A Merry Little Christmas #2
“And thank goodness for that, because now I get you to myself,” she replies, smacking a kiss on my cheek.
She says something else, but I’m too busy drinking in the scenery as we step into the house.
It’s lovely in all the obvious ways: soaring ceilings with wooden beams lining the open-concept space; the living room, dining room, and kitchen all lead into one another and there’s a sprawling, wraparound deck that looks out into the woods.
Just beyond it is the deep, beautiful blue stretch of Lake Tahoe.
But it’s the less tangible things I really latch on to: it’s warm and loud with conversation, full of bodies happy to be there, strewn with winter jackets and snow-sugared boots, and the air is thick with the scent of pine from the massive Christmas tree tucked into the corner of the living room.
Holiday grief is such a strange animal. I’m happy to be here now and so unbearably sad that the kid version of me never got it. And inevitably, I miss that Chicago house, with its similar feeling. Inevitably, I miss—
“Max?”
As soon as I hear that name, my head whips around with neck-cracking speed.
“What?” I blurt, but my question gets gobbled up in the louder conversation between Annette and Genevieve.
“She texted that he’d just picked them up from the airport six-ish hours ago,” Genevieve is saying. “So, given the roads…”
Annette glances at her watch. “They should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, the door swings open. I get the barest glimpse of a middle-aged white couple before they’re immediately swarmed, blocking my view.
Naomi leans into me with a jokingly intoned, “The beloved Durhams have arrived.”
“What?” I repeat, and this time my question doesn’t get lost.
“Janey, the fourth musketeer, and her family,” she says. “They flew in from Chicago with their youngest, and their older son picked them up from San Francisco because he was in town for a…” Her smile melts away as she searches my face. “El, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
There’s no way, I think. There’s absolutely no way.
But when I turn back to the front door, ghosts are exactly what I see.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past, to be exact: Jane and Marcus Durham shrugging off their coats.
Their younger son, Levi, who’s blossomed from a gangly fourteen-year-old into a very tall and grown-up eighteen-year-old. God. Can that be right?
Yes. Yes, it can, because their older son is twenty-six now and he’s changed too.
His body, a rangy runner’s build in college, has filled out, and so has his face.
It’s more angular now, his jaw glass-sharp.
But his light brown hair is the same, cut in that perpetual ’90s heartthrob style, and so are his brilliant blue eyes, framed by glasses I helped him pick out after I accidentally stepped on his old ones in the middle of the night.
The smile he’s always handed over so easily is there too.
And right now, it’s directed at the beautiful woman holding his hand.
I yank Naomi onto the deck and around the corner before anyone—Max, mainly—can see me.
“What the hell?” she exclaims, nearly taking me down with her as she slides on a patch of ice. “What is going on?”
“I—shit, oh my god—I need to avoid someone,” I say, half ducking next to a covered hot tub. I think I’m having a heart attack.
She ducks down with me like a true friend while giving me a look that broadcasts she’s questioning my sanity. “Who could you possibly need to avoid right now?”
My panting breaths burst into clouds between us. “Remember over the summer when I had that really bad date, and I came straight to your apartment afterward and we got drunk and talked for like six hours about all our relationships?”
“Yes,” she says, drawing out the word, her eyes moving back and forth between mine. “That was a formative night of our friendshi…” She gasps. “Oh my god, is Fish Breath in there?”
I swallow hard. “Worse. It’s Max.”
“Janey’s son?” Her eyebrows draw together as she mentally digs through our wine-soaked conversation, trying to draw a line between that moment and this one. Between the Max she knows and the one I told her about.
But I only ever talked about him that once, and in hindsight, did I even say his name? Or did I just say he and him and his and probably mine, because there’s no one else in my romantic history who could properly fit those words, so my wasted brain thought names were unnecessary?
“My college boyfriend,” I clarify. “The boyfriend. It’s Max Durham. He’s here. Now. With his girlfriend.”
Every additional fact I tack on makes my stomach twist further, and the gravity of the situation hits me: I’m stuck in Tahoe for Christmas with the only man I’ve ever loved and the woman he’s now dating. The person he might love. I’m going to have to watch him love someone else.
Naomi claps a hand over her mouth, her “No” muffled but suitably horrified.
“I’m going to throw up,” I tell her matter-of-factly, then lift my head to peek back inside.
