Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Three days later, Alice looks around her apartment, dismayed.
She’s holding her little plastic tabletop Christmas tree in her hands because somehow it’s Christmas Eve, and she hasn’t done a single thing to decorate.
The dishes piled up in the sink aren’t exactly getting her in a festive mood, and she’s been spending so much time with Isabella and the Altmans—and trying not to think about Van or Nolan or the lie or anything at all, really—that she hasn’t so much as opened her box of ornaments yet.
It looks like the dreary short days of February in here: gray, depressing, cold, morbid. Lonely.
She’d thought about trying to find things for all of the Altmans, but the gifts for Isabella’s family already put a dent in her January budget, and there are seven freaking Altmans.
It was out of the question, so Alice stopped herself from touching a warm umber sweater that would look beautiful on Van, from picking up a necklace she could perfectly picture on Marie or grabbing a wacky purse that would probably suit Aunt Sheila.
The Snuggies in aisle twelve gave her pause, but she forced herself to keep walking, loading up on baking supplies to make her favorite cinnamon cookies for them instead.
Even the presents for Sebastian and Hazel aren’t brightening up the apartment much, since Alice wrapped them in old newspaper that she swiped from work.
Usually she sets up the tree weeks in advance, hangs little fairy lights around, and uses electric candles, binging stupid heterosexual Christmas movies and listening to the *NSYNC Christmas album on repeat.
But this year it all snuck up on her, and she’s feeling more like a grinch than she has since her first Christmas without her dad when she was nineteen.
A knock on her front door startles her so thoroughly that she almost drops the plastic tree.
No one ever knocks on her door. The last time must have been months ago, and it was someone high out of their mind looking for her next-door neighbor, who Alice is pretty sure is the weed dealer for the entire building.
Weed is legal and everything in Oregon, but she guesses some people still like the personal touch.
She opens the door and it’s not someone looking for some fresh flower—or, well, it could be, she supposes. She doesn’t know Babs’s life.
Marie and Babs are standing there grinning at her, their cheeks pink from the cold.
“Merry Christmas,” Marie says, pulling Alice into a hug before Alice has truly processed what’s happening. Marie’s jacket is wet, but Alice doesn’t care. She smells like gingersnaps and rain, and she’s safe so Alice lets herself love her.
Babs hugs her too, and like always, it makes Alice’s chest want to cave in. It’s worse here, in her dim apartment—the brightness of their smiles, the warmth of their hugs making her life seem even bleaker in comparison.
They both bustle inside, shucking off their coats and making themselves comfortable as only Altman women seem to be able to do. “Well, get to it,” Babs says, reaching out a finger to touch Alice’s little mini plastic tree with something that looks like disapproval. “Gather up your things.”
“My…things?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Marie says, like that explains it. At Alice’s blank stare, Marie rolls her eyes but deigns to fill her in. “We kidnapped you for Chanukah, Alice, did you really think we weren’t going to do the same for Christmas? Come on, you’re staying with us tonight.”
No. Alice absolutely cannot stay with them tonight. She can’t sleep in a bed with Van again. She can’t. Not after what happened in the bathroom, not after she’s been avoiding her, not after learning about her MS. Absolutely not.
But just like for Chanukah, it doesn’t really seem to be a request. Alice definitely hasn’t said yes, but she finds herself being shoved into the area of her studio that serves as the bedroom to grab clothes and a toothbrush.
She says something about needing to bake cookies, but Babs simply waves a hand, declaring that she has every ingredient known to womankind in her kitchen already, and won’t it be more fun to bake them at home with everyone there?
“No.” Alice tries one more time. “I couldn’t—”
But Babs is shaking her head before Alice can get any of the words out.
“Van told us your parents aren’t with us anymore,” she says, her tone somehow both kind and bossy.
“So you’re ours now. Come on, chop-chop.
We’ve got cookies to decorate, and we’ve left the menfolk alone with the icing for too long already. ”
She says it so quickly, like it’s obvious. Van told us your parents aren’t with us anymore, so you’re ours now.
Not Nolan’s, not Van’s, but ours. Like maybe they want her around even if she and Nolan don’t successfully rekindle their fake romance, like maybe she gets to have Babs and Marie and Aunt Sheila even if she doesn’t get to have Van or Nolan.
