Page 79 of Mad About Yule

Given the rest of our conversations today, this isn’t the battle for me to pick, but we have very different ideas of what makes good style. Mom likes mid-century modern—clean lines, everything useful and necessary. No farmhouse ceramic roosters for her. I’m of the philosophy that more is more. I want to be surrounded by as many colorful, pretty things as possible.

“How can we petition to get a toy store to take over that space? Or a book shop?” I’d kill for a good bookshop in Sunshine. Right now, we have to drive into Bend for new releases. No offense to the thrift shops in town, but mildewy books that haven’t been popular for a decade just don’t cut it.

“Maybe it’d make a good space for a general contractor. Or a custom carpenter.”

Her eyes are on the television screen, but her hands are on my back.

“I can’t imagine something like that needs a storefront.” I down half my glass of wine in two big gulps, waiting for her to pounce.

“Maybe ask Griffin and see what he thinks.”

I stare at the Broadway actress on television lip syncing to an upbeat Christmas song while the parade pauses.Do not take the bait. Do not take the bait.

“Or I can ask him when he comes to dinner,” she adds.

My heart jumps up into my throat. I should have just mumbled something about Griffin and left it at that.

Dad startles awake. “Who’s coming to dinner?”

“Nobody.” I’m maybe a little too serious, because his eyes widen like he’s aware “nobody” means “please don’t let Mom invite my handyman to dinner.” He’s sympathetic, but he finds her romantic meddling more amusing than anything else. He should try it from my place sometime.

“He said he’d take me up on the offer,” Mom says. “You two get along so well. Why shouldn’t he come to dinner?”

She watches me like a cat who’s trapped a mouse. What can I say to that?We’re just friends? Wren comes to family dinner all the time.We don’t get along? Everything she’s seen proves that’s a big fat lie.I don’t want him to come to dinner because you’ll go overboard and mangle everything and he’ll call it quits with me on the spot?

Too honest.

“I guess if you’re not interested, there’s always the new pediatric dentist in Bend. Your father met Dr. Brendan this week. He’s tall, handsome, never married.” She gives me a satisfied smile. “I could invite him to dinner next weekend. What do you say?”

“I don’t want to be set up with some strange man Dad just met.”

“He works with kids,” Mom coaxes.

“So do clowns.” Which is exactly what I am for getting myself stuck in this mess. “I don’t want you to invite him to dinner for me.”

“Why not? If you and Griffin are just friends, what can it hurt?”

I down the rest of my wine, scrambling for a delicate yet firm answer to the trap she set for me. Something that reveals nothing. Something she’ll actually listen to.

I’ve got nothing.

Out in the foyer, my phone rings. I leap up—I don’t even care if it’s a spam call. I will gladly talk about my car’s warranty right now.

“Gotta get that,” I toss behind me as I go. “It might be important.”

Scurrying out of the room, I grab my phone along the way. Lila. Honestly, I might prefer the car warranty call.

I duck into what used to be my childhood bedroom. Once a purple ode to all things sparkly unicorn, it now boasts a treadmill, a stationary bicycle, and a rack of free weights complete with a ballet barre on one wall.

I lower myself onto the treadmill track. “Hey, Lila.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you.” I imagine her somewhere in the recesses of her in-laws-to-be’s mansion, lounging on a velvet stool or whatever wealth like that thinks is cozy.

“Why aren’t you updating the Christmas festival’s Instagram page every day? You can’t just create it and leave it, you have to post daily so people can see it. Now, I’ve got some ideas for your Stories because you obviously aren’t doing that, either—”

“Wait, what’s going on? What are you doing?” This is not the “I’m in a marble bathroom and you’re not” call I was expecting.

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