Said girlfriend is still next to Max, her hand resting against his back.
She’s nearly as tall as him, maybe five-ten, with long, pin-straight brown hair, wide eyes of a light, indeterminate color, and cheekbones that defy gravity.
She’s lovely, and looks like the kind of person who could charm anyone into best friendship in a matter of minutes.
Naomi’s eyes narrow as she reaches out to finger-comb my auburn lob into something I hope looks simultaneously tousled and perfect, then wipes away the mascara that must’ve smudged under my eyes.
“Okay,” she says with a confidence I don’t feel. “We can totally figure this out, all right? It’s going to be fine.”
My gaze snags on the railing of the deck, and then on the barely visible stone path beneath it that winds around the side of the house. I turn back to Naomi, holding out my hand. “Give me your keys.”
“Huh?”
“Give me your keys,” I repeat. “I’m going to jump the railing and flee in your car.”
Her expression turns skeptical. “Right. And what am I going to tell everyone who’s already met you? That you were a figment of their imagination?”
I perk up, hopeful. “Do you think that would w—”
Just then, the sliding glass door rumbles open and a tiny voice bellows, “See, I told you Aunty Mimi was playing hide-and-seek with her friend outside!”
Fuck.
“Please tell me your adorable niece is talking to herself and there’s no one else with her,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
“I have bad news,” Naomi whispers back.
“El?”
My heart twists at hearing Max’s voice for the first time in four years. It’s still so familiar, still so perfectly pitched, just deep enough that it gets a little gravelly when he’s tired or turned on—
Or shocked, like he very audibly is right now.
I straighten, trying to arrange my body into nonchalance. Hard to do when just seconds ago I was hiding behind a hot tub with my best friend, but I’m attempting to hold on to some dignity here.
There’s no dignity to be had, though, because when I turn around, everyone is lined up along the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the door, their faces pressed to the glass.
Max and his girlfriend, however, have stepped outside.
“Eleanor,” he says, his eyes raking over me, like he’s not sure I’m not a figment of his imagination.
See? I want to tell Naomi. It would’ve worked.
“Hey, Max! It’s great to see you,” Naomi chirps, winding an arm around my waist. When I don’t say anything, she digs her fingers into my stomach, a very clear Get your shit together.
“Hi,” I blurt. Brilliant. Groundbreaking.
“Hi,” he breathes out, then clears his throat. “You’re—hi.”
His girlfriend looks back and forth between us, and I watch in real time as recognition blooms across her delicate features. She nearly yanks his hand out of hers and walks over to me and Naomi, the heels of her boots clicking against the deck.
“Are you the Eleanor?” she asks, something I can’t quite name sparkling in her eyes. This close, I can confirm they’re a lovely green, several shades paler than mine.
“Um.” I glance over her shoulder at Max. I have no idea how to navigate this conversation: What does she know about me? What does Max want her to know about me?
Given that he’s still staring, his beautiful mouth slightly parted, I’m on my own.
“I’m an Eleanor,” I hedge.
A smile breaks out across her face, turning her incandescent. Unfair. “The only one who matters, right?”
Max’s eyes widen incredulously, but she misses it. Her attention is laser focused on me.
“Oh, wow,” Naomi murmurs.
“W-well, I don’t—” I stammer.
“I’m Abby,” she says, “and I’m so glad you’re here. We were actually just—”
Max is at her side in two long strides. He grasps her hand again, fingers lacing through hers, his knuckles briefly blanching white.
Abby releases a husky laugh while they carry out a silent conversation with widened eyes and raised eyebrows.
Having front-row seats to the simple intimacy of it makes me die a little inside.
“You’ll see,” she murmurs when they’ve seemingly finished, her tone lilting.
Max ignores her, turning to me. His attention is like sparks under my skin, but then, it always was.
A soft, disbelieving breath curls out of his mouth as he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
He’s wearing a thick wool coat and a cream cable-knit sweater, not dissimilar to me.
When we were together, we would’ve laughed about how we were turning into one of those couples who morph into each other. Now, all I can do is stare.
He takes a stuttering step, then rocks back on his heels, like he doesn’t want to get too close. “What are you doing here?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand, forcing myself to glance at my best friend posted beside me like a bodyguard. “Naomi is my best friend. She invited me to spend Christmas with her family.”
“Ah.”