Chapter 35 Christmas Wishes and Mistletoe Kisses
Christmas Wishes and Mistletoe Kisses
Knox
Paisley and I are lying on the floor in front of the fireplace.
The fire is crackling, and the radio is playing “Last Christmas.” She’s put her head on one of the sofa cushions and is leafing through her copy of Skate Magazine.
Her feet are lying on top of my thighs, and she keeps on wiggling her toes.
Between us there’s a plate of gingerbread cookies.
I have to hold myself in check so as not to eat them all within a few minutes, but, man, is it a challenge.
Paisley needs an eternity to just eat one of them.
She nibbles at it for fifteen minutes and then stops every time she loses herself in an interesting article.
She turns a page. “Could you please stop staring at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you wanted to devour my gingerbread man.”
“But you eat so slowly!”
“No. I’m just not as greedy as you.”
I groan, lean my head against the sofa and grab my phone. It’s time I answered some of my messages on Instagram before Dad has a breakdown and finally hangs that content creator around my neck.
Paisley puts her magazine to the side and looks at me. “What time is everything starting tonight?”
I’m right in the process of reading a fan’s fucked-up message telling me she wants to give me five children. “No idea. Ask Gwen.”
“She’s not responding.”
“I think around seven.”
It’s Christmas Eve. For as long as I can remember, it’s been a tradition for a few close friends in Aspen to meet at Kate’s Diner for a nice dinner.
It started with my and Aria’s families, because Mom, Ruth, and Kate were inseparable.
After Wyatt’s parents died, I started bringing him and Camila along.
William’s been there all along, too, because he’s lonely, though he’d never admit it.
“Is Aria coming, too? I’d love to meet her.”
I delete another let-me-bear-your-children message and put my phone away. “I’m afraid she is.”
Paisley hops over to me, puts her head in my lap, and looks up at me from below. The deejay is talking about increasing snowstorms and drops in the temperature before introducing the next song: Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me.”
“What do you mean you’re afraid? I thought you were friends?”
“We are. But it’d be the first Christmas after the whole thing with Wyatt. It’d be the first time they saw each other again. No idea if he knows she’s coming. Or how he’ll react.”
“Oh. How long were they together?”
“Five years. Maybe even six. They got together during high school, they were fourteen, I think. They were joined at the hip. When his parents died, next to me, Aria was the only one who took care of Camila and him. She did everything for him.”
Paisley takes my hand and strokes the individual knuckles as if wanting to paint them. “Why’d he cheat on her? Didn’t he love her?”
I have to laugh. If Wyatt ever loved anyone, then it was Aria Moore.
“He definitely loved her. But, no idea. It was a difficult time for him. His parents were dead, and he and Camila just totally lost their shit. Drank themselves half to death, took drugs, did everything just to not have to think about it. I don’t think that Wyatt really knew what the hell he was doing back then. ”
“That’s awful,” Paisley says. “And so he lost her, too, without really knowing why?”
“Well, I told him why. But he couldn’t remember.”
Paisley looks into the fire. “Gwen feels awful about it.”
I stroke Paisley’s hair, strand for strand. “I know.”
“Did she tell you?”
“She doesn’t need to. She and Aria had been good friends. All you have to do is look at her when Wyatt’s around.”
Our conversation breaks off when my father comes down the stairs.
He looks at his smartwatch while making his way through the living room, but when he looks up and sees me and Paisley he stops and stares.
For a few seconds he doesn’t say anything, then he rolls his eyes, lets his head sink into his hands, and emits a dull umpf.
“Knox,” he says.
“Yeah?”
He raises his head, comes over to us, and sits down on the arm of the sofa. His suit pants are creased. Dad crosses his hands in his lap. “Please tell me this isn’t true.”
“What?”
His eyes wander to Paisley and back. “She’s the best chalet girl we’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, and?”
Dad clenches his jaw. I know that he wants to say something, but not in front of her. He weighs the situation for a moment, then appears to decide that he’s going to anyway. “You’re going to drive her off, just like all the others.”
Paisley peels herself off my lap and sits down next to me. I start to grow warm. She knows that I didn’t exactly live like a monk before her but, all the same, my dad’s Knox-bangs-every-chalet-girl-before-ditching-her confession is a bit uncomfortable.
“That’s not how it is with Paisley,” I say. “It’s different.”
Dad frowns. “Different?”
