Page 113 of Velvet Chains
Not even close.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ruby
There were seven people in my house. Eight if you counted Rosie twice, which you probably should. We celebrated the American way and the Colombian way; we went to Church on Christmas Eve and she stayed up as long as she could, but there were more presents for her under the tree when she woke up on Christmas day.
It was late, but she was vibrating with excitement, a blur in fuzzy socks and a red dress she’d picked herself, hair half up in a clip shaped like holly. I’d tried to make her wear tights.
She’d argued that tights were an oppression of the people.
We compromised on a long cardigan and glitter lotion.
In the living room, Julian poured mimosas with the grim precision of someone who had definitely googled “best holiday behavior during divorce.” His girlfriend Valerie laughed too hard at something Natalia said and adjusted her off-the-shoulder sweater like it was a nervous tic. She had perfect teeth and a voice like a podcast ad.
She seemed perfect for Julian. I was happy for him, I guessed.
Dinner was a blend of too many traditions. Tamales and roast chicken. Arepas and mashed potatoes. Nat had brought a pie from the Italian bakery near her office, and Alek had made two enormous trays of spanakopita for reasons no one questioned. There was store-bought flan and a bowl of green beans no one touched. Rosie made a point of adding whipped cream to every single item on her plate, including the chicken. Julian had frowned. I let it go.
“God bless us, every one,” she said, dramatically flopping into her chair and knocking her paper crown sideways. Her plate rattled.
“Are you Tiny Tim now?” Alek asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m Big Tim. Tiny Tim’s cousin.”
“I’ve read A Christmas Carol,” Julian muttered, like he wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a bit.
“You’re not the boss of the Christmas canon,” I reminded him.
“Obviously,” he said, as Rosie started singing her version of Feliz Navidad—replacing the chorus with police gotta stop me now. No one corrected her.
Mass was in two hours, and she already looked ready to pass out—but she was determined. It was her first year staying up for the whole thing, and she was going to prove she could do it.
“You’re definitely going to fall asleep in the pew,” I told her, smoothing down the back of her dress as she wriggled on my lap.
“Nope. I'm gonna stay awake for baby Jesus.”
“Oh yeah?” Natalia grinned. “What are you going to say to him?”
“Don’t be scared,” Rosie said solemnly. “Everyone looks weird when they’re born.”
Everyone laughed, even Valerie, even Julian, even me.
And for a moment, it felt easy. It felt normal.
“So Martin,” Alek said. “How long have you been living in New York City?”
“My family is from Long Island,” Martin replied, squeezing Natalia’s hand. He was shorter than I expected and far more shy, but handsome, too; in that way where all his features were slightly off but they seemed to marry together to make a very decent-looking man.
Martin didn’t flinch. “I work in admissions at CUNY. The medical school.”
Natalia squeezed his hand again. “He’s being modest. He runs the whole first-year pipeline.”
“Only the early access programs,” Martin said.
Julian nodded like he’d already reviewed Martin’s resume.
I caught Alek’s eye across the table. He looked smug. It was annoying.
Mass started at ten, but Natalia insisted we get there early—“People turn out for Christmas like it’s a wedding,” she said—and she was right. St. Aidan’s was already glowing, heavy with poinsettias and candlelight. The smell of wax and incense clung to the wooden beams, and the pews were filling fast with winter coats, gold earrings, and little girls in red velvet.