It’s a terrible idea, because Nolan’s memories could keep marching toward the present, Van could have a relapse, everything could still come crumbling down. But Alice has been alone for a really long time, and Babs’s grip is firm and warm on her arm.
“Okay,” Alice says. “Let’s go rescue some cookies.”
—
Marie spends the entire drive to Laurelhurst chattering to Alice about all of her favorite Christmas traditions.
Cookies, tree decorating, hanging outdoor lights, caroling around the neighborhood, watching movies all Christmas Day in matching pajamas, Babs making a mulled wine so strong one time one of the neighbors fell asleep in their driveway.
“This year we had to cram all of December into, like, two days, so it’s gonna be wild,” Marie advises from the front seat, an almost manic happiness in her eyes now that Nolan is awake. “Get ready.”
“I’ll do my best,” Alice promises. This honestly sounds amazing, way more cheerful and celebratory than any Christmas she’s had since she was a kid.
Or maybe ever. Back when her mom was alive they’d done the full-on Christmas thing, but they’d never had much money.
No place for outdoor lights in their apartment, and they usually had a fake tree—ironically for fire safety in such a small space.
Even after her mom died there were still presents and ornaments and stockings, but Alice had to do as much work as her dad did, if not more, and their budget for presents got smaller and smaller until it was trinkets only.
And then there was nothing.
They arrive at the house, and it’s exactly as chaotic as Alice expects it to be.
Nolan is parked on one of the couches, and he looks almost healthy in a soft gray sweater, his lap covered, of course, with a Snuggie.
Uncle Joe is with him, and while there’s a football game on TV, they’re both staring intently at their phones, barely even glancing up to nod hello.
The sounds coming from the kitchen seem to be even louder than they were on Chanukah, so Alice assumes that’s where Aunt Sheila is.
There’s an enormous Christmas tree in the corner now, already wrapped in lights and tinsel but surrounded by boxes of ornaments that have yet to be placed.
It smells like evergreen and roasting sugar, and it’s so warm that Alice can’t shuck off her layers quickly enough.
She’s ushered into the kitchen, where Aunt Sheila is surrounded by what looks like every mixing bowl in the state of Oregon.
Babs jumps immediately into the fray, and Marie crosses the kitchen to the far wall, where two aprons are hanging on hooks.
She picks them up and holds them out to Alice.
“ ‘Kiss the Chef’ or ‘I Like Big Buns’?”
Alice blinks. Well, she definitely can’t do “Kiss the Chef,” not with Van around. “ ‘Buns,’ please,” she says, reaching out for the hideously pink apron with a drawing of some kind of cinnamon bun on it.
“Nice,” Marie says with a sly smile, and Alice wants to die.
She puts it on anyway, and Marie forces her mom and Aunt Sheila to stop banging around for long enough to take a selfie of all four of them in their aprons (Babs’s reads “Queen of the Kitchen” and Aunt Sheila’s is hard to make out but Alice thinks it says something about the Latke Flippers’ Guild).
Alice can’t help but notice the gender dynamics and wonder where Van is. There isn’t another apron on the hook—so either Alice is wearing Van’s, or Van isn’t expected in the kitchen with the rest of the women.
After satisfying herself with the picture, Marie heads over to the pantry. “Alice, you said you wanted to make cinnamon cookies?”
Alice joins her, immediately overwhelmed at how well stocked it is.
She always has only the bare minimum ingredients she needs for whatever she’s making, but Babs’s pantry is overflowing with multiple different types of flours and sugars, three different kinds of chocolate chips, several jars of sprinkles, countless ziplocks of things Alice doesn’t even recognize.
Alice tentatively takes what she needs, letting Marie’s happy chatter wash over her as she tries to stay out of the way of the dual boomer tornados. It isn’t until her dough has come together and she’s starting to roll it out that she hears the front door open and feels a gust of cold air.
“Whew!” That’s Steve’s voice from the living room. “It’s a cold one out there!”
“How are the lights?” Babs yells toward the living room, and it’s only a moment before Van appears in the doorway, and she takes Alice’s breath away.
She looks taller and broader than usual, her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, her thick blue jacket zipped up to her sternum.
Her eyes are dancing, and there are water droplets on her black hair.