Page 20 of Peppermint Bark

I bet our parents had enjoyed our Christmas spirit, looking as hopeful as the kids in the hospital … but this year, I’d been on the other end of the magic.

I found Grace in the dining room, eyes flicking as if following a phantom, fingers gripping an armchair. When I said her name, she jolted and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I couldn't figure this Grace girl out. The first night I’d pegged her as naive and she’d countered that she was optimistic. Whatever it was, her innocence intrigued me, and I wanted to pinpoint was so appealing.

Dad was especially invested. When I’d returned to his room after the Santa visit, he saw a change in my expression. “She won you over, huh?”

I slumped in my chair and picked up my laptop: 87 new emails. Fuck.

As I worked my way through my inbox, Dad’s eyes lingered on my face. I met his stare over my laptop screen and raised a brow.

“Listen, Alex. Grace is a special girl, and she’ll overturn the world for the people she cares about. She gives with both hands and never saves anything for herself. And men like you …” He let out a long sigh. “She’s not like Mallory or Victoria. Don’t take advantage of her generosity.”

His obsession with her annoyed me, and I didn’t appreciate his implication about my sister and ex-girlfriend. Before I could defend myself, he held up his hand. “I’m closing my eyes, you’re welcome to work here or catch a class at Mallory’s studio.”

I couldn’t waste time on yoga. As he drifted off I opened a new tab, searching for a better Santa suit and trying not to think about seeing my Mrs. Claus again on Monday …

Then she’d shown up in my aunt’s driveway and invited me upstairs. She seemed to regret the offer instantly, but after shoveling in the whipping wind, my bones were cold.

Plus? I fucking love hot chocolate, and I hadn’t had one in ages.

Cold bones and hot chocolate. Those were the only reasons I went upstairs.

Oh, and I’d wanted to check out the man cave, which had been a pleasant surprise. My memories featured plain drywall and the awful stench of teen boy and Axe body spray, but now it was tidy, feminine, and smelled faintly of cinnamon.

In her apartment, I'd realized that waiting for her to speak led to the most interesting revelations. I suspected most people only got happy Grace without waiting out the deeper stories, and that was what made her fascinating.

So I sat at the dining table and used one of my favorite negotiation techniques: silence. Most people think negotiation is fast, loud yelling — it is, and I love that part too — but if you stay quiet long enough, the other person will crack. I shoved a marshmallow in my mouth and held up the bag as an offering.

She released the chair and walked over, but at the last second, I smirked and tugged it away, tilting my chin to the seat next to me. When she slid into it, I pushed the bag over. She held a marshmallow on her fingertips as she glanced around the table again.

Her courage kicked in after two more marshmallows of my silence.

“Our kitchen only had room for my parents, my three older brothers, and me. As the youngest, I’d be the first to be demoted to the kids’ table.” The marshmallow spun between her fingertips, her gaze tracking her fidgeting. “At church, my father told the story of the Last Supper: Jesus knew it was His last night on Earth before He walked to his death. He wanted to spend it eating with all Twelve Apostles around one table.” She picked apart her marshmallow, the stringy bits stretching between her fingernails. “That was the Christmas present I prayed for: A table big enough to host all my family and friends.”

A table? As a little girl, she’d wanted a table for Christmas?

My Christmas wish list had been a mile long: trucks and action figures, baseball equipment, video games and skis. Never once had I thought of asking for a table big enough for my family. I hadn’t needed to. It had always been there.

I ran my hand over this dining room table, fingertip catching on a small groove. If Grace was so close with her family, why did she spend her holidays with mine?

Before I could ask, she stood and ran her hands over her thighs. “We should get to work."

I ate another marshmallow before following her. She set up an apple peeling station, slid over a bowl of washed apples, and I got to work. She asked the smart speaker for Christmas music and we moved in tandem: I cored and sliced apples, dropping them into her bowls; she mixed ingredients, pounded and rolled out dough. Her face took on a tranquil expression and I fell into her rhythm, watching as she glided through my aunt’s kitchen like she belonged. “Where’d you learn to bake?”

“My Nanna taught me and my three brothers. Isaac had been the manager, coordinating our assembly line. He was my oldest brother, a little older than you, I think,” her eyes darted over before she sprinkled flour over her dough. “Next came Levi, five years older than me. He hated baking, so he got apple coring duty to finish first and leave.” She looked at my hands, her gaze soft and affectionate. “Elijah had been in charge of spices. And once Nanna realized I liked the dough, I got promoted to this station.” She fondly reached for the rolling pin and started to press it out.

All her family stories were in the past tense, I realized. Isaac was her oldest brother, not is. What changed? Had her brothers all moved away, like Nick and I had? When Mallory told childhood stories, did she say ‘Alex was my brother,’ like I didn’t exist anymore?

Or had something worse happened? Maybe she'd brought Shannon home and her family hadn't approved of her being a lesbian or something?

Which is stupid. And I’d been shocked Shannon’s parents hadn’t approved of Grace. What parent wouldn’t instantly adore Grace?

I bet my parents hoped for somebody like Grace when they met Victoria, who they’d never warmed up to but accepted as my choice. Then again, nobody really liked Victoria when they first met her. Or the first twenty times.

“This was Nanna's signature dessert for church bake sales, so we made dozens. She didn’t believe in ‘secret family recipes.' We all knew each step by heart to pass on to our kids someday.” Her hands stayed on the rolling pin, eyes downcast and her voice tightening.

“You want to teach me?” Her skeptical gaze flicked over, and I shrugged. “Might come in handy if one of my clients acquires a bakery.”

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