Page 105 of Even in the Dark

Dr. Morley:And it was less than flattering, as I recall.

Dylan:Sure about that? Get to be your age, could be your memory’s just starting to go.

Dr. Morley:See? Right there—another smartass comment about my age.

Dylan:Could be worse. I could’ve made a smartass comment about your shirt. What the hell even is that all over it?

Dr. Morley:They’re cosmic bowling pins! This is my lucky bowling shirt.

Dylan:Abowlingshirt? Shit… You really are an old man.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Dylan

Abunch of Phil’s family is coming to Sandy Haven for Christmas. I’m about as excited for it as I was about starting at SH Prep when I first moved here. Although, that’s turning out to be okay, so maybe the extended family Christmas thing won’t be so bad either. None of them are staying at our house, at least. That was Phil’s thing; he wanted everyone to stay at a hotel, so it isn’t too overwhelming. I didn’t push back, because I’m already finding the whole Christmas thing kind of overwhelming as it is.

If I thought the Brauns made a production out of stuff on regular days, it’s nothing compared to the production they make out of everything leading up to Christmas. Knew a lot of people made a big deal out of the holidays, but this is next level. They haul out truck-loads of decorations, for insideandoutside the house. Watch a different Christmas movie almost every night, promising me every time “you’re gonnalovethis one!”

I haven’t loved any of them. They’re cheesy as fuck and have plotlines as predictable as Chloe’s moods on Monday mornings.Think maybe they’re an acquired taste. Like, maybe, if I grew up watching them every year, I’d think they were the bomb. I’m determined to keep watching them, so that maybe a few years from now, I’ll get what the fuss is all about. Got nothing to lose. Besides a few dozen hours of my life I’ll never get back, I guess.

Then there’s the special Christmas music they play on a twenty-four-hour loop. Special Christmas dishes and towels and throw cushions and… just, it’s endless. Kind of cool. But also—a lot.

Phil’s aware it’s a lot, though. Diane, too. They’re being cool about it. Trying to back off when they think maybe it’s all getting to be too much. So I’m trying to give it a chance. Did the whole tree decorating thing, which I always wanted to do. Didn’t hate baking gingerbread men with Kenz and Chloe, either. Watching how serious they are about decorating them, like they’re being shipped out to be judged by some award-winning magazine or something. Like they didn’t get the memo they’re all gonna get eaten and crapped out in a few days.

“You’re missing the point.” Diane laughs when I make comments like that. “It’s about making memories—not making the actual cookies. You can decorate them however you want, as long as we’re all doing it together.”

So I flip the script on the girls and make mine as butt ugly as I can. Give them zits and chest hair and saggy boobs and eye patches. And sure enough, it is sort of fun. And soon Kenz is dying laughing. Starts adding gnarly scars and knobby knees to hers. Chloe acts like she’s scandalized, but I can tell she’s totally holding back from smiling. Then she makes one of hers cross-eyed and duck-lipped, and Kenz laughs so hard, Chloe commits fully after that. Forces me to up my game. Pull out the big guns and accessorize. Use Chicklet gum to make them buck-toothed, licorice to give them devil tails.

And Diane is taking enough photos to fill an entire hard drive. “I’m going to let you guys explain this one to our guests.” She laughs. “So they know I had nothing to do with this.”

“I’m gonna say I decorated them all!” Kenz squeals.

“You can’t say you made Dylan’s,” Chloe shoots back. “His are the best. He gets to take credit for the ones he did… At least the gingerbread guy with the huge boil oozing puss.”

Think maybe I’m starting to get the point of the Christmas tradition thing. Not gonna lie, I’m already thinking up ideas for the gingerbread houses we’re making on boxing day. Made a special list of stuff for Diane to get at the grocery store. Gonna knock Chloe’s socks off once I’m done with my double-decker house.

Everyone shows up for dinner on Christmas eve. Five cousins—two of them Chloe’s age, one who’s eight or nine, and a couple in college. Three sets of aunts and uncles, and both sets of grandparents. Phil’s parents both cry like he did when they meet me. Forgot how awkward that part is. And about the hugging. But they seem nice. Especially my grandmother, who shows up in a sweater with a picture of a cat on it wearing a striped sweater. It’s the ugliest piece of clothing I’ve seen in my life, and I can’t stop staring at it.

“Oh, are you checking out my new cat wearing a sweater sweater, hon?” She beams when she catches me staring. “Don’t you just love it?”

“Yeah.” I throw a glance at Phil, who’s trying to hide his laughter. Bite down on my lower lip to keep from cracking a grin. “It’s something.”

“I can get you one next time I’m in Florida, if you'd like. In a more masculine color, maybe? Do you like navy, hon?”

“He’d love a navy cat sweater, wouldn’t you, Dyl?” Phil calls from behind the bar, where he and Chloe are placing crackers on a tray around some kind of melted round cheese thingwith brown sugar on it. No idea how that’s supposed to be a Christmas thing, but whatever.

“For sure.”

And guess what Scarlett’s gonna be getting this year for Valentine’s day?

Christmas morning is how I always imagined a perfect Christmas would be. I mostly watch Kenz—the smile on her face when she checks the plate of cookies she left out last night and realizes Santa came and ate them, and when she opens all the presents in her stocking, so excited she’s literally jumping up and down. But then keeps asking Chloe and me every few seconds, “What did you get?” “Do you love it?” “Can I see?”

Too bad it all goes to shit at lunchtime.

We’re eating Christmas turkey and potatoes and everything that Diane and a couple of my aunts and an uncle helped make, and it’s the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. Hands down.

Then there’s this brief lull in the conversation. Everyone’s too busy stuffing their faces to talk. But Lucy, the cousin who’s eight, says, “Cass said Dylan looks like sex on a stick.”

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