Chapter 15 Brin
Brin
When we get back to our apartment, I shed my coat and sit cross-legged on the couch, pulling up the list of activities we can do today.
Our phones ding at the same time—a Discord notice.
@everyone: Santa’s elves have more work to do. There’s a stack of presents waiting for every team at the hotel. Today’s pile is worth six points. See you soon!
Marco comes in holding his bowl of oats and settles into the chair across from me. He’s wearing a black shirt and his gray sweatpants—delicious. I wasn’t awake enough to enjoy them earlier.
“I’m going to go get the presents,” I announce.
Marco frowns. “Don’t worry about it. I can get them after I finish eating. You should nap, you’ve hardly had any sleep.”
“I’m fine. I could use the walk.” I move to stand and Marco straightens, stopping me with a hand on my arm.
“Brin, seriously. I’ll do it.”
“No, don’t. Relax, I’ll be back before you know it.” Marco can use that time to process this morning’s fight with Ash.
Marco studies me for a moment, and then puts his head in his hands, his fingers gripping his hair. “I’m being an ass, aren’t I?”
“Well . . . kinda. We could take a minute to breathe, you know? And I’m awake now. I think we should tackle some of the things worth more points today. Maybe something that’s actually fun?” I wriggle my eyebrows at him.
He sighs and leans back in the chair. “Sure. But I’ll pay for you to take an Uber to and from, that way you don’t have to walk with a box of toys.”
I know a good idea when I hear one so I agree. “You plan the activities for today, though, deal?”
“Deal.”
An hour later I’m back with a box of toys. I’m glad I accepted the Uber, because yesterday’s toys were twice as many as the first day, and today’s toys are double that. Good thing we were getting so many points for doing this.
Marco had ordered the car for me and it waited at the hotel while I ran in. When I pull up to the curb, he’s outside, ready to take the boxes upstairs.
“This is a lot,” Marco grunts, putting a box of books down on our kitchen table. It’s heavy, and there have probably got to be thirty books in there, mostly middle grade and YA.
I’ve got the box with the supplies and stuffed animals. I’m not entirely sure how we’re supposed to wrap a stuffed alligator—if I was giving it as a gift I would put it in a bag.
“So.” I put my hands on my hips. “Have you come up with a plan for today?”
“Yup.” He turns his laptop toward me and we both bend over it looking at the spreadsheet. “I booked us tickets for ice-skating at the Rink but it’s not until three, so you’ll probably want to go from there right to work.”
“Oh, cool,” I say. “I’ve never been.”
“To the Rink? Or Rockefeller?”
“Ice-skating.”
“Oh. You never went ice-skating as a kid?”
I scrunch up my face. “Maybe once when I was really young, before my sister was born? I’m not sure.” I roll my eyes. “Tennessee isn’t exactly cold enough that ice-skating is a huge thing.” There was an ice rink in Chattanooga during the holiday season, but it was a few hours away.
“Right, well, today I guess you’ll learn how to skate.”
Marco gives me a small smile, and I perk up a little. Skating sounds exciting.
“Now, until then, I was thinking we could bake cookies, and while they’re in the oven or cooling, we can wrap presents.”
“Okay,” I agree. “What cookies should we make?”
We read the instructions: two dozen holiday-themed cookies worthy of Instagramming.
We have to submit a video of the two of us eating the cookies, so presumably, we need to have two edible cookies out of the two dozen.
It doesn’t outright say it, but Marco and I both agree it’s also an opportunity for creativity points.
We spend some time googling “cute Christmas cookies” and then debating our tactic. Marco wants to make simple sugar cookies and hand decorate. I remind him that neither of us is artistic, so I suggest these cute cookies with snowmen on top.
I win.
Marco runs out for supplies while I move the presents to the living room to give us space. I also move my big red candle over, so the room soon fills with the scent of Holiday Sparkle.
I’m six wrapped presents in when Marco returns.
He waves at me to stay where I am. “Keep working on that. I’ll start on the cookies.”
I get back to the wrapping, but there’s a lot of banging and muttering coming from the kitchen. I hear an oh, shit and a lot of hmmmms. Then it’s a rhythmic metal-on-metal whisking.
I smile at the poinsettia wrapping paper.
“Have you ever made sugar cookies before?” I shout.
