Page 13 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
Jasper beats a hasty retreat and my dad schools his face. We lean against the counter behind us, side by side.
“It’s starting,” Dad marvels. “The next generation.”
I look at Bea. She’s drinking white wine, holding the stem in one hand, elbow propped up on the other hand banded under her breasts. Her dimples are out in full force, her golden hair tumbling down in waves to brush the carmine sweater she wears.
She looks like Christmas magic.
If we’d stayed together, maybe we would have had the first kid. Years ago, we might have announced at Christmas that Bea was pregnant. There would, by now, be a toddler to buy gifts for and four grandparents who would fight over babysitting.
The image is so thick in my head I have to blink it away, this vision of another Christmas that will never come to pass.
The first grandchild will be someone else’s.
8
Bea
It’slate by the time I go upstairs. I lightly run my hands over the garland wrapped on the banister as I make my way up. I’m glad that my parents can afford it—they split the rental with the Dunskys, even though my sisters and I, all with full-time jobs now, offered to chip in. But my parents, who smartly planned for continuing education for their four daughters, only needed to pay for various trade schools—nursing for Naomi, cosmetology for Kayla, and flight attendant school for Yvette. They seem to be comfortable enough in their finances and in good enough health that retirement isn’t even on the table yet.
Personally, I think they’re waiting to see which of us gives them grandkids first.
There are three doors open at the end of the hall, one of which must be mine. I push the left one open slightly only to come barreling into Charlie.
“Oh, sorry,” I say when we both jump. He’s carrying clothes and a small canvas bag.
“It’s okay.” He gestures across the hall. “I’m going to shower and get ready for bed, unless you need the bathroom.”
“We’re sharing?”
His mouth quirks. “Four couples and three singles. We’re lucky we’re not sharing a room.”
“Good point. Just let me know when you’re done.”
He nods and I carry on to the last door. I push it open and discover two bunk beds, one on either side of the room, with kiddie decor. The sheets are bright primary colors and there’s an under-the-sea theme. My luggage is on the left and someone else’s—I assume Naomi’s—is on the right-hand side. Hers spills open, the lower bed is rumpled, and there’s a bra dangling off one of the wooden posts.
Naomi’s still downstairs, so I have the space to myself. Finding a house with six bedrooms is a miracle. I, once again, didn’t pay much attention to the logistics.
Speaking of which, I pull out my phone and scroll search my mom’s email address. There are dozens of threads with subjects such asWHO WANTS TO GO TUBING!!andMeal Plan, V5.
I open the one that saysRoom Assignments.There’s a spreadsheet with columns for bedroom number, bathrooms, and occupants. The middle says things likeen-suite, jack and jill,andhallwaywhile the last column is our names bundled up.
Charlie is right. We’re lucky the single people aren’t all shuffled together. I take a minute to decide if I’d rather have the queen bed Charlie has, even if I have to share it with my sister. No, bunk beds are better.
In Pithole, we had a big basement with a pull-out couch and air mattresses. Last year, Kayla and Yvette slept on the pull-out while Naomi, Charlie, and I were on air mattresses on the floor.
Yes, this is much better.
And I get along well with Naomi. Maybe Kayla and I were too similar—we were both competitively into makeup and boys—but Naomi was always more of a tomboy. And while she’s never called herself aromantic or asexual, she’s also never mentioned the slightest interest in anyone either, preferring to call herself “committedly single.”
I’m jealous of her life, still, but in a different way. Naomi loves her job as a nurse and keeps her social life in Baltimore packed. She runs with a local running club, often sending our group chat pictures of sunrise over the harbor viewed from the promenade.
I click out of the spreadsheet and spend a few minutes scrolling through the rest of the results. SearchingCharlie ridepulls up the gift exchange thread. I read, looking more closely at the emails.
One from my mom, at the bottom, has a PS:Charlie is coming up from the city too. I know you offered a ride to Naomi, but can you give him a ride instead?When I didn’t answer in a few hours, that’s when Mom sent the follow-up asking if I was okay with the change in plans.
And I’d said yes. Damn it.
I exit out and see that I have unread text messages. I click the notice.
