Page 3 of That Time I Kissed My Brother’s Best Friend

She nods sincerely, like I just offered her a kidney. “Thank you so much, dear.” She tilts her head. “Who needs a doctor for a daughter when you can have one who’s so considerate about corn?” She runs her hands down her apron again. “We’ll be eating at six o’clock sharp. Maybe set a timer so you won’t be late.” She glances at her watch, and our old-school phone rings in the kitchen. “My word! What’s the emergency now? I can’t ever get a moment’s peace these days. I’ll be right back, Kasey.” She points at me. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I glance around the room. “Deal.”

She bustles off, both arms whirling like branches in a hurricane. In the silence that follows, I lean back and finger-comb my long auburn curls. At least I washed and conditioned last night. I can still smell the coconut shampoo as I work through the tangles.

Not having time to shower isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to you in Abieville, Kasey.

But I shake off the thought as quickly as it comes. Feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in past humiliation isn’t on this week’s agenda. Only fireworks and mistletoe for Christmas in July.

On that note, I survey the living room. Mom has everything exactly the same as every other Christmas, almost like we’re not throwing an extra one just to cheer up Big Mama and Aunt Remy. And even though it’s too hot to roast logs on the fire, our stockings are still hung on the mantle with care.

Phil. Elaine. Brady. Kasey.

My grandmother, Josie Bradford—AKA Big Mama—knitted stockings for everyone in the family. First her four daughters, then all four of their husbands. When Mac was born—he’s my oldest cousin—she started adding stockings for each grandchild. Ten in total. She offered to teach me once, but I turned her down. I was too worried I’d be terrible at it.

Perfectionism is a thief, and I sure let it rob me.

Around the rest of the room, Mom’s put up all the decorations Brady and I made when we were kids. Cotton ball angels. Snowmen formed from ballet tights. Candy canes of clay painted white with thick red stripes. All my stuff is neater than Brady’s, of course, a fact I used to pride myself on. But the truth is my brother probably had more fun making his. Even with coloring books and crayons, I always tried too hard to stay in the lines.

My stomach growls, so I dig a handful of green and red M&Ms from an angel-shaped dish on the coffee table. I’m picking out all the red ones to munch first when Sprinkles moseys around the corner. He looks at me, his tail swishing like he’s on a parade float waving to a crowd. I make kissy noises to tempt him over, but he ignores me and climbs on top of the big box of cousin ornaments.

Someone must’ve hauled the box up from Big Mama’s and Big Papa’s basement. Probably Uncle Irv. He’s the only one still willing to go down there on account of all the spiders.

Every year when we were kids, Big Papa would chop down a special tree just for his grandchildren. In the days leading up to Christmas, we’d trim the tree and have an Ugly Sweater Dinner. There would be egg nog and caroling around town. And each Christmas Eve, Big Mama gave us matching pajamas and new ornaments to open. We’d leave out snickerdoodles for Santa. Carrots for the reindeer.

Then we grew up.

Earlier this year, both Big Papa and Aunt Remy’s husband—my Uncle Ted—passed away. My mom wanted to do something nice for Big Mama and Aunt Remy.

Something to heal their broken hearts.

So she and her other two sisters—my Auntie Mae and Auntie Ann—decided to revive the tradition of the cousins’ Christmas tree. This, of course, required cousins. Half of the grandkids still live in Abieville, but the rest are spread across the country. A gazillion and one emails later, everyone agreed that those of us who had to travel would have an easier time coming home in the summer. And that’s how this year’s Christmas in July was born.

Mom had the original idea, so she’s hosting the cousins’ tree in her house. She hustles back into the front room now, both her arms still flapping. How she hasn’t flown away by now is anybody’s guess.

“Kasey!” She gasps, but at least she remains on the ground. “You’re just sitting there?”

“You told me to wait for you.”

“I did?” Cluck. “Well. That was Aunt Remy on the phone, and shedoesin fact have the carrots.”

“Thank goodness.” I wipe my brow in exaggerated relief, but Mom ignores my sarcasm.

“That’s the good news.”Tsk. “The bad news is Big Mama’s got a stomach bug. She can’t come for dinner tonight. She’s going to rest up next door.”

“Oh no,” I groan. As crushing as my mother’s hugs can be, that’s how gentle Big Mama’s are. I miss her sweet, soft smile and her glittery eyes. So much. “Should I go over there to see her?”

Mom waves me off. “Better wait until she’s feeling up to it. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain soon. In the meantime, Auntie Mae and I still need your help with the potato salad. Plus, you’ll have to change before dinner. That outfit of yours doesn’t qualify.”

I check out my cut-off jeans, white t-shirt, and the plaid flannel tied around my waist. Doc Martens aren’t exactly formal, but my people aren’t exactly fancy. “Qualify for what?”

My mother inhales, gathering all her patience along with all the air in the room. “For our Ugly Sweater Dinner, of course.”

I snort. “We’re not really wearing sweaters, are we? It’s ninety degrees out.”

“It’s also tradition!”

“Yes. In December. For actual Christmas. When it’s cold.”

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