Page 11 of Just for the Holidays

“I’m sorry Teddy!.” Misty pleads.

“It’s okay. She hated working here,” he reasons.

“Here.” She drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. ‘Keep the change.”

“It’s only $22 . . .”

“Just take it.” Misty cradles the pie and rolls in one arm, rallying her horde with the other. “You all better go get in that truck, right now!” she growls, sweeping them out the door and down the sidewalk.

“Shit.” Teddy exhales, raking his fingers through his wiry hair.

Chapter 7

Nichol

Tweedle Twins

The permeating sear of impatient eyes and rhythmic wafts of cheesy-cracker breath, rouses Nichol from a long nap. He coils away from the stinky alarm, stretching his lanky body beyond the edges of the child-size mattress, pushing a low groan up from his belly.

“You slept all day.” a trolling little voice whispers.

Slimy sandpaper aggressively laps his toes.

“I did?” Nichol’s eyes pry open.

Max leans back on his hands, sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with his googly-eyed sidekick, Stuart—a chunky little pug—joyfully slobbering the bottoms of Nichol’s feet.

“Nanny and PopPop are here.” Max is studying him with steady curiosity. “You drooled all over that pillow,” his short nose wrinkles.

Nichol swipes his chin with his sleeve, folding his knees to pull his feet away from the pup’s unrelenting tongue, and sits up.

“How was school?” he scratches Stuart’s knubby head and the pug twirls with a gaping smile, wagging his curly-cue tail furiously.

“Fine.” Max is stoic as a grumpy old man reigning over his precious lawn from a rocking throne on his front porch.

Katie has referred to the boy as an old soul since the day he was born. Nichol has only visited four times in Max’s nine fast-passing years, but they have weekly video calls, every Sunday evening, and occasionally enjoy Minecraft sessions together. It’s the only videogame Max’s parents will allow him to play on the console system Nichol sent two Christmas’ ago, insisting every boy has them today when Katie and Anthony—her husband and Max’s dad—tried arguing against it.

Nichol is the oldest sibling and is accustomed to getting his way with his adoring little sister. He does hope that will never change.

“Mom is making dinner . . .”

“Why don’t you head upstairs, I’ll be right there.” Nichol interrupts, desperate to pee.

“Okay.” Max rises to his feet, claps his palm on his hip to signal for Stuart to follow, and the duo tromps up the stairs. “He’s awake,” the boy announces. “He drooled everywhere. Yuck!”

“What were you doing down there? I told you to leave Uncle Nichol alone.” Katie scolds.

Nichol smirks, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and moves to the bathroom, taking in the sight of the seemingly unused lounge. The room is cluttered with boxes of old junk, piled on the sofa and old table, likely unloaded from Nichol's room, having been used for storage.

Once relieved, he fixes his hair and swishes water, cupped in his palm, to rinse his teeth—he’ll unpack his toothbrush after dinner—and draws in a deep breath at the bottom of the stairs, before making the dreaded climb.

“There he is!” His father takes notice as Nichol’s head appears over the banister, looking into the living room.

“Out of the way,Carl.” His impatient mother pushes past and floats toward him with wide-spread arms, scooping him in, vice gripping his ribs. Aside from her Midwest-mom hairstyle being a bit shorter each visit, she never changes, even down to her signature scent—Mary Kay’s Forever Diamonds.

“Hi, guys,” Nichol wheezes.

“Careful Rebecca, you’ll snap the boy in half.” His father jeers, embracing both of them. “Welcome home kiddo.” His hair is whiter than Nichol remembers and the lines surrounding his features crease deeper than they used to.

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