Page 3 of Merrily Yours
He gives Elodie another cuddle and then hands her to me. “Anders, how can I help? I’m assuming Bex packed your entire apartment?”
They assemble at the back of the car to bitch and moan about how much I pack. I walk toward Mom, who has stayed on the porch to observe from afar. “I made some cookies, mon chou,” she says as a greeting, plopping a kiss on both cheeks. “Figured you’d need a pick-me-up after your drive. And I’ll take this one!” She takes El out of my arms, and I have a feeling her feet won’t touch the ground the rest of the week.
“Hell yes, let’s go inside. They’ll get everything in,” I say, gesturing to Anders and Dad as they try to figure out how to get all the bags inside in one trip. I desperately want one of Mom’s chocolate crinkle cookies—my favorite holiday tradition. She only makes them at Christmas time, and my mouth usually starts watering around Thanksgiving.
Mom puts her arm around me and leads me into the warm kitchen, plating two cookies for me, and pouring a glass of milk. Elodie grabs her own cookie off the counter, already learning the joys of the crinkle cookie. “How are you feeling?” Mom asks as if I don’t update her daily on all things pregnancy.
“Horny,” I answer.
She throws her head back in laughter, brown and silver curls falling down her back. “Good for you,” she smiles. “Enjoy it. You know it will probably go away in the third trimester, but toward the end, those orgasms can be great for inducing labor.”
“I already regret telling you this.”
She waves me off. “Please, I know how that baby got in there. And how this one got here, too.” She pinches Elodie’s chubby cheeks. “You and Anders have looked at each other with sex eyes ever since you met.”
Dad walks in right at that moment, kissing my mom on the top of her head. “Some thoughts are inside thoughts, dear.”
“Elaine has never had an inside thought,” Anders adds. “Are we upstairs?” he asks, directing the question to Mom.
“Yes, my cabbage,” she winks. “You can drop any gifts in the living room, though.”
Anders nods and then makes his way upstairs. After a moment, I hear his boisterous laugh. I eye my mom who is covering her mouth and avoiding eye contact.
“Mother. What am I going to find when I go upstairs?” I ask.
“Whatever could you mean, Rebecca?”
I know I learned from the best, so I narrow my eyes and start toward the staircase. When I walk into my childhood bedroom, a large poster of my husband dressed as Hercules, abs glistening, is taped to the ceiling above the queen bed.
“Bexy, I know you always wanted a poster of me on your wall, but this feels a little extreme,” Anders taunts.
“Whatever, when you and the guys go look for a tree I’m going to enjoy getting myself off to your shiny abs.” I smirk.
Anders groans at that, grabbing my hips and pulling me into him. “Are you going to let me fuck you in your childhood bedroom this year?” he asks.
“This bed is squeaky as fuck,” I reply. He shakes his head and then plants a quick kiss on my lips. “Pick up some WD-40 when you’re in town and then we can talk,” I wink.
“Can we get one of those big blowup things for the yard this year?” Gabe, the oldest of the Bardot siblings, and Anders’ best friend, asks, mouth full of mushroom and leek pasta.
“Swallow, Gabriel,” Anders says.
“Okay, Dad,” Gabe quips at the same time Ben—my middle brother and twin to my third brother, Jules—mumbles, “How many times do you think Gabe’s had someone tell him that?”
“Gross, Ben! I’m eating,” I reply.
Dad chimes in, cutting off any other brotherly antics. “Sure, Gabe. We can get ‘one of those big blowup things.’” He air quotes. “I thought we could get out the outside decorations tomorrow, test out the lights, and then grab anything else we need when we go get the tree.”
My brothers and Anders nod eagerly, all looking like little kids again. It’s cute how much they enjoy this tradition that has come to be, now that we are all out of the house. Jules and Gabe are still in Sassafras, but with Ben and I living in different places we had to make adjustments to what the holidays looked like. I guess that’s a part of growing up.
“Do you have any other ideas for decorations this year?” Dad asks.
The table is relatively quiet as they ponder the question. Mom leans back in her chair and makes eye contact with me. Thankfully, we have nothing to do with this particular tradition. We’ll make hot chocolate—hers will be spiked—and watch the chaos unfold. But the Bardot boys take their jobveryseriously.
“I’m just going to say it,” Ben starts. “I think we should do colorful lights this year.” Jules and Anders groan.
“The white lights give such a classic look,” Jules counters. He may look practically identical to Ben, but they couldn’t be more different.
“What if…” I start, dragging my pause out for emphasis. “Well, the house is nice and symmetrical. We could divide it down the middle—team white lights could decorate one side and team colorful lights can do the other. Mom, Elodie, and I will be the judges.”
