Page 18 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“It’s almost winter break, and then I’ll have ten whole days to relax.” My best friend, for as long as I can remember, stares at me, clearly not buying what I’m selling her. I sigh in defeat andamend. “Eight, if you remove Christmas.” She continues to stare, but I stand strong.
“And you aren’t signed up to help with anything else during your break? You’re going to take it easy and catch up on sleep?”
I bite my lip, carefully avoiding her eyes and concentrating on portioning dough.
“Wren,” she says in a chiding tone.
“What am I supposed to do? Not to help people? It’s just house-sitting and checking in on Mr. and Mrs. Peters’s cat while they’re away.”
I don’t mention that I will probably end up babysitting my niece a couple of times, and I already told my parents I’d help them do post-holiday cleanup at their Christmas tree farm while I’m off.
Not that I’ll be telling her that.
“Yes! At least not at the expense of your sanity! No one expects you to do everything, Wren.” I give her a look because lately, I’ve been thinking that’s not true. She raises an eyebrow and counters. “If they do, it’s because you have set those expectations with your utter lack of boundaries.”
“I have boundaries!”
Hallie scoffs out a laugh.
“Where? Tell me a single boundary you have set and maintained, Wren. It used to be working on weekends, and we both know that shit’s long out the window.” I flip through my mind, trying to think of something I can give her as proof, but come up empty. “And then it was not volunteering for anything extra, which turned into not volunteering until you were explicitly asked.” She tips her head to the dozens of cookies and brownies individually packaged for the bake sale. “But I already know you offered to bake all of that without even asking if anyone could split the duties.”
I set my scoop aside and move to the tray I took out of the oven earlier.
“It’s just extra chaotic right now because this is my first year in charge of the decorating committee and the town festival.” I slide the spatula under a cookie, averting my eyes from my best friend’s knowing gaze. “I just want everything to be perfect this year. It’s the first year…” I let my words trail off, afraid that the emotions I’ve kept in a brightly wrapped box and tied with the most perfect bow will escape. I don’t have to say it, though, because Hallie is my best friend and always knows.
“I know, babe. I do, really, and I get it. I’m sure your grandmother is watching and so proud, but just like me, she’s nervous. She was the biggest proponent for your boundaries, always telling people to do shit themselves and stop asking you for help.”
I look at her knowingly. “Yes, and every December, all ofherboundaries also went out the window. It’s just what happens.”
My grandmother was head of the decorating committee in Holly Ridge from the time she was twenty-eight until she passed away earlier this year. She was my favorite person in this world and loved nothing more than this town. She cherished helping it and making it into a real community —values she instilled in me. When she was sick, I told her I would continue her legacy and make this holiday the best one yet. I still remember the soft look she gave me, the way her hand moved to cup my cheek.
I know you’ll keep the lights shining bright, Wren.
I might be tired, and I might be stretched thin, but I’m doing it for her. I’m doing what she would have done if she were in my shoes, and every day I go to bed hoping I’m doing her proud.
“You and I both know this was a problem well before the season hit, Wren. You’re going to burn yourself out.”
Before I can answer, my phone beeps with a new text notification, a welcome interruption from having to respond toher. I set the last cookie onto the cookie rack, then reach for my phone to check the screen. I fight not to react visually to the text Carrie Staub, one of the moms on the PTO, just sent me, but I fail and let out a loud groan.
“What?” Hallie asks, stepping closer, then reading the text over my shoulder.
Carrie
Hey, Wren! So sorry to ask you last minute, but I can’t make it to set up tomorrow. Any chance you can fill in for me?
“Tell her no,” Hallie says, words firm. I sigh, then turn to her, resting my back on the counter as I stare at my phone forlornly.
“If I don’t, it won't get done.”
“Or she’ll find someone else to do it. Or do it herself, God forbid.”
I lift my phone up to remind her of the message. “She said she can’t do it.”
Hallie gives me a soft look, the kind you give kids when they ask about something that is obvious to adults.
“Or maybe she just doesn’t want to and knows you will,” Hallie says, grabbing a cookie and moving to my kitchen table to sit, facing me.
I pause for a second and blink at her before shaking my head. “She wouldn’t do that. People don’t do that.”
