Chapter 5
five
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Igive my taxi driver a generous tip. Shivering across the parking lot, I grip the icy handle to the bowling alley and yank it open.
Warm air whooshes around me, kissing my cheeks.
I exhale a frozen breath, running my palms up and down the sleeves of my not-nearly-warm-enough silk graphic bomber jacket I wore to work this morning.
My blood pressure spikes for the millionth time over Kendra assigning me to work with Brandon in that stupid office. As much as I want to save my job, that man is insufferable. We do have the week after Christmas off, so I’m glad I won’t have to see him again until after the new year.
I slip off my jacket, hang it on a hook, and adjust my black long-sleeved top.
Amantha insisted on forming a new tradition by holding the Adams’ Christmas Eve party at the bowling alley.
Granted, Christmas Eve is technically tomorrow, but Amantha’s son will be spending it with her Satan-like ex-husband.
My heart twists for her. It’s been a journey to co-parent with the scumbag, but I’m proud she’s making the best of the situation.
I spot Amantha’s dishwater blonde waves on the opposite side of the bowling alley. I pay the fee, grab my shoes, and pass lane after lane of gleaming oak hardwood. The place is crawling tonight. Pins crash, people laugh, and machine belts whir until I smile.
“Aunt Kate!”
Anthony, Amantha’s eleven-year-old son, runs to meet me in the walkway. He’s almost identical to her, with his creamy complexion and mischievous grin, but he has freckles and a cowlick in his light brown hair. It’s grown overtly shaggy, like he’s trying a new cool-guy trend.
We slap our palms together and begin our complicated high-five. It takes almost a full minute, and we’re super proud of it. As always, it ends with a crisp dollar bill slipped into his fist, and he beams.
“You’re the coolest aunt ever.”
“Don’t I know it.” I chuckle to myself at the adopted title, since Amantha is an only child and I’m the furthest person from being related to this pale, freckled kid. But Amantha insisted, and I do love him fiercely.
Susan, Amantha’s mom, bustles over next. She’s short and curvy like her daughter, but more rounded. Sky blue eyes twinkle, and it’s like my heart can finally relax. She wraps me into her cardigan embrace, and I squeeze tight. It pricks my tear ducts every time, but I force myself to stay present.
“Kate.” Susan beams at me. “I’m so happy you could make it! How have you been?” Genuine concern blankets her expression.
I lift a shoulder. “Honestly? Not great, but not bad either.”
She frowns, tugging me into a side hug as we walk toward the group. “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie. I’m thrilled you came tonight, but I wish I could help whatever is on your mind.”
I shake my head, not wanting to put a damper on this evening. Being responsible for digging up grants to save the museum is a lot of pressure, and so is the reminder of my family’s real Christmas Eve party tomorrow night.
I swallow the bitter realization. These people are more like family to me than mine ever will be, but they won’t ever truly be mine.
Amantha bounds over, hair tucked beneath a ridiculous headband with blinking Christmas bulbs. Unfortunately, they’re identical to the ones blinking across her ugly holiday sweater.
“No, no, no!” she tuts, waving a finger across my sullen expression. “There will be zero shop talk at this party. Tonight”—she shimmies her tacky blinking bulbs—“we are celebrating Christmas Eve Eve!”
I snort a laugh as Val strolls over in his polished, self-owned bowling shoes.
“Surprisingly,” he says, “she’s completely sober.”
Amantha whacks his bicep but giggles. “It’s Christmas time, Scrooge. Get on board or get out.”
“On board, Adams. Always.” Val burrows a kiss against her neck, and Anthony and I exchange a gag.
“Okay.” Susan claps her hands together. “Now that Kate’s here, we can begin!”
Ten minutes later, the scoreboard has been labeled with absurd nicknames, conversation is flowing, and snacks and treats are passed around.
After his fourth perfect strike, Val struts past Amantha and me.
I chuck a tiny chocolate-coated candy at him, and it bounces off his stuffy white button-up. “You know, Russo, you’re annoyingly good at that. Ease up already!”
He chuckles, his olive-toned skin appearing flushed, and runs a hand through his dark curls that are a bit longer on top. “Keep up, Chen. Wouldn’t peg you as someone who’s afraid of a little competition.”
My nostrils flare, but I rise to the challenge. Literally, since the scoreboard blinks that it’s “Auntie Poop-Panties’” turn.
I stick my tongue out at Anthony as I pass, since he’s buckled over from laughter at the name he assigned me.
