huge deal out of it.”

I blink. A huge deal?

Briefly, I imagine hurling the closest object within reach at his head. “What the hell is that—” I begin, but footsteps stop my tirade and save Theo from getting brained by a cast-iron trivet.

Ricky comes into the room, letting out a gravelly “Mornin’.”

He grabs a mug, and I grab the pot, filling his cup when he reaches out expectantly, and we shuffle toward the table: our familiar little dance. But then Ricky falters, unsure where to sit with an unexpected Theo in his chair, and he pulls out another one, sitting with a relieved groan, inhaling his coffee.

I wait for Ricky to say it. Wait for it. Maelyn Jones, you and me are two peas in a pod. But the words don’t come. Theo’s created a pocket of cold silence in the ordinarily warm space, and a tiny flicker of panic sparks beneath my ribs. Ricky is the King of Tradition, and I am the obvious heir to his throne. This is the one place in the world where I’ve never questioned what I’m doing or who I am, but last night Theo and I went off-script, and now everything is weird.

I glare across the table at him, but he doesn’t look up. He tucks into his Lucky Charms like a hungover frat boy.