Page 13 of Holly and Nick Hate Christmas
My stomach knotted—I was the first one there. I’d really hoped to pull up to Ryan, Lydia, and Nick as buffers. My parents adored Lydia, of course—whowouldn’tlove a sweet elementary-school teacher obsessed with their only son?—andwith Nick being new, they’d be much less likely to grill me on all the conversation topics I hoped to avoid.
My pre-owned RAV4 sounded as reluctant as I felt as I navigated toward the gray colonial-style farmhouse I’d grown up in. Midday sunshine peeked around puffy clouds and cast a warm glow on the lingering patches of slush that had yet to thaw under the holly bushes and the porch steps.
Home.
A bittersweet ache spread through my chest. There was the rope swing, still tied and waiting in the oak tree where Ryan and I used to race up the thick branches. Until we both broke ankles, anyway. Tree, 2; Sinclair Kids, 0.
A glance to my left confirmed Dad still hadn’t fixed the wooden fence bordering the east pasture since my last visit several years ago. I winced. I’d probably hear about that, too, but at least we’d all seen each other last summer at Olivia’s house for Janie’s sixth birthday party.
The pond off to the right of the house wasn’t crusted over with ice yet, but it would be next month for sure, if not before Christmas. I shook my head as I braked for a hollowed-out dip in the driveway. Ryan had been the only one to ever fall through the ice, and he never failed to make it sound like his quick plunge was anything short of a near-death experience. Ten bucks Nick would hear that story before we even sat down for dinner.
I bounced closer toward the house, willing my car not to conk out, and gave the front yard a quick scan. Hmm. Conspicuously absent was the giant Frosty inflatable that had held court every single Christmas since I was a kid. About three years ago, my younger sister Kat stated how Frosty must be invincible to have lasted so long. But Ryan had been quick to point out that Frosty’s hat seemed two shades blacker than usual—implying Dad replaced it without telling anyone.
For an hour, they’d all begged him to admit it, but he never would.
I clenched the steering wheel with mittened hands—the heater only worked when it felt like it—and leaned forward, peering at the house as I rattled to a stop. The brown and tan striped cat that was stretched out in a patch of sunshine on the porch wasn’t familiar, and neither were the flower baskets hanging near the white rocking chairs. I smirked. Mom must be in her Black Thumb Denial era, again. The navy shutters looked like they’d been painted recently…and was that a new roof? I frowned. Mom and Dad hadn’t mentioned getting any bad storms lately.
Or maybe I’d been more self-absorbed than I realized.
I shifted the gear into Park and let the car idle for a minute, casting one last desperate glance in my rearview for any sign of Ryan before I got out.
Still just me.
I could do this. I opened my door and sucked in a deep breath of Ohio winter air. My parents weren’t judgy—they wouldn’t condemn me for getting fired or being alone or possibly facing homelessness. No, it’d be much worse than that.
They’d feel sorry for me.
The only thing worse than being overlooked as a middle child was being looked at when you didn’t want to be.
I stood, brushing road-trip cookie crumbs off the front of my jeans—Ryan better appreciate the sweatpants sacrifice—and looked up just as the front door opened.
Dad.
My throat tightened.
“There’s my girl!” Fit as ever, my father descended the porch steps and headed toward me, arms open wide. His ever-present black glasses framed his face, his short beard and mustache a little more salt than pepper these days. Ryan looked just like him, but with freckles like mine.
“Hey, Dad.” Before I could say anything else, I was folded into a hug, my face smooshing into the shoulder of his T-shirt. My shoulders relaxed as I hugged him back. He smelled like Old Spice and fresh wood. Must have been working in his shop out back before I pulled up.
I eased away, and sawdust gritted between my teeth. Yep. Somebody was getting something carpenter-y for Christmas.
Dad held me by the shoulders, giving me a quick once-over. “You look great. Merry Christmas.”
“Uh-uh. Not yet.” I shook one finger and grinned to make my correction at leastappearlike a joke. “We still have nine days.”
Nine. Days.
Free groceries, free groceries, free groceries.
Dad opened the passenger door and grabbed my duffel bag. Birds chirped in the tree branches overhead, annoyingly cheerful. “Remember when you used to make those countdown chains with red and green construction paper?”
“Sure do.” I also remembered the year those chains stopped being anticipatory to Christmas and started being anticipatory to Christmas beingover—the first year my birthday got put on the back burner. What was I that year? Twelve? Fourteen?
Dad shouldered my bag and grinned, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Well, I bet your mother has some construction paper in her craft closet, if you get the hankering.”
“I think her paper is safe, Dad.” I grabbed my purse and the tote bag of gifts I’d thrown together at the last minute, despite my meager budget, and shut the car door with my hip. “Don’t worry, you have grandchildren now to do all the cute stuff.”
“Only two.” He frowned. “Five adult children, and two grandkids. That math doesn’t add up.”