“Yeah. This time I’m serious, Dad. Really.”
I’m not actually saying it for him, but because I want Paisley to believe me. As far as I’m concerned, Dad can believe what he wants. But I don’t want to give her any reason to doubt us.
“When have you ever been serious about anything?”
I think for a moment. “Until now? Never.”
It is impossible to decipher my dad’s expression.
He looks at me for so long, it’s as if he was looking at me for the first time in a really long time, then he turns to Paisley.
She’s huddled next to me and looks like she’d prefer to disappear.
Dad places his hands one on top of the other and puts on an amused, doubtful face.
“Please, please stay with us, Paisley. If my son acts like an obnoxious ass, I’ll throw him out, no problem, but you have to stay. ”
“Hey!”
Paisley laughs. “It’s still the probationary period, but I think he’ll make it, Mr. Winterbottom.”
Dad smiles at her. “Call me Jack, please.”
She bites her lower lip, just like she always does when she doesn’t know what to do in a particular situation. “Okay, Jack.”
“Welcome to the family.” My dad stands up, smooths out his pants, and casts a glance at his smartwatch again. Then he looks at her once more, his face gentler than I’ve seen it in years, and says, “Knox is a good kid.”
Before leaving he points at me. “If you screw this one up, son, I am so going to kick your ass.”
Please, Dad. Please do that.
Aside from William, we are the first ones to arrive at the diner.
Paisley is carrying a bowl of pasta salad, I’ve got the beets and the cranberry sauce.
Dad is bringing up the rear with four bottles of champagne.
Between the booths and the counter, Kate has set up two tables and beer benches, which she has decorated with string lights, tinsel, and fir garlands.
The tablecloth is the same as every year: white linen fabric that Gwen painted with reindeer, Santa Clauses, and other unidentifiable bits and pieces as a kid.
MaRRy Christmas written on top in crooked, colorful letters.
As the jukebox plays “Jingle Bell Rock,” Kate puts the turkey down on the table and Gwen arranges the wine and the glasses.
When she sees us, she quickly puts the last bottle down and grabs the salad bowl out of Paisley’s hands before hugging her.
“You look so beautiful. What kind of dress is that?”
“A Valentino,” Paisley says. She’s beaming. It’s the dress from the sponsors’ evening.
“Maybe I should become a chalet girl,” Gwen says. “I mean, if clothes like this are just going to appear.”
“I asked you three times whether you wanted to work at The Old-Timer, Gwen.” William looks upset. He straightens his bright red, oversized Christmas sweater, twirls his mustache, and then rubs his thighs. “I told you: you’ll get two bags of popcorn a month for free.”
“I don’t need a job, William.” Gwen sits down next to him and pours herself a glass of wine. “That was just a joke.”
“You could clean out the stables.”
“I really don’t need a job. I help Mom out in the diner here.”
Kate raises her eyebrows as she sits down next to her daughter. “Oh, Gwendolyn, really? When was that?”
Gwen casts her mother a glance that more or less says: Come on, Mom, play along with me for once.
We sit down—Dad across from Kate, Paisley next to me—we are just pouring glasses of champagne when Wyatt and Camila come through the door.
Camila is carrying a big cake box that has to contain her famous apple pie.
Wyatt’s glance scurries almost in panic across everyone sitting at the table before his shoulders sink back down, relieved.
He undoes his scarf and hangs his jacket on the coat hook, then sits down on my other side and gives me a slap on the back.
Snow falls out of his hair onto the table. “Merry Christmas, man.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Should we make a toast?” Dad asks, and Kate says, “In a second, Jack. We’re waiting for Ruth and Aria.”
Dead silence. “Let It Snow” sounds so much louder than before. Paisley’s knee bumps against mine, her silent way of saying Oh my God, Oh my God, and I press back, my way of saying Let’s get out of here. Please, let’s get out of here.
Everyone at the table does their best not to look at Wyatt, but, of course, we all look over at Wyatt.
He’s staring into his wine glass as if weighing whether to drown himself in it while Gwen is staring at the beets so intensely, it’s as if she was waiting for them to jump up and hop off.
Before any one of us decides to break the silence, the door opens one more time and makes the bell ring.
I can hardly look, but then I do because I’m curious.
Ruth is limping a bit. I don’t know what she’s got, but it’s gotten worse since last year. She’s holding her daughter’s arm, who in turn is carrying a bowl of Christmas pudding.