Page 22 of The Start of Someday

Briar is one of five siblings, and even though they don’t all make it home every year, this is one of the years when every one of them is in Cedar Point for the holidays. With the Mitchell family, significant others, and a handful of neighbors and friends, it was quite a full house for dinner—and quite a rousing game of Cards Against Humanity.

Eventually, we all ended up sitting next to the fireplace and exchanging gifts—Briar loved the coffee press, and she and Andy had a good laugh about the mug—before Mark gave the three of us a ride home.

As much as I tried not to, as much as I tried to remind myself that he’s my brother’s friend and he wants to preserve their relationship, I couldn’t help but glance at Jackson what felt like every few minutes all night long. I don’t know what the hell that conversation was with him earlier today at the kitchen counter, but for some reason, it feels good knowing he’s been just as wound up as I have.

Though I guess it doesn’t matter since we’re not going to do anything about it.

I lie in bed for what feels like hours, though when I glance at the clock on my phone, I groan in frustration to see it’s barely after eleven. Instead of tossing and turning, unable to turn off my mind, I slip out of my bed, tug on a sweatshirt, and then move quietly through the house and down to the kitchen.

When I was a kid, decorating the tree with my mom was my favorite part about the holidays, and every year, we’d stay up late on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate and watching the lights. In the spirit of that old tradition, I pull out some milk and sugar and a package of cocoa powder and get to work. It only takes a few minutes, and once I have my mug of chocolatey goodness, I plop in a few mini marshmallows and sit cross-legged on the carpet next to the tree, watching the twinkling lights as they flicker throughout the room.

I loved my parents a lot. I feel kind of stupid even thinking that, because of course I loved them. Losing them was the hardest thing I’ve been through in my entire life, and I’m so thankful I’ve had my brother to lean on over the years, to look to for support and guidance as I’ve grown older and faced different challenges and frustrations.

We may have had varying ideas about how to handle our grief—he likes to get rid of things that remind him of the life we used to have, and I like to cling on to my memories for dear life—but we’re always here for each other. It’s crazy to think about in the face of the tragedy we’ve been forced into, and we really are truly lucky to have the relationship that we do.

My head turns when I hear soft footsteps on the stairs, and I can’t help the zing of pleasure that surges through me when I see Jackson emerge at the bottom. He’s wearing a similar outfit to mine—a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, a hoodie, and some socks—and he heads my direction when he sees me sitting on the floor.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask, my head tilting back so I can look at him as he towers over me.

He shakes his head. “Not a wink. You?”

“Same. There’s hot chocolate on the stove if you want some.”

Jackson smiles. “That actually sounds really good.”

Heading into the kitchen, he makes quick work of preparing himself a mug, and then he crosses the room and lowers down to take a seat next to me.

“So, what are we doing?” he asks, blowing into his mug and looking up at the tree covered top to bottom in shiny bulbs and twinkling lights.

“Just enjoying some memories,” I tell him. “Christmas is my favorite holiday, and it was my mom’s too, so I always like to sit in front of the tree and think about her.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to them. I know it was a long time ago, but I’m sure it’s something you just don’t ever really get over.”

I nod, my eyes dropping to the mug in my hands.

“Yeah. Most of the time, life is just life. But then something will happen and I wish they were able to be there, or that I could have told them about it. I think those are the most difficult times. Those are the things it’s hard to get over.”

Jackson’s silent for a long moment. “You know, I met your mom once.”

Grinning, I turn away from the tree to look directly at him. “Really?”

He nods, his eyes focused on the lights twinkling along the walls and filling the room. “Yeah. I came here with Rusty once, just for a night. We came to town to pick up some of his stuff, and your mom was outside planting flowers.”

At that, I can’t help but smile. “She did love her garden.”

“We only talked for a few minutes before she shooed us off to grab Rusty’s things. But she seemed like…the kind of mom everyone wishes they had.”

“She was,” I tell him, knowing in my heart of hearts that it’s true, that the world was robbed of my parents too soon.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had my own tree,” Jackson says.

I appreciate the change in subject, knowing that memories about my parents are a double-edged sword. Wonderful things that can bring both a smile to my face and a tear to my eye.

So I latch on to what Jackson has said, shock etched in my voice. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“God, I can’t imagine Christmas without a tree.”

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