Chapter 16 #2
Sawyer shook her head, then went back to her phone. Diane’s face didn’t fall, exactly, but it set in a way that spoke volumes.
I looked at the popsicle sticks, at Diane, then at Sawyer.
Bumping my niece’s arm, I waited until she glanced up. Then I gestured to her ears. She removed her earbuds
“What’s going on, kiddo?” I whispered, low so only Sawyer could hear.
Sawyer gave a full-body sigh, like a tire losing air. Her gaze still fastened on the phone, she said only, “Nothing.”
I leaned in. “You’re a terrible liar. I mean, maybe the worst ever.”
She smirked, almost imperceptibly, and for a split second I saw the ghost of Viv in her face again. Then it was gone, replaced with that bland, teenage scorn that was all her own.
I tried again. “I can see something is wrong.”
Sawyer’s mouth twitched, and for a second it looked like she might weaponize her sarcasm, but I beat her to it.
“I can tell you’re about to say something derisive to me,” I said, “probably something about, ‘Why do you care?’ or maybe you’re going to ask how I even know you’re upset because I barely see you. ”
She finally looked up, eyes sharp, glaring at me, then rolled her eyes. She looked like Viv, but that stellar personality was one hundred percent Alison Weston.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked, keeping my tone soft but persistent. “Is it the house thing? You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
Sawyer’s face closed up, but not completely. She shrugged. “It’s not the house.”
“Then what is it?” I pressed, but kept it gentle. “Sawyer, you can tell me.”
She glanced over my shoulder at Diane and her kids, then back at her phone. “Can we go in the other room?” she whispered.
“Sure.” I stood and walked out before she could change her mind, leading the way into the den, a small room off the main hallway with two mismatched armchairs and a pile of board games stacked to the ceiling.
Sawyer, her phone now pocketed someplace unseen, plopped into a nearby and hugged her knees to her chest.
I sat across from her. “Okay. What’s going on?”
She fiddled with the drawstring on her hoodie. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell my dad or Diane.”
Every molecule in my body wanted to agree, but I forced myself to take a breath and consider whether promising secrecy was actually a good idea. “Before I say yes,” I said, “can you tell me if this is something that could get you arrested?”
Sawyer made a face, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “No.”
“Is it something that could get someone else arrested?”
She shook her head, “No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Are you pregnant?”
She recoiled, “No. And ew.”
“Is it about money? Do you need—”
“I told you on the phone, I don’t need money,” she said, exasperated.
“What about—”
She lunged forward and grabbed my wrist, not hard, but enough to get my attention. “Fine. Just, shut up and I’ll tell you. No more twenty questions.”
I zipped my lips, miming the gesture for full effect.
Sawyer rolled her eyes again—for real, I didn’t know how she could keep up this level of eyeball exercise—and took a deep breath. “You know, growing up, how my mom had Christmas traditions with us?”
I nodded, trying to stay neutral.
“You’re going to think this is stupid, but it’s just that, like, now that she’s gone, I still want to do the traditions. I just don’t really know how.”
I let that sink in. “You mean, you’re upset because Diane’s traditions are taking over and erasing your mom’s?”
Sawyer shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Not really. Diane’s are fine. But, I have traditions. Our family has traditions. You, me, and mom, our side has these cool Christmas traditions but I don’t know—like—how to do most of them.”
I blinked, then tried to imagine what Christmas would look like through the lens of a sixteen-year-old who lost her mom at ten and now shuttling between three step siblings, a stepmom, and an aunt who never called.
“Can you give me an example?” I asked.
She thought for a second, then said, “Those cinnamon dough ornaments. Those were mom’s favorite.
We’d make them every year. But when she died, she didn’t leave the recipe or instructions or anything.
My dad tried to use one he found on the internet, but it wasn’t the same, you know? Stuff like that.”
“I know how to make those!”
Sawyer’s eyes widened. “You do? The same ones mom made?”
“Yes. I do. I can do that, I can teach you how.”
Sawyer looked stunned. “Really?”
“Really,” I said, feeling a weird, warm ache in my chest. “I remember the recipe. I can write it down for you, or we can make them together today, if you want.”
Sawyer exhaled, some long-held tension uncoiling. “What about mom’s recipe for the ginger cookies? The really spicy ones?”
I hesitated. “I don’t have that. But I know how to get it.”
She stared. “How?”
“The recipe was from Mr. Gawronsky’s wife—Mr. G, my old boss at Igor’s. Every year, they’d make batches for the staff, and Viv would always come in and beg for extra cookies. She must’ve gotten the recipe from Mrs. G. I can call her, I promise.”
Sawyer grinned, and the look on her face was pure, unfiltered relief. “Thank you,” she said, voice small but not fragile.
I shrugged, “Of course. How about this, make a list of all the traditions and recipes or whatever you want, and I’ll write everything down and give it to you, so you’ll have it forever.”
Sawyer’s smile turned lopsided, and then she surprised me again by launching herself at me, arms around my neck in a hug so fierce I almost toppled out of the chair.
“Thank you so much, Aunt Alison. Thank you so much for coming,” she whispered.
I hugged her back and I just let myself hold on.
After a few seconds, Sawyer pulled back, her face blotchy but happy. “Are you sorry enough that you’ll come every year from now on?” she asked, voice bright with mischief.
I narrowed my eyes at her, “How about, I’ll do my best.”
“And you’ll bring presents?”
“I will bring presents,” I promised, raising my right hand in solemn oath.
“And more hot guys?” she said, eyes glinting. “Or, the same hot guy is fine.”
I wrinkled my nose at her description of Alaric. To me, he was hot. But I was twenty years older than Sawyer. “Alaric is old enough to be your dad, kiddo.”
She shrugged, “He’s still really hot. And my friends agree.”
“What do you mean your friends agree?”
Sawyer fished out her phone, thumbed through an app I didn’t recognize, and pulled up a DM window. “Here,” she said, passing me the phone. “Scroll up.”
I did, and was greeted by a stream of messages, text in all colors of the rainbow, and all referring to Alaric in ways that made my eyebrows climb up my face.
There were at least five kids weighing in, some with emojis I didn’t even know existed, and more than one comment about Alaric’s “zaddy jawline” and “vibes.”
“Oh my goodness,” I muttered, scrolling through the digital thirst trap Sawyer had accidentally (on purpose) generated.
Sawyer grinned. “You’re, like, a legend now.”
I groaned, handed back the phone, and buried my face in my hands. Was this my legacy? To leave behind a teenage fan club for my ex-stepbrother?
Sawyer, unmoved by my real embarrassment this time, said, “BTW, if you want to know where I tied up the mistletoe he sent, it’s in the game room under the basketball hoop.”
I peeked through my fingers. “Is this supposed to be a warning?”
Sawyer shrugged. “Depends. Do you want to make out under the mistletoe with him? If so, I can help make that happen.” She wagged her eyebrows.
“Stop. You’re sixteen. Stop.”
Sawyer smiled, then leaned over and gave me a quick, impish kiss on the cheek. “Thanks again for coming, Aunt Alison. It really means a lot to me.”