Page 65 of Christmas Is All Around
“I think you’re being abitmelodramatic,” Charlotte said, as Ava literally kissed the floor upon finally wandering into the living room that morning.
“I’m not,” Ava retorted, wincing as she climbed back to her feet—it was one of the least-graceful motions Charlotte had ever seen her sister make. “Just wait until you have a baby.”
“Pass,” Charlotte said without missing a beat.
“Probably a good call,” Ava said, although her face did brighten at the sight of Kit wandering into the living room with Alice in his arms; he was wearing a pair of pajamas in a matching print to Alice’s onesie. It was pretty adorable. Though—
“Did you not get the matching-PJs memo?” Charlotte asked her sister, gesturing at Ava’s pajamas—a silk tank-and-shorts set that, knowing Ava, had cost at least $300. It was completed with a pink silk robe. She looked significantly more glamorous than anyone had a right to look before eight in the morning, but she was decidedlynotcompleting the picture of a family in matching Christmas harmony.
“I got it, and I ignored it,” Ava said, lifting her nose. “I accidentally logged into Facebook last year at Christmas—”
“How do youaccidentallylog into Facebook?” Charlotte asked skeptically.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Kit said cheerfully. “We were arguing about whether her last boyfriend before me was fit or not—”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I don’t think I want to hear this story anymore.”
Kit was undeterred. “—and so she had to log in to prove to me that he was, which was wonderful because it was how she learned that he’d converted to become a Mormon—”
This had taken an unexpected turn. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “He what now?”
“—and had four children and they all wore matching Christmas pajamas.”
“It was harrowing,” Ava said with a shudder. “But then I did a bit of digging, since I was already logged in, and discovered absolutehordesof boring people I used to know who are now happily married and popping out offspring—”
“Like you,” Charlotte pointed out, in the interest of fairness.
“—and this matching-pajamas thing seems to be some sort of plague. You cannotimaginehow many people do it.” Ava crossed her arms. “So I refuse to participate.”
“Mum will be disappointed,” Kit said, “since she’s the one who bought them for us.”
“She won’t,” Ava said serenely. “Because I gave the pair she got me back to her, and she’s going to wear them instead.”
At precisely this moment, there was the sound of a key in the door, the door opening, and a cheerful “Happy Christmas!” trilled from the entryway. Simone and John appeared in the living room a moment later, both wearing matching pajamas of their own, with Simone brandishing a bottle of champagne in her hand.
“Bubbles?” she asked brightly.
“Please,” said Charlotte.
From that point, the morning became a bit of a blur: there was a round of mimosas, then the absurdity of a bunch of adults sitting with bated breath as an unimpressed baby played with a ball of wrapping paper rather than any of the gifts that it had been used to wrap. There was a Christmas lunch, and a round of charades, and Christmas crackers—one of the few Christmas traditions that Charlotte actually enjoyed, since she liked to wait until someone was deep in conversation and then pull a cracker directly next to them, just to see them jump.
But throughout all of this, there was a constant whine of misery humming just below the surface for her—one she didn’t want to think about, to consider too carefully, scared of what it would tell her. About herself, about Graham, about what she might feel for him.
Might have felt, she corrected herself mentally.Past tense.
But she didn’t believe this, really.
She thought she was doing a decent job of hiding this, since no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but it turned out that Ava had just been choosing her moment to strike.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ava asked without any warning that afternoon as she and Charlotte were loading the dishwasher. “You look like you’re going to a funeral. I know Christmas isn’t your thing, but this seems extreme.”
“I do not,” Charlotte objected, scrubbing at a particularly stuck-on bit of food on the plate in her hand.
“Oh my god, youdon’t have to wash the dish first,” Ava said, plucking the plate out of her hand and sliding it into a free spot in the dishwasher.
“It helps to loosen up the tough spots!” Charlotte said; this was a rehash of an argument they’d had at least twenty times in their adult lives, but it was comforting in its familiarity, like a favorite—if slightly annoying—pair of shoes.
“Do not try to distract me, Charlotte Rose Lane,” Ava said severely, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. “What’s wrong?”
