Page 43 of That Time I Kissed My Brother’s Best Friend

“About that, Dad,” I begin. My lungs are primed for a sigh, but for my father’s sake, I hold it in. “Beau’s not going to be here this year.”

“Oh, no!” His grin shifts into an exaggerated frown. For the record, Phil Graham doesn’t know how to do sad very well. So his supreme effort to show me some empathy—or is it sympathy?—tugs at my heartstrings. “That’s too bad, sweetie,” he adds. And the lump I’d almost dislodged from my throat forms again. So I gulp it down and remind myself I need to stay strong for just a little while longer.

Beau and I made a promise to always keep the faith when it comes to one another. So I can’t fail him the first holiday we’re tested. And after all, the date on the calendar doesn’t matter. My family already threw one weeklong Christmas in the summer. This is Christmas number two already. So Beau and I can share a third Christmas the next time he flies in to LA. That’s how we’ve been doing things, by the way—acknowledging special events whenever we’re in the same town.

First there was his birthday. Then mine. Halloween. And an early Thanksgiving. We work our celebrations around his travel schedule. Luckily, he usually has time in between assignments or at least an extended layover every few weeks. It works, but I won’t pretend it isn’t hard. Once I opened up the floodgates on my true feelings for Beau Slater, I couldn’t shut the valve off. I feel my feelings all the time now. I’m basically a great big ball of feels.

I peek at my phone again, even though I have the sound on high, so if he texts or calls or requests a FaceChat, I won’t miss it. There are no new notifications. But I haul my mouth into a smile. “We’ll still make the most of this Christmas,” I say. “I’m just glad to be in Abieville twice in one year. And I’m grateful Big Mama’s totally well this time. And I’m especially grateful I made it before all the incoming flights got canceled.”

My dad darts his eyes at my mom. “Canceled?”

My mom nods at him vigorously. “Didn’t you hear? That’s why Beau won’t be with us. Poor thing couldn’t fly into Albany. That old storm must’ve really kicked up last night.”

My father tugs at the bottom of his RudolF sweater. “While we were at Christmas Eve services?”

“Afterward, Phil.” She frowns at him. “Obviously.”

He clears his throat. “What a shame.”

My mother sighs. “Betty is going to beheartbroken.”

“Save her some fruitcake,” I say, and both my parents burst out into over-the-top laughter. This makes sense when it comes to my mother. Her usual setting is way-over-the-top. But my dad is typically less … raucous. Before I can ask if somebody spiked the eggnog, Brady appears in the hallway. His head looms above my dad. If anyone would spike a holiday beverage before noon, it would be my brother.

“What did I miss, people?” he asks, squeezing past our father through the smallish doorway. This only serves to propel Dad into the space right alongside Brady. My gaze shifts from my mom to my dad to my brother. The entire Graham family is in my bedroom now.

Normal.

“Merry Christmas, Brady.” I cock an eyebrow. “Ready for your coal?”

“I never got coal.”

“Which is precisely why I figured out Santa isn’t real.”

“Don’t say that!” my mother barks, swatting my legs underneath the comforter. “Or else you’ll stop feeling the magic of Christmas and the Polar Express bell won’t ring for you anymore!”

I make a show of furrowing my brow. “Weren’t you the one always reminding Brady and me that Christmas isn’t about gifts or Santa?”

“Or snickerdoodles,” Brady interjects.

Mom waves our comments away. “Of course Christmas isn’t about cookies.” She heaves herself off the bed. “Santa should’ve left stockings full of coal every year,” she says.

“Now, now, Elaine,” my father says. “Our kids are just spirited. We raised them to think for themselves, didn’t we? And—almost as important—we wanted them to have a sense of humor.” He pats his stomach, right on RudolF’s red nose. Then he wags his eyebrows at Brady and me. “You two get that from yours truly.”

My mother scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phil. Every funny bone in our children’s bodies comes from my side of the family. The Bradfords are—”

“We know,” the rest of us say in unison.

She purses her lips, but we all smile at her. After taking a beat, she smiles too. “On that note, I think I hear the oven timer.”

“Christmasisa little bit about cinnamon rolls,” Brady says. He slides his gaze over to me and drops his eyes. “Too bad Beau won’t be here to enjoy them. I’m really sorry, Sis.”

“How did you know that?”

“Oh.” He scratches his chin and blinks. “Because he called and asked me to be extra nice to you today since he couldn’t be here.” Brady works his mouth into a smirk. “I told him I’d try, butextranice might be a tall order.”

Now there’s the brother I know and love.

I throw back the comforter and find my trusty slippers waiting for me on the rug. I hate cold feet in the winter. Hopefully my dad’s already got a fire roaring in the old pot-bellied stove. That’s one of my favorite traditions of Christmas. It’s an antique stove we inherited from Big Mama’s mama. We only use it once a year. Well, twice if you count July.

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