As if the bowling gods hear my plea, I bowl a perfect strike. Amantha cat calls, and I indulge in a curtsy in my wide-legged black trousers before smirking at Val.
Susan cries, “That’s our girl!”
I break into a grin at the standing crowd. And after Amantha elbows Val, he also stands and reluctantly claps.
My mind tries to memorize their expressions. These people don’t owe me anything. I’m not indebted to them, and they aren’t to me.
Love free from obligation is a beautiful thing. There is such freedom, such vulnerability inside that type of love. Their affection doesn’t come with hidden agendas. Their loyalty isn’t dependent on unpaid debts or attached strings.
A twinge of sadness tugs on my heart, and I wish with every fiber of my being for a family like them. Because as much as I adore the people in front of me, they aren’t mine.
I do have Liza, though, whose love is as unconditional as it comes.
A tiny breath eases the ache in my chest. She’ll be at Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow. And afterward, we can go back to the condo and rot in our pajamas in front of a Christmas movie.
So, I let out my own whoop of bowling victory and run full-pelt back to my people.
Iagain tip my taxi driver, but not because I’m in the holiday spirit. Unless Christmas Eve is supposed to feel like being strapped to a railroad.
My parents’ suburban home rises three stories above me, consisting of glass window panes and bluish-grey rock. Liza’s black Prius is in the driveway. I momentarily consider hot-wiring it and speeding the forty minutes back to Chicago. Do I have a remote clue how to do that?
Nope.
Even the cheery, red-ribboned wreath on the front door can’t fool me. I’m walking into the lion’s den, or should I say, lioness.
I fidget, slipping off my coat and readjusting my white cashmere sweater.
It’s one of my favorites, wrapping around my torso and arms but leaving my shoulders bare.
I’m wearing tights beneath my tweed miniskirt since my mom is bound to faint at the sight of my revealing collarbones as it is.
After checking my intricate side braid, I fidget for a couple more minutes before I formally knock on my family’s door.
Yes, knock.
But before anyone can answer the door, an incoming text vibrates my phone.
UNKNOWN: Hope your holidays are as beautiful as you. -Hopefully Yours
Unease slithers into my stomach. It’s a nice sentiment from Levi, sure, but the sign off is freaking me out. What an unorthodox way to text someone. And also, why did my phone not save his contact info? I curse the stupid water damage from the pier, adding Levi’s name for the second time.
I chew my lip, feeling even guiltier the second time around for not responding. It has taken longer than I thought to figure out a nicer way to say, “Sorry I was a trash human being to you, but I still don’t want any type of relationship.”
Whatever hope Levi is holding out for is only going to get him hurt again.
I can’t leave him hanging any longer, so I decide to respond with the only thing I can think of.
KATE: That’s kind of you, Levi. I hope your holidays are great too. -Your Friend, Kate.
I grimace at the tacky sign-off, but if he insists on being weird, so will I.
Three dots blink across the top of my text multiple times until my phone marks it with an error message. Undeliverable. I scramble to open a previous text I sent to Amantha today, and that one was delivered just fine.
What is wrong with my phone?
I don’t have time to further investigate before light spills onto the steps.
My mother stands in the doorframe. She’s stunning.
The years have been good to her. Unlike her icy interior, she has a kind, round face and warm, chestnut-colored hair.
Her creamy complexion looks flushed with holiday excitement, but it’s the cold glint in her light brown eyes that gives her away.
“Did you not have time to change after work?” she says.
I coerce a smile and try not to think about the carnage of discarded outfits I left on my closet floor. “Nope. Sorry.”
Look at me, taking the high road.
“Well, that’s that, I guess. Come in, we’re beginning the cocktail hour.” Because of course Vivian Rochester-Chen would kick off a family dinner with a cocktail hour.
Her slender hips sway off into the foyer as I step onto the marble tiles. A gold chandelier glitters overhead, and I hang up my cream overcoat in the closet. I take in the somewhat foreign space with a bitter taste in my mouth.
Even though I’ve visited this home only a handful of times in the past few years, it never fails to bug me. It’s ostentatious, like it’s trying to compensate for the lack of love inside with high end fixtures.
“Kaaaaate!” A squealing blur of red plaid collides with me. Liza wraps me in the tightest embrace, and I can’t help but grin as I return the hug. “You made it!”
“I did.” I heave a dismayed sigh, but I can’t stop smiling. Liza looks good. She has warm chestnut hair like our mom—only hers falls straight to her shoulders. Her cheeks match mom’s natural pink flush too. And I look more like my dad.
“I missed you!” She flaps her hands like an excited child.