Chapter 4
“I honestly can’t believe we pulled it off.”
This is what I say as Izaac and I survey our handiwork now that we have Marley indoors, unwrapped, and situated—albeit a little lopsided—in the tree stand.
But what I want to say is, I’m in love, I’m in love, and I don’t care who knows it! à la Buddy the Elf.
On the drive over, I considered telling Izaac about Eve, but didn’t, for two reasons:
One, I imagined his reaction to me not getting her number, or any way to reach her. He would literally never.
And two, because I went MIA, which Izaac is only too happy to remind me of.
“We did. But we also almost had a crisis situation because of you losing your phone,” he says. “Again.”
“I know, I knowwwww .” I shake my head. “I don’t mean to be such a chaos Muppet. It just… happens,” I say, hoping to convey an apology.
“With you, it happens a lot ,” Izaac says.
If any of my friends are going to call me on my bullshit, it’s Izaac. Which will serve him well when he’s a big shot politician someday and needs bipartisan support. But it’s always with love, and he puts an arm around me to make sure I know he’s kidding. Or at least, half kidding.
“Well, I appreciate you,” I say. “And I think Marley was worth the effort.”
“For sure. And it still feels so spacious in here,” Izaac says, looking around. “Hey, where’s the Flying Ace?”
Two years ago, my mom decided that just because we live in a condo and don’t technically have a yard, shouldn’t mean we can’t participate in holiday yard decorating.
She bought one of those giant inflatables of Snoopy as the Flying Ace, ready to take on the Red Baron, and set him up in the dining room we never use.
But this year, she never even talked about bringing him down from the attic. Another abandoned tradition.
“Uh, yeah. Never got around to it this season,” I say.
But just like Diya, Izaac knows me well enough to read between the lines. His face softens, and he rests a hand on my shoulder. “Well, probably for the best. He would’ve blocked Marley’s light,” he says.
I nod, grateful to have someone sharing in my optimism.
“So, want some help with the ornaments?” he asks. “Or were you planning to do that with Naomi?”
I did have daydreams of tree trimming with my mother over mugs of hot cocoa. But the goal with this gift is to make it effortless for her to enjoy the holiday spirit.
“You know, I think it’s better if we do the thing,” I grunt as I drag over a rubber container filled with ornaments.
“Yeah, then it’ll be a nice bright spot for her to come home to. All lit up and fabulous, like you,” Izaac agrees, and stoops to help me pull it the rest of the way.
I thank him with a smile for both the touching comment and the assistance, but my goodwill toward this man lasts only a moment. It evaporates when he tries to be smooth about a seriously abrupt (and highly undesirable) topical pivot.
“Speaking of which, how’s it going with the applications?”
Now I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“That’s not even a little bit of a segue,” I say as I dig out a purple bulb from the container. “And I’m not sure we have to ruin this lovely moment, Senator.”
“Bos ley .”
“I know, I know!” I say again. “Waiting for inspiration!”
“Is that what you’ll tell your film school professors when you have an assignment next year?” he asks. “Or a studio someday when they’re waiting for your final cut?”
I beam at the thought of handing over a film I made to an actual studio, waiting for them to give me feedback ( “No notes!” ), and putting it out in the world to great critical acclaim ( “Bennie Bosley has cemented her legacy!” ).
“Point taken,” I say.
“I’m going to be after you, Bosley.” He points a manicured finger at me.
I roll my eyes, but it’s my stomach that pitches.
We’ve talked for years about all living in the city together after graduation, but it was different when it was a daydream…
a fuzzy someday. I just want to enjoy the holidays without having to look ahead at this unknown future, but lately, it feels like I might be the only one who cares about our staying present for our last holiday season at home together.
“Well, don’t you worry, your honor,” I say, deflecting. “I won’t let you down.”
“You know I have no intention of being a judge, right?”
I shrug because it could totally fit into what the Evans family calls “the Plan,” in which Izaac and his sister, Audra, were to both get law degrees, live in the city, and eventually run history-making campaigns through which they become the youngest Black Asian senators ever—helped along by the bonus buzzworthy sibling narrative.
But the Plan has taken a hit ever since his sister opted out earlier this year, in what amounted to a presidential-level scandal to their parents.
She not only dropped out of college, but pivoted her plans from politics to developing video games (which I thought was pretty cool, but their parents very much did not).
It was legit shocking. Audra without academic excellence is like Mariah Carey without Christmas.
But for Izaac, it meant losing his one source of stability at home.
It also sent him into a productivity spiral; ever since the news, he’s seriously amped up his already through-the-roof efficiency and output, like it’s up to him alone now to bring home the accolades.
Izaac has always spent a lot of time posted up at Rhapsody in Brew, our so cleverly named local coffee shop with its overstuffed couches and swimming-pool-sized cappuccinos that look ripped from an episode of a nineties sitcom.
But now he’s always there working, reading, researching, and formulating informed opinions, a campaign HQ away from his parents’ drama.
He has a huge TikTok following for his hot takes on social issues, and since he’s been done with his own applications for months, he’s even launched a peer review program to help our classmates with their applications between school and his shifts at Trader Joe’s.
Which is why it’s probably extra frustrating to him that he hasn’t been able to get me to finish mine.
“You sure you don’t want me to take a look at what you have?” he asks once again.
“Not just yet,” I say, not admitting that’s because what I have is a single attempt in which I started strong, then veered into some personal territory about finding my first kiss, which I can’t imagine he’ll find to be suitable material.
“But thank you. And thanks for bringing the snacks, too.” I nod to the selection of Trader Joe’s seasonal treats, which he brought from work.
“We’re going to have to get you to eat real food someday,” he says. “But one battle at a time.”
