Page 133 of The Holiday Hate-Off
When we get to the town square, we find positions as close to Love at First Sip as possible, because Eileen said she wanted to watch us through the front window—a sentiment that might have been creepy from anyone other than her.
Lola, the woman who runs the sex toy shop, leads a rendition of “Santa Baby” using a vibrator as her microphone, so we’re presumably not the only ones who have been indulging in the glögg. I sing at the top of my lungs, my very off-pitch voice weaving with Enzo’s equally off-pitch voice.
A human can only have so many gifts. I’m glad the universeknew better than to give this perfect specimen of a man a perfect singing voice as well.
I glance at the Sip and see Eileen beaming at us through the plate glass window, singing along. I gesture for her to join us—the café must be empty, because half of the town is out here singing, filling the air like we’re suddenly the Whos inHowthe Grinch Stole Christmas!But she shakes her head and points back at her sole customer: grumpy Wayne.
“Oh, come on, Wayne,” I mutter.
“What’s he doing this time?” Charlie asks.
“Eileen can’t join us because he’s in there.”
“Maybe she wants to be in there too,” Enzo says enigmatically, stroking my hair.
“Why?” I ask.
“Call it a hunch.”
An older woman with thick white hair pulled back under a bright red hat marches up to Lola and wrestles the vibrator from her, causing a groan to rise up in the crowd. She wraps it up in a Santa hat someone discarded before handing it back to Lola with a sour expression and saying something under her breath.
“Fun’s over!” Lola shouts. “The fun police have arrived.”
But someone hands Lola a drink, and seconds later she’s singing at the top of her lungs again.
The song shifts to “Jingle Bells,” and we’re halfway through it when Giovanni, in a thick coat and gloves, emerges from the staircase to Hidden Italy and approaches us.
“There’s the man of the hour,” he says, clapping Nico on the back. “Why’s Aria the one sending me photos of you and your perfect likeness, man? It’s gotta be the middle of the night in Greece, and you all couldn’t bother to send them to me?”
“I did,” Enzo says, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close enough that I can feel the rumble of his spoken words. “That’s Hideaway Harbor for you. It sends texts to Greece but not to Hidden Italy.”
Giovanni grunts, then says, “Say, that guy from the city called back again today. I told him it was a Saturday, and he said he was aware of the day of the week, but he’d like to hear from you regardless. What do you think this is about, anyway?”
Cold runs down my spine, as if my body has suddenly remembered it’s freezing outside—the kind of atmosphere more welcoming to an ice sculpture than a human body.
“Nothing important enough for me to respond on the weekend,” Enzo says, but this isn’t the Enzo who’s been enjoying himself all day. His voice is tense, impatient.
“Seemed pretty important to the guy who keeps blowing up our phone,” Giovanni says, sounding a bit annoyed by it, or maybe by being the one sober person in a sea of drunk people. “You think they’re trying to get you back?”
“I’ll call later,” Enzo says. “Why don’t you close early and join us? We can get dinner together.”
“I’ll cook for everyone at Nonna’s house,” Nico offers. “I’ve got an idea for a recipe I’ve been wanting to try.”
“Well, we’ll see you all later, then,” Lars says politely, nodding.
Enzo laughs. “You think you’re getting out of this so easily? We’re friends now, we made a pact. You and Charlie need to come too. And Eileen.”
I glance back at him, feeling a pulse of happiness again. Of hope. “Really?”
“I’m the one who’s going to be cooking,” Nico says with a sigh. “For nine people now.”
But he doesn’t really sound upset about it. Enzo isn’t the only Cafiero who likes a challenge.
“If you’d like, we can invite Resa?” Enzo suggests, teasing in his voice. His brother cuffs him on the arm, and then someonestarts a rendition of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas.”
It is. It really is. This is what I’ve been wanting, Christmas as it was before Mom’s illness got bad, when we used to dance around and catch snowflakes on our tongues and eat hot chestnuts from street vendors.
I look up into the darkened sky, and I think,I wish you were here.