“Maybe? I can’t remember. Have you?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
Marco emerges, holding a bowl. He scoops up some batter with the whisk. “Does this look ‘light and creamy’ to you? This is just the butter and sugar. It’s ‘step two,’ which is actually a giant paragraph that should be five steps instead.”
I stand up and peer into the bowl. “No?”
“Ugh.” Marco resumes beating the batter with his whisk. He’s also got flour in his hair. And there’s a handprint on the black T-shirt at his ribs.
“How did you get covered in flour already?”
He glances down at himself. “I’m following the recipe. Step one: whisk flour with . . . uh, stuff. I can’t remember if it’s baking powder or baking soda.”
I raise an eyebrow. “These have to be edible cookies.”
Marco scowls. “I only bought what the recipe calls for, so whichever one that was, I used it.”
I hide my smile while I tape a flap of wrapping paper closed. “We don’t have a mixer?”
“Nah. I didn’t want to buy one for one batch of cookies. Although I guess I could have checked William’s place.”
“Billy Bob’s,” I correct, because every time I call William by the hillbilly nickname, Marco enjoys it.
He flashes a grin at me like I knew he would. “He probably has some fancy stand mixer he’s never used.”
“I’m pretty sure we used a stand mixer for cookies when I was growing up.”
Marco harrumphs. He’s whisking aggressively and my arm is getting tired just from watching him.
“I wish we had a stand mixer,” I continue. “I do miss baking. I have my grandma’s snowball cookie recipe somewhere.” My eyes land on Marco’s forearm. He’s whisking nice and evenly, the whisk making circles in the batter. His muscles flex, especially where his bicep meets his forearm.
Mmm, that’s nice.
He stops momentarily to shift his grip. “Let me know if you need me to take a turn,” I say.
“Nah.” He looks down at the bowl.
“Well, you do go to the gym, though I’m not sure what exercise you do to get strong enough for . . .” I gesture as if I’m whisking my own bowl.
I’m not entirely sure what happens, but Marco loses his grip on the bowl and the whisk flies up, spraying batter everywhere. Marco attempts to save the bowl, and his efforts work to keep the bowl from hitting the floor but not enough to save most of the batter.
Splat.
We both stare at the carpet.
“Fuck,” Marco says. There’s a beige blob on Bea’s rug, but that’s only the start of my concerns.
“Uh, do we have enough ingredients to start over?”
Marco runs a hand down his face. “No. Fuck. I’m not sure this is worth the points.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I was looking forward to decorating.
When I look up from the floor, Marco’s watching me. One corner of his lips pulls up in a slight smile. “We do have to consider, though, the enjoyment factor.”
A matching smile creeps onto my face. “What, were you actually enjoying baking cookies?”
Marco grins at my teasing. “I was until you made the jerk-off gesture.”
I gasp and shove his shoulder. “I did not!”
Now he full-on laughs and I love it. Such a change from this morning. “You totally did. You were wondering what exercise builds whisking muscles—”
“Marco!”
“Now you know.” He laughs and walks away, leaving me red-faced and standing over the “light and creamy” pile of butter and sugar.
Which I now realize looks like spunk.
I get to work cleaning the floor and Marco changes clothes and then runs to the store again. This batch of batter goes much smoother and soon Marco’s joining me in the living room to wrap presents.
He slumps down next to me on the ground and sighs. “Okay, two hours on the clock for the dough to chill in the fridge.” He checks his watch. “We might be pushing it to get them out of the oven and decorated by the time we have to leave for ice-skating.”
“We’ll do our best,” I tell him.
Marco digs into wrapping presents beside me and we work in silence for a while.
At least, I thought we were working in silence, until I realize I’m humming “Carol of the Bells.”
I stop immediately. Marco’s probably already tired of all this holiday shit. But a few minutes later, I catch myself humming again.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“We can put on music,” Marco suggests.
“Sure!” I pick up my phone. “Taylor Swift okay?”
He doesn’t look up. “You can put on Christmas music if you want.”
I stare at him for a second and then switch to my holiday playlist before he changes his mind.
Most mornings when I wake up I have the house to myself, so it’s nice to be able to play whatever music I want. Since Thanksgiving, my preferred playlist has been my holiday one.
It’s a mix of pop and orchestral pieces, so the mood goes up and down. I try to tone down my singing and dancing along but it’s hard.
And then when Marco’s socked toe starts wriggling in time to the music, I can’t help myself anymore.