Page 100 of Between Us

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,mijo,” my mom practically coos. “It’s enough of a gift to have you here with us, but I do appreciate it.”

She leans over to pat him on the cheek before taking the gifts out of his hands and moves to put them under the tree. I’m still at the counter with my hands sticky with cookie dough so, when his eyes move to me, I just offer him a small, sweet smile.

“Hi,” I murmur as he walks over to me. There was a bit of doubt he’d actually wear pajamas when he showed up for Christmas Eve dinner. I shouldn’t have questioned him for a second. It’s not nearly as festive as my gingerbread print set, but the dark green flannel bottoms and plain tee check the box in my opinion.

It’s a tradition around here.

“Hey, Storm Cloud.” His eyes glance to my mom, who seems to be distracting herself in the living room. I figure she’s doing it to offer us a private moment to greet each other—and I appreciate it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I admit quietly.

“Me too.” Before the words are even out of his mouth, his lips are already on mine. It’s not a quick kiss, but it is chaste and tender. Pulling away, he moves toward the sink and asks, “How can I help?”

Seeming to hear his question, my mom makes her way back toward us and re-washes her hands as well. “Oh, do you like baking? Blake mentioned you enjoy cooking and trying different types of food.”

He nods and moves to stand next to me, examining some of the cookie cutters that are piled nearby. “I love to cook—got into the hobby from my dad. I’ve never experimented with baking much, but I’d love to help, if that’s okay.”

His eyes move from my mom to me, then back again.

I gently nudge him with my shoulder. “Of course it’s okay.”

“Blake’s almost done with the next batch of dough, so she can show you how to cut and lay them out. I’ll get the frosting ready, and we can start on the ones cooling next.”

“Sounds good to me,” he easily agrees, and waits for me to give him his next instructions.

This isn’t the hardest part of the process, but it helps that Adrian listens and takes instructions well. He’s also not scared to ask questions rather than assume he can figure it out. It makes sense why my dad enjoys having him as an employee so much.

The conversation between my mom, him and I flows easily. We talk about my friends, and Adrian’s parents, and how my parents usually pop over to see their best friend Bonnie’s family before bed. I don’t go, though I always spend the day after Christmas with Bonnie for lunch and for presents.

My dad gets home earlier than expected. By seven-thirty p.m., we’re done with dinner, and drinking hot chocolate with only a few more cookies to decorate.

“This is really good, by the way,” Adrian tells me. “I like peppermint, I just never think to add it.”

I roll my eyes and admit, “It’s my brother’s recipe actually. He spent a couple winters perfecting it.” My dad chuckles at the memory of a young Grady making little Viviverysick one year.

At the same moment, my phone starts to vibrate on the counter.

“Speak of the devil,” I say as I accept the FaceTime call.

Grady’s looking down at his infant daughter, who’s currently perched against his chest as he uses his free hand to hold her little nose up like a Who from The Grinch. His head snaps up when he hears me.

“Excuse me, you’re one to talk.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “We were just talking about your hot chocolate. And will you leave the poor girl alone?”

At that, my mom jumps out of her seat to look into the screen. Her eyes squint, relaxing as soon as she realizes her granddaughter isn’t in any real danger. Only at the expense of my brother’s boredom.

“Oh,pollito,” she muses when she sees the two of them cuddling. I can’t help but snort when she uses that childhood nickname for him. Depending on the context,‘morrita’just means ‘little girl.’ Sometime during Grady’s toddler years, he was given the nickname of ‘little chicken.’

And considering the fact he was scared of the dark until middle school, it easily stuck.

He rolls his eyes at her, but it’s affectionate. “Hi, Mom. Where’s Dad?”

Grabbing the phone out of my hand, she rounds the island to put my dad in frame. “He’s here.”

“Hi, Grady.”

“Hey, Dad. How was the cl—”

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