Page 15 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
Kayla and I look at each other and roll our eyes. “Die Hard,” we say together.
My sisters bicker over the order of Christmas movies, but my mind wanders off to memories of the basement at the old Pithole house.
When we were sixteen, Charlie and I had somehow ended up with the entire house to ourselves for a few hours, and we were still in that phase when we were horny teenagers kissinga lotbut too nervous to go further. Or at least, I thought that’s where we’d been. But we were in the basement getting hot and heavy while making out on the couch (folded up for the day so we could watch movies on the old TV down there) when Charlie had gotten down on his knees in front of me.
It was...clumsy. And sweet and earnest...and also not super productive at all. But it was the first time for both of us and something we definitely got into—both giving and receiving—once we got back home.
“Do you think Charlie has thoughts about it?” Kayla asks, nudging me out of my memories.
“What? Probably not. Why? Wait, what?”
Naomi snickers.
“Christmas movies,” Kayla says. “What did you think we were talking about?”
9
Bea
When my sistersand I come upstairs, my mom is in the kitchen, making herself tea. Mom is tall, like Yvette, and has closely cropped white hair and glasses. Instead of a chain or some such, Mom’s glasses have a no-nonsense paracord strap, which currently allows her glasses to rest on her boobs.
“There you all are,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “Who wants to go for a walk with me?”
Behind her, Naomi closes the fridge door quickly and gestures wildly at me, complete with a hand slicing across her throat,No.
Huh, that’s weird.
Kayla says she’s going to go back to bed, and Mom fusses over her for a minute, which lets me weigh my options. I work out almost every day in the city since Heartly has a great fitness center in the building. And while I would love to be completely lazy this week, I know I’ll feel better if I get out and move, even if it’s just a walk around the block with my mother.
“I’ll go,” I say, and Naomi rolls her eyes.
Mom lights up. “Wonderful. Give me fifteen minutes to finish my tea and we’ll go.”
I need to change out of my pajamas so I trudge up the stairs with Naomi at my heels. “What was that about?” I whisper.
“Oh you are in for it,” she says, almost cackling. “Mom isn’t just walking. She’s power walking. She’s going to leave your ass in the dust.”
That’s fine, I can power walk. I run five miles on the treadmill frequently.
My sister leaves me to my own folly and I dig into my luggage to find my sneakers and some yoga pants, when something glittery spills out onto the carpet.
It’s a necklace, with a silver box chain that’s smooth on my fingers when I pick it up and a pendant that’s elegant and simple, a small round-cut diamond. It’s not a great-quality stone, but I like the simplicity of it.
I’ve hardly ever worn it because Charlie gave it to me. It was the last present I got from him, a Christmas gift just weeks before we broke up.
Since Charlie wasn’t going to be here this year, I thought it would be good to pack. My family probably doesn’t remember this necklace, and it’s the kind of jewelry I love—it goes with everything. It’s not too extravagant but also not costume jewelry.
For now, though, I pick the jewelry up and set it back in my luggage. Now that Charlie’s here, I’m not sure I’ll be able to wear it.
An hourlater I’m huffing and puffing my way back up the hill toward the house. Mom’s ahead of me, arms pumping in perfect rhythm with her feet as her hips and shoulders swivel.
She’s looped back a few times, shouting instructions at me as if Iwantto learn how to power walk. “Keep your shoulders back!” and “Really feel it in your pelvis!”
Mom’s pace is in this weird middle ground where my run is too fast and my walk is too slow, so one of us is always struggling to keep up with the other. I don’t have the heart to tell Mom that I’d rather run ahead or fall behind, so I give it one last attempt and make it up to the house.
Mom, who has literally power walked in circles at the top, high-fives me. “Good job, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom. Do I get breakfast now?”
