Page 77 of Going Viral for Christmas
Accepting my praise with a gracious nod, I say, “Thank you, ma’am. I’m honored.”
“Oh, no, call me Mandy.” She smiles, swaying side-to-side.
The screen door creaks open again, and a tall man with a head of silver-streaked hair and warm, watchful eyes emerges. His jeans are total Dad jeans, and he’s wearing a quarter-zip that reads‘Salem Innkeepers Association.’
“I figured I’d better come meet the man causing all the commotion.”
Ava brightens. “Dad, hi!” She launches into his arms, and the way she tucks against his shoulder shows years of safety.
He hugs her back just as tightly, his hand patting her hair in a rhythm that saysmine, always mine.
“This is Soren Pembry.” Ava pulls back but keeps a hand on his arm. “Soren, my father.”
The introduction barely lands because I’m still watching them—how their smiles mirror each other. Her whole face softens in his presence. Their connection doesn’t need words. It’s an unshakable tether that’s held her together through every storm. And it makes my chestache with respect. And maybe a bit of jealousy. I want to be that tether for her.
I wipe my palms on my jeans before reaching out. “Mr. Bell. It’s a pleasure.”
His grip is firm, eyes locked on mine the entire time. “Call me Tom. And welcome to our home. You got tossed into the deep end with this crew, huh?”
I chuckle. “It’s been a ride. Honestly, one of the best.”
Tom strikes me as a man who means what he says and listens twice as hard. I take to him immediately, probably because he reminds me of the father I never had… or the kind I always wished for. The one who didn’t vanish without looking back. The one who didn’t trade blood for distance. The one who didn’t leave a son wondering why he was never enough.
He claps my shoulder, then lifts the gravy boat slightly. “Hope you’re hungry. You’ll need your strength around here.”
“Come inside before your good looks freeze off,” Mandy says.
We roll our suitcases into the house. Fisher and her father shove them into a hallway to the left while Ava takes a right, and we’re met with a full-blown sensory ambush.
The living room wraps around me in plaid throws and soft armchairs, twinkling lights woven through garland that climbs the banister like ivy.
Every wall bursts with framed memories—smiling faces, graduation caps, baby feet, decades of haircuts—and the entire place is enveloped with holiday essentials, gravy, cinnamon, and something fried and life-affirming simmering in the air. My stomach lets out an actual growl.
Fisher comes up behind us and mutters, “Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker had a baby and let her redecorate with Ina Garten’s credit card.”
We’re barely two steps inside before the chaos swallows me whole, cousins coming in hot with loud hugs and perfume clouds, aunts who reek of spicy cloves, one named Aunt Hilda who is doused in eye-watering perfume. They throw out unsolicited opinions, along with a rapid-fire of names that I immediately forget. After only two minutes inside, my brain hurts. And I absolutely love it.
A rogue neighbor named June–who swears she’s a psychic and calls me “a brooding Capricorn with a restless third eye”–introduces herself.
And then there’s Brinley.
Ava points to a woman with a toddler fused to her hip. Two blur-speed boys circle her like caffeinated satellites.
The woman turns her head and yells across the room, “Do you need to go potty? You’re holding your penis!”
“That’s my cousin, Brinley.”
I choke on absolutely nothing.
Ava smiles sheepishly beside me. “Welcome to my family.”
Off in the distance, another small boy screams about poop and sprints down the hallway with a glowstick.
Bouncing the toddler, Brinley approaches, offering me a one-handed wave. “Hi! Sorry, we’re...a lot.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m adaptable.”
Ava starts popping her knuckles. That’s the first time she’s done that, that I’ve noticed.
