Page 80 of Holiday Hostilities

“Hardly!” she scoffs. “I almost forgot what your kitchen looked like. And since when do you cook? First, you call Nonna for help with the soup that I know you never, ever make. And now, you’re whipping up…” She squints at my bowl. “An omelet?”

“Breakfast burritos,” I say with a chuckle as I walk to the fridge in search of breakfast sausages.

“Hmm, I see,” my mom says suspiciously.

“Just over a week until I’m home,” I change the subject. “I can’t wait. Any snow in the forecast?”

“Tons of it.” Mom looks excited. I didn’t get my love of Christmas from nowhere—my mom is its biggest fan. “Rachael’s boys are so excited for Uncle Aaron to come sledding with them.”

We always had a million festive traditions when I was growing up: sledding with my dad, uncles, and cousins, then stuffing our faces with Nonna’s panettone; attending a candlelight Christmas Eve carol service, followed by a feast of seafood; watchingMiracle on 34th Streeton Christmas morning with hot cocoa topped with extra whipped cream.

In case you haven’t heard, we Italians love our food.

Speaking of which…

“Dammit!” I yelp. The eggs are burning and I hurtle towards them, grabbing the pan off the stove, but it’s too late. They smell terrible.

And then, I hear the creak of a bedroom door opening upstairs.

“Mom, I’ve got to go,” I tell her as I stare at the burnt eggs. Gross.

“Why?” she prompts. “Is ‘Nobody’ there with you?”

I laugh, remembering our last conversation. “No, Mom. She’s definitely not nobody.”

Far from it. I want Olivia to know what last night meant to me. How serious I was when I said I’d dreamed about her so many times.

Tomorrow afternoon, she flies to Southeast Asia for a few days, so today is the last time I’ll be able to spend proper, quality time with her until right before I go home for Christmas.

“I knew it!” Mom announces triumphantly. “Do I need to add a place at the Christmas dinner table?”

“No, no, Mom,” I say, hearing footsteps on the stairs. “It’s not like that.”

But a part of me wonders if itcouldbe like that. The thought of Olivia sitting here alone at Christmas while I’m with my massive family just feels wrong.

I know she wouldn’t accept an invitation to fly to New Jersey with me for the holidays, but I wonder if there’s anything I can do to soften some of her bad memories by replacing them with better ones.

Just like I want to put the past in the past and show her how much I like her, I also wonder if I can help her put the past in the past with the holidays.

Suddenly, I get an idea. A damn good idea that will help me achieve both of those things.

“Well, whatisit like?” Mom demands, eyes glinting.

Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say, the most honest answer I can speak aloud.

Mom gives me a terrifying wink. “Well, if you really want to impress her, I’d toss those eggs in the trash and order takeout.”

Laughing to herself, she hangs up just as Olivia enters the kitchen.

At the very sight of her, my heart picks up speed. She’s barefoot with her face free of makeup, dressed in an oversized Giants hoodie and leggings. Her hair’s in a top knot, she’s wearing her glasses, and the sight of her does something to me on such a deep level, I’m knocked off-kilter for a moment.

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft and throaty. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, no. It was just my mom on the phone.” I point sheepishly to the mess on the counter. “I was, uh, trying to make breakfast. Failing, too.”

“I can see that.” She laughs, her face shining. All I want to do is make her laugh for as long as I can. “Do you need some help?”

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