Page 47 of Take Me Home

“I was a kid,” he pointed out.

“You weren’t a kid when you made the duct-tape vest,” Maggie sang. As the big sister, her protection was selective.

“Wait, I have a picture.” His mother rifled through the millions of photos and invitations on the refrigerator and plucked out a four by six of him at fourteen. He’d gotten bored one day and constructed a vest entirely out of duct tape and, unfortunately, put it on and paraded around in it. Other than a pair of boxers with dinosaurs eating pizza on them, it was all he was wearing, his scrawny, pale chest exposed and glasses sliding down his nose. Why that photo remained on the fridge after all these years, he’d never know.

Hazel’s expression was pure joy. “This is kind of impressive, actually. You could have gone into fashion.”

He snatched the photo and shoved it into a drawer.

“Wait, is this the origin of your whimsical accessories?”

“My what?”

“The floral ties.”

Ash raked a hand through his hair, wishing he could steer the conversation to anything else.

“He actually wears them?” June asked. Her eyes looked almost feral with delight.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

June turned to Hazel. “You should hear how he complains. ‘I’m not your Ken doll,’ ” she mimicked.

Maggie cut in, “ ‘I’m a person, not a project.’ ”

“They gave you the ties?” Hazel asked, loving this whole situation.

“Does he wear the rad two-tone wingtip shoes?” June asked.

Hazel nodded. “There’s a very snappy herringbone vest, too.”

Laurel and Leanne high-fived across the kitchen table.

Hazel covered her mouth, but not before a giggle escaped. “I thought a girlfriend was dressing him.”

“Nope,” Ash said, giving the melodramatic sigh they all wanted, “just a bunch of meddling sisters.”

His mother invited Hazel to stay for dinner, and although Ash knew she was avoiding going home, he was still glad she accepted. The price for his family not fully exposing his old crush appeared to be roasting him more, but he took it in stride, glad to have her there, laughing along with them. For a while, he even forgot to worry about his dad, about his parents’ finances, about the house and his sisters.

Later, he followed her home in his dad’s truck, the tree in the back. At the gate, she spoke to the security guard for a long time before passing her sweater out the window. He remembered her story about losing her scarf and realized neither of them had come prepared with a donation. He was ready to offer his hat, but when he pulled up, the guard waved him through, sayingthe previous car had covered him. On her father’s long driveway, Hazel waited for him to park, shivering.

“At this rate, you won’t have any clothes left by the time we leave town,” he said, hopping down from the truck. He pulled off his jacket and held it out to her.

She looked longingly at it but didn’t reach out, so he moved behind her and draped it over her shoulders. She quickly slipped her arms into the sleeves and turned up the collar. With frequent stops, they carried the tree awkwardly, her at the top, him hoisting the substantial trunk. She peeked through the front door window, checked her watch, and whispered, “Shit.” Wincing theatrically over her shoulder at him as she entered, she called, “Uh, it’s just me.” She tugged at the tree, and Ash lifted his end. The force of it knocked her forward, and they both stumbled into the enormous foyer.

She hadn’t exaggerated when she’d called it a mansion. He felt like he was stepping into a palace, his boots scuffing too loudly across travertine tile. Alongside the contemporary elements typical of a newer build—open floor plan, soaring ceilings—the place had unexpected design specificity with arched doorways, wainscoting in the entry, and exposed rough-hewn beams in the living room. It was a shame that visitors came to marvel at the homogenous, somewhat boring all-brick exteriors, professionally decorated in the same excessive but classy holiday aesthetic while the most interesting details were kept private in highly customized, expensively sourced interiors like this one.

A woman and two teenagers—the stepfamily, he assumed—exchanged perplexed looks over their meal at the dinner table around the corner.

Hazel busied herself fluffing branches. “Sorry I missed dinner. After the other tree broke, I wanted to get you all a new one. Should we put it over by the window?”

The stepmother rose from her seat. “That’s a real tree.”

Hazel peered up at it, breath short from the effort of hauling it in. “Yeah, it’s pretty big.”

“No, I mean, it’s real.” She sniffed the air. “Your dad—”

“My dad what?”

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