7. Gia
7
Gia
Outside the steamy kitchen, snowflakes float down from the sky. I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas, and now I finally get one after years away. Blue Flag at Christmas is like a storybook—a Hallmark movie—except real life is nowhere near as simple as that.
Real life is full of so many unanswered questions and unidentifiable feelings. Real life is nowhere near as black and white.
That is why things between Kade and me are strange and inexplicable. My trip into town yesterday ended up being our trip into town. After the initial frustrations we had with each other, the run-in with Mrs. Greenly, and the incident with the cameras, something shifted. Instead of being on edge, he softened and gave me a little bit of slack on the leash to do what I had wanted to do: enjoy Blue Flag.
When we got back to the inn, Kade didn’t rush off to his cabin to become a hermit, much to my excitement.
He stuck around in the common room and decorated the tree with my mom, Bryn, and me. He even took up a couple of games of chess with Ahmad. And after that, he let Abigail rope him into some sous cheffing before dinner under the guise of needing him to reach some stuff on the top shelves. Of course, when I heard them laughing from the other room, my mouth got warm, and jealousy spiked in the back of my brain.
But I love them both. They would be good together.
I hate even thinking it.
Today, though, he emerged from the cabin for breakfast at the behest of my mother, who was furious he didn’t eat the morning before. He had been quiet. And then he retreated again.
I know this time of year is hard when you’re missing loved ones. I just can’t imagine pushing everyone away when things ache. Doesn’t he need people? Doesn’t he need us?
“Are you just sticking around to lick the spoon, or are you going to help?”
Speak of the devil. I whip around and find Abigail staring at me, one hand on her hip and the other on the lid of the pizzelle press. “Sorry, I was just…”
“In your own world,” she finishes. “Now come on, I need you to powder the ones on the rack. They’ve got to be cooled by now.”
I go to the rack of pizzelles on the kitchen island. The lacy mandalas have been a harbinger of Christmas since I was a kid. Abigail manages to get them out of the press so perfectly that they don’t look handmade.
Bryn is posted up in the corner on a stool, not helping, at least not with the baking. No, she’s trolling social media, as is her job, to make sure that everything is taken care of. In the wake of the incident after my concert and Mars’s new album, social media has been abuzz. “You ready for another one, G? ”
I pick up the sifter and dip it into the bowl of powdered sugar. “Hit me.”
As I shake the sugar over the pizzelles, Bryn regales me with an article that has dissected all of the songs on Mars’s album like he’s Byron or Keats. They give the man way too much credit. He’s a poet, sure, but in a twenty-first-century way. Not epic poems or odes.
“‘The third ballad on the record?—’”
“Three?!” Abigail gripes, opening the press and releasing another perfect pizzelle onto the cooling rack. “That’s two too many.”
“Mars loves a ballad,” I say with a chuckle.
“That’s exhausting,” the chef replies.
I shrug. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Mars loved love. But he wasn’t good at being in it. The breakup was probably the best thing we could have done for his brand. Now, he gets to milk the heartbreak for as long as he promotes the new album, which could be up to three years if he goes the world-tour route.
“Ahem,” Bryn commands the attention again since we interrupted her. “‘The third ballad on the record, ‘Daylily,’ contains several references to DeLuca’s own catalog, including an exact opposite chord structure to her breakout hit, ‘Bumblebee.’” My friend gapes. “Oh my gosh, is that true?”
I sprinkle the newest pizzelle and don’t look up. “I don’t know, I haven’t listened to it, remember?”
“You should, it’s good,” Abigail says.
Bryn and I look at her, mouths dropped, aghast.
Abigail smiles sheepishly. “What? I had to. Ya know, in case you wanted to talk about it.”
“You just said three ballads was too many ballads,” Bryn points out.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not good. I just think the album sequencing could use some work,” Abigail continues. She looks between Bryn and me. “You know what? I’m going to shut up now.”
The awkwardness is immediately eliminated thanks to my father entering the kitchen while humming some sort of swooning Rat Pack song. Classic Carlo DeLuca. “We’re on our way out!” He first goes to Bryn and kisses her on the cheek, then to Abigail, squeezing her shoulders. “You’ve got everything under control for?—”
“Perfectly stocked and on schedule,” Abigail says.
Dad grins just as my mother waltzes in and does the same routine, almost a perfect copy of my father. Once she’s finished with Abigail, my parents both turn to me. Mom extends her arms, palms up. “And Gia! Dolcezza .”
“Oh no,” I murmur just before I’m flanked by my parents. They both plant a kiss to each of my cheeks longer than should be socially acceptable. “You’re going to be gone for like four hours. You don’t need to do the whole schmaltzy routine.”
“Take it while you can get it, G,” Bryn says softly.
I glance at my friend, who smiles at me with a tinge of sadness in her lips. She’s right. I take my folks for granted. I should eat up every kiss, hug, and annoying thing they do because we don’t have forever. She learned that the hard way. I turn back to my parents.
“You are okay with the check-ins? We have two reservations coming in this afternoon,” Mom asks.
“Yep, I won’t have a problem.”
“They can’t come in until after three, but if they’re early, you know, offer them tea or?—”
I chuckle. “I got it. Don’t be rude. No problem. You two drive safe, okay? It’s already started snowing, and the drive is?—”
“We will be fine, Gia,” my dad says, waving his hand in the air. “It always snows in Blue Flag this time of year.”
“I know, but?—”
Mom interrupts with an easy smile and a hand wave to match my father’s. “We will take our time. Drive slow.”
“Where are you off to?” Bryn asks.
“We have some last-minute shopping to do for gifts, and we have to drive out to the fish market out in Harbor Point because they messed up our delivery, and we need it for the seafood pasta for Christmas and?—”
“Harbor Point?!” Bryn gasps. “That’s a long drive for seafood.”
Much easier to get when we have Christmas in Los Angeles. “We don’t need the pasta,” I say.
Both my mother and father gasp. “It’s tradition, Gia! Why do you have a problem with tradition?” Mom chides.
“It’s not a problem; it’s just a long drive with the weather!” I respond. “I’m keeping an eye out. I don’t want you guys getting hurt or—” Or worse.
“ Cara, cara, cara .” Dad cups my cheek. “We love you, and we are also grownups. You do not need to mother us, hm?”
I flush and look away. My parents getting older snuck up on me. I worry about them now in ways I didn’t used to. “I know you are,” I say.
My mother touches my chin and leans in close to me, her nose touching mine. “You don’t worry me. I worry about you.”
If only it were that simple. However, I drop the subject and let them give us all another hug and a kiss before they leave the kitchen.
A moment later, I feel a surge of worry crop up. I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels cosmic. I run after them, shouting, “Keep an eye on the weather, all right?!”
But they’re already gone.