8 #3
She pauses. “Meet my baby? You’ve met her before, though I’d love it if you were here for Kristy’s first Christmas.”
I find a napkin crumpled on the coffee table—it’s from Dunkin’ Donuts and smells like cinnamon spice—to wipe my nose with.
“Is everything all right?” she asks into my silence.
“Um—”
I glance toward the kitchen, from which an unsettling amount of banging is emanating, and drop my voice. “Well, since you ask, something odd has happened to me recently.”
I hold my breath. There’s so much I want to tell her, but her tone, the pinch of her forehead have me hesitate. I don’t know what has happened in the last year—but I do know Juliet and I are not okay. And that makes me nervous.
Juliet laughs so loud I have to wrench my phone away from my face. “Now you’re just baiting me into a fight. Listen, Mimi. For Christmas’s sake I’m not going to argue about your engagement. I’m happy you’re happy but—”
Her face disappears and Juliet’s wife’s face pops onto the screen. Her green eyes narrow with concern. She has on her sweater from med school, where she and Juliet met.
“Hey, Mimi,” Lisa says, “Juliet promised to be civil this holiday season so I’m taking over. How are you doing? Want to say hello to everyone?”
She swings the camera around and I see most of the family sitting in the living room under the Christmas tree. The video moves to the kitchen, where Tita Pinky and Manny are cooking. They all wave at the screen. My heart clenches.
“Hi, everyone!” I smile at them, trying to hide how much I miss them with my exuberant Christmas cheer. “Merry Christmas!”
My nieces and nephews pop up into frame.
“Where’s Dale?” they chorus.
I turn the phone toward the kitchen, where Dale has somehow managed to coat himself in pancake mix like it attacked him.
“Are those my little fans?” he asks, waving enthusiastically—right before his elbow clips a measuring cup and sends water sloshing across the counter.
“Nailed it,” he says, completely unfazed. He makes an exaggerated wince, then grins at the camera before grabbing a Mr. Grinch kitchen towel.
“They’re clearly superfans,” I tell him.
He laughs, that familiar, easy sound, and starts wiping up the mess. “I’ll try not to disappoint them. Or flood the house.”
Watching him clean without complaint, still smiling, fills me with warmth like a freshly baked cookie. Maybe we were a disaster back then. But right now—seeing him flour-dusted and good-natured—it’s easy to remember why being with him once felt so right.
“You should have Tita Marygrace sing with you,” Ryan exclaims.
My cheeks heat. It’s been years since I sang during family karaoke. He must have seen the posts his dad filmed when we were younger.
“I thought Cobra Strike was famously all-male vocals,” Manny corrects. “Isn’t that what Dale said in an interview?”
“Sounds like you’re a superfan, too,” I tell him with a laugh, trying to mask the fact that I have literally no memory of Dale saying that.
He never let me sing in the band back in high school, let alone college, and I never dreamed of asking, especially after that disastrous Battle of the Bands concert, no thanks to Robbie.
“Tell us about your Christmas Eve plans,” Mom says, interrupting my thoughts.
I clap my hands, eager to spill the details. I tell them all about the jet and limo ride I’m going to take this evening, and about the party.
“And what are you going to wear?” Wit Wit asks.
I quickly show her the gorgeous strappy dress Dale bought me, naming the designer, which practically has her drooling.
Juliet eventually holds Kristy up to the camera, and her dimpled smile looks just like my cousin’s.
Between cute babies and the flattery and praise my family is lavishing about my fancy party with my rock star boyfriend, I’m starting to feel something that I haven’t in a long time: happiness.
I have to admit that while I miss my family, I do appreciate the limelight just a little after endless Christmases being alone.
Now look at me. About to marry a hot rock star and party the night away on Christmas Eve.
We move on to discussing Dale’s Times Square gig, and it’s so gratifying hearing my mom and family laughing—actually laughing—that it fills something in my chest I didn’t know was empty. I’m still smiling when a smoky smell drifts in from the kitchen.
Wait? Is that burning?
“Babe!” Dale yells, voice cracking with panic. “Babe, I think—uh—I think the pancakes are, um, not very rock ’n’ roll right now!”
I close my eyes. “Oh my god.”
Mom snorts. Manny’s shoulders shake. My sister straight-up cackles.
“I have to go save breakfast,” I tell them, already hopping off the couch. “And possibly Dale’s apartment building.”
They wave with beaming smiles, then sign off.
The warmth of their laughter and approval follows me all the way to the kitchen, where I’m half-annoyed Dale can’t manage pancakes, but also a tiny bit thrilled.
My family’s finally happy for me. And for once, everything feels like it might actually be okay.