“Speaking of time…” I look at the clock, ignoring his usual knock to my sugar-based diet. “I can manage if you’ve got to get to family stuff.”
It’s still days away, but Izaac’s family has a big Christmas party every year and they spend the whole week leading up to it in preparation—decorating, cooking, baking and freezing cookies, shopping and stocking the bar.
His parents, Robert and Roxanne Evans, of Evans & Evans law offices, are both hotshot attorneys, and their clients and partners always show up, drink way too much Scotch, and tell stories about crazy cases that probably borderline break confidentiality.
Izaac considers the event to be the networking mixer of the year and he usually tries to put his own stamp on the party, to impress guests he may someday need for favors or votes or a job.
“Actually…” Izaac pauses, holding on to Naomi’s bedazzled cowboy boot ornament. “I’m happy to keep off the premises this year.”
I hang a Mickey Mouse dressed as Santa Claus on a branch in my sight line, then turn to him. “Wanna talk about it?”
From the outside, Izaac’s family seems perfect, but even though he doesn’t bring it up often, we know his parents find reasons to fight about everything from politics to furniture placement to whether their dinner is undersalted.
He takes a deep breath like he isn’t sure he really wants to get into it, but he does anyway.
“Ever since Audra went rogue, they’ve decided their new favorite pastime is a rousing round or twelve of the blame game—who’s responsible for ‘how she turned out,’ as they put it.
They’ve been at it nonstop,” he says, shaking his head.
“I honestly wish they would stop pretending and get a divorce already.”
I pause. I want to give him a chance to clarify, or say he’s joking, or maybe even rescind the statement altogether, because that feels pretty intense. But then he continues with it.
“I mean, they only stay together for the power couple optics anyway.” He sighs.
“Anyway, with Audra excommunicated, there’s no relief, no distraction, and definitely no fun.
So I’m happy to have all those things on my own here with you,” he concludes, turning to me with a very forced smile, looking like he’s ready to move on.
“And I am happy to deliver!” But I’m not ready to drop it just yet—if Izaac has any hope of having his family together for Christmas, it’s worth a try, right? “Have you tried talking to Audra, though?” I ask as delicately as possible.
“Pretty sure she’s avoiding me so she doesn’t have to be reminded of our insane family,” he says, without really answering the question. The Christmas lights glint off the glassiness in his eyes as he looks away. “Which sucks, ’cause it’d be really helpful if I could talk to her right about now.”
Hm. Izaac isn’t the type to ask for help, so that seems serious.
Maybe he thinks they’d fight less if Audra were here.
Or that they could talk to their parents together, maybe about getting therapy or working through their issues—I’m sure he doesn’t actually want them to get a divorce.
Or maybe he just wants the moral support.
In any case, I wish I could snap my fingers and have Audra come home, but here is yet another gift I’m not capable of giving. Lately it seems what the people I love want and need the most are getting bigger, more abstract, and harder to pull off.
“Well, if you need an Audra stand-in, I’m great at a holiday party,” I say anyway.
“Oh, no one doubts that,” Izaac says. “The story about you teaching everyone to speak Elvish after you pounded the spiked punch is now legend.”
“I didn’t know!” I say, remembering my invented language—and my headache the next morning.
“Riiiiight.” He smirks, but then he frowns.
“Shit, I’m sorry, B. I know, with Michelle… talking about Audra…”
“You’re good,” I say, holding up a hand and waving off his concerns.
“I didn’t mean to… It’s just been…”
“I know, my dude,” I say, though it doesn’t change that it still hurts to hear.
“How’re things on that front?” he asks, but today especially I want to stay away from the subject.
I haven’t told my friends what Naomi asked me earlier this week. I don’t want to talk about it, or think about it, or have to deal with it. And more than anything, I really don’t want to face the fact that I haven’t answered her.
“Just holly-jolly,” I say, smiling disingenuously, and he gives me a look. I reach up to lay an emphatic hand on his shoulder. “Really, I appreciate you asking, but nothing I can’t handle. Marley will help.”
For now, I just want to bathe in some of Marley’s light, listen to Kacey Musgraves’s Christmas album spinning on Naomi’s record player, and try to help Izaac, because making others’ spirits bright always makes me feel better.
“Okay, but the door is open,” he says. “I know you’re not exactly inspired to discuss the future, or anything that’s less than festive, but you know… it might feel good to get some of it off your chest.”
“You’re the best, dude,” I say, because I really do appreciate it, but I still really don’t want to talk about it.
“Okay. As long as you know.” He pauses, and then takes a breath like he’s going to say something. “Oh, and, B? Maybe don’t say anything to Cash? About my family and everything, I mean. I don’t want to worry him.”
He’s busy digging through the ornaments now, but I wish I could read his face. Why would Izaac keep anything from his boyfriend? Cash is fully aware the Evans family has its issues.
Then again, Cash, who is usually a golden retriever of a human, has seemed extra stressed lately, but with all the canceled plans and added obligations, I haven’t had a chance to find out why. I could ask Izaac now, but it might be better to focus on him for the moment.
“Noted,” I say instead, and add, “But, Z, if Cash worries, it’s because he loves you. We all do. It kinda comes with this whole best-friends-for-life thing.”
He gives a tight, crooked smile, and we continue our task. When we’re finished, we take a step back to admire Marley in triumphant silence, and have a toast with pristine Little Debbie tree cakes—vanilla, with green sparkles.
We send a few selfies to Cash and Diya, and I thank them profusely with emojis of Christmas trees, Santas, and celebratory bells, hoping the success makes up for my delinquency earlier.
It feels good knowing we were all in this together.
But there’s someone else who deserves to be appreciated for helping me complete this mission—someone I’d be more than happy to share my celebratory snack cake heart with—and maybe even my real one, too.
If only I knew how to reach her.