Page 13 of Stay this Christmas
If I couldn’t, I might as well give up now and move into Fiesta Village myself.
FOUR
sam
I spuna slow circle in Georgia’s front room, taking it all in. When I’d left her place this morning, it had looked normal. A little cramped, maybe, but nothing I hadn’t lived with before. But now? Red and green everywhere, tinsel flashing all around like miniature paparazzi, with a handmade paper chain strung in gentle waves around the ceiling.
“It looks like Santa exploded in here,” I muttered.
Georgia popped out of the kitchen brandishing a spatula. “You take that back, Scrooge McDuck, or no dinner for you.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “On second glance, this room is quite tasteful. Not at all the type of thing to make someone’s eyeballs bleed.”
She looked around, and both of us took in the dazzling, mis-matched array of Christmas decor. Elaborately carved candles, a delicate miniature village, vintage Christmas postcards hung on a string. Some items I recognized from our childhood home, but most of it might have been rescued from a thrift store’s bargain bin. Knowing Georgia, it probably had. Somehow, she made it work.
“I think it looks good,” she said, ever defiant. “You just have no taste.”
“I have taste.”
She flashed me aGet reallook and disappeared into the kitchen. Since I’d never lived in any place long enough to bother decorating, I didn’t really have a strong defense there. Plain white walls and furniture I found on the curb didn’t make for stunning decor.
I followed her into the kitchen, drawn by the spicy scents wafting through the air. Leaning over a bubbling pot, I took a long inhale.
“Curry?”
She nodded and passed the spatula to me. “Give it a stir, please, while I check the bread.”
I did as she said, mixing the veggies in the green sauce. White chunks bobbed around with the broccoli and carrots, and an unsettling shiver wormed through my stomach. “Tofu again?”
We’d traded off dinner duties since I’d been crashing with her, and it more or less worked. Except for tofu nights.
Sometime in the last few years, Georgia had become a vegetarian. I couldn’t say I wholeheartedly approved. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think eating meat was a necessity due to some physiological or moral requirement. I’d eaten all sorts of foods on my travels, and living the way I did, meat was often a luxury I couldn’t afford. But I’d never been a fan of tofu.
“It’s good,” she chided, flipping a golden-brown flatbread in its pan.
“It’s colorless, odorless, tasteless, and has the consistency of a wet sponge. Explain how that’s good.”
“It’s goodfor you,” she corrected. “And who is sleeping on whose couch?”
“You’re right, I apologize.” I gave the curry a sideways look, stirring it again. “I’m sorry, tofu, I was wrong to disparage your rubbery good name. I’m sure, to some people, you’re actually edible.”
“Worst tofu apology ever.” She handed me a square of cork board she used as a trivet. “Let’s eat.”
We took the meal my sister had kindly made to her table: green curry, white rice, and flatbread cooked to perfection. A delicious sort of Indian-Thai fusion, I shouldn’t complain, even if I would leave the tofu cubes untouched on my plate.
She made a face as though she didn’t like the taste of the tofu, either.
“Ava wants to know if you’re coming to their house Christmas morning.”
Ah. So, not the tofu making her react that way, but our step-mother. I’d missed out on the brunt of it, but Ava had taken to her role in the family with gusto. Considering she was only ten years older than Georgia, her enthusiasm for mothering us came across a little overzealous.
“And what else after?” I’d learned Ava never had just one thing in mind.
“What do you think? Family photos for their New Year’s cards.”
Yeah, should have called that. “Does she have matching outfits for Finn and I?”
I could just imagine her trying to dress us both in little red and green suits and ties. I’d seen their cards through the years—their outfits usually hit the garish end of the holiday attire spectrum.
