Page 131 of Better Hate than Never

“What do you want, Petruchio?”

His deep laugh echoes in the kitchen. “Well, when you put it that way.”

The door from the kitchen to the dining room swings open. Christopher walks in and doesn’t stop until he’s bent over me as I hunch to catch the perfect photo of the luscious flowers and platters of delicious food that are set out for Jules and Bea’s joint birthday party.

His mouth nuzzles my hair before he gently lifts it, setting my braid to one side so he can kiss my neck.

“Christopher.” I snap a photo. “You’re messing up my focus.”

“I’m feeling needy, Katerina. Give a man a kiss when he’s gone without for a week, while you gallivanted around the world.”

Rolling my eyes, I set down my camera. “I was gone for five days.”

“Felt like five years.” He turns me in his arms, dragging me close.

“Yeah,” I whisper, pressing on tiptoe, kissing him. “It did.”

He peers down at me pensively, swaying me in his arms. “And you’re leaving me again.” He sighs. “You’re lucky you’re so fantastic in bed when you’re here. And that I have such a great therapist when you’re not.”

I snort. “When I’m not fantastic in bed?”

“You’re always fantastic in bed. When you’renot here, smartass.”

Laughing, I kiss him. “I love you.”

He tips his head, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love you, too. So much, I am willing to host a Christmas in July birthday party with the most obnoxiously festive people I know, all because you asked.”

“Hey, give me credit, I agreed to matching sweaters.”

He grins. “Yeah you did.”

My snowflake-stitched red sweater says,i don’t do matching sweaters. His identical one says,but i do.

I smile, glancing over my shoulder, drinking in his home. “Everything looks perfect.”

While I was gone, Christopher threw himself into decorating for the Christmas in July party to celebrate my sisters’ birthday and torture each other with bizarre holiday sweaters while the updated AC blasts through the house.

The place is covered in vintage Christmas decorations from Christopher’s childhood and my own thrifting efforts. A record player spins, filling the air with holiday classics.

As our friends and family start to show up in goofy holiday sweaters, boozy eggnog (pasteurized, for Jamie’s sake) and Margo’s mulled wine are passed around, until folks are seated around the living room, plates filled with Christopher’s rich Italian cooking along with Toni’s homemade doughnuts, cakes, and cookies.

Jules sits beside me on the couch, almost as glowing and joyful as I remember my oldest sister used to be—dark, pretty haircombed out into soft silver-screen-starlet waves, deep dimples, that infectious smile that wins the heart of anyone she bestows it on.

As she laughs at something Sula says from the other side of the room, her cheeks turn nearly as pink as the sweatshirt she wears that says,in a world of grinches, be the cindy lou who.

I glance toward Bea, who sits on Jules’s other side in a sweater that features Santa sucking provocatively on a candy cane and sayssometimes a peppermint stick is just a peppermint stick. I find her eyes, sharing a small moment of gratitude that Jules is slowly coming back, from the trying-hard-to-smile, quiet woman who showed up last Christmas, now laughing loudly, tipsy on Margo’s mulled wine, a bright smile on her face.

“Okay, but whatisthe science behind this?” Jamie asks, his cheeks a little rosy, eggnog in his hand. His sweater features a Christmas tree that’s a pyramid of green cats with eyes whose bright colors look like ornaments, and says below,have a meowy catmas. “How are zodiac signs so accurate?”

“Not to mention zodiac signpairings,” Sula says, her holiday sweater a lime-green sequined number that reads in cherry-red letters,i’ve been naughtywhile Margo’s red one says in green letters,i’ve beennice, then written below it,naughtier. “The accuracy of compatibility in pairings, that’s what blows my mind.”

Toni sits up from resting inside Hamza’s arm, the newlyweds wearing the only exception to the weird holiday sweaters theme. Theirs are silvery white and simply say in pretty cursive,mr., with jaunty Santa hats hanging on them’s. Pulling out his phone, Toni says, “Let’s check this. Are everyone’s partner signs highly compatible?”

While he searches some website on his phone devoted to the subject, I slip my hand across the sofa and brush pinkies with Jules, the only one here who isn’t partnered.

I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re the odd one out, and I never want her to. I never want any of us to, ever again.

Glancing my way, Jules says, “Thanks for planning all this, KitKat. It’s really special.”

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