Dad's home tomorrow so today, Mom and I are heading to the Christmas tree farm a couple of miles away to pick up a tree and get it decorated before his return. He loves the season, but he has no style or flair for decoration and it's best if we get it done without him.
"So," Mom says as we get into the car at nine o'clock, before we've even had breakfast.
"Yeah?" I buckle my seatbelt. It's pretty much the first we've spoken in almost two days – yesterday, I left to get to Laurel's before Mom left for work and when I got back after nine, she was already in bed. Mom glances at me as she pulls out of the driveway, driving slowly on the snow-dusted road.
"You must've gotten home late last night," she says. "I didn't hear you come in."
"It was only about nine thirty."
"Which is, what, thirteen hours after you left yesterday morning?"
"For most of which I was with Ava." I turn up the heating and switch the radio station to something other than a dry recounting of the ever depressing news. "Laurel and I had dinner when she got back and then I came home."
"Was it good?"
"We just had pizza."
"Not the food itself," Mom says with a roll of her eyes. "Was it nice, having dinner with Laurel?"
"Oh. Yeah." I nod, smiling to myself, thinking of the way she kissed me, the hint of wine on her breath, the slip of her tongue against mine. "Yeah, it was really nice. Long overdue."
"Good." Mom smiles at the road ahead. "I'm happy for you, hon. As long as she's not taking advantage of you because you happen to enjoy babysitting."
"Ha! Trust me, she's not taking advantage. I practically begged her to let me look after Ava today. It was between me and her mom and I'm not kidding, her mom is, like, one of the most awful people I've met in real life. She is such a bitch."
"Hey," Mom snaps. Mom rarely snaps. It jolts me. "That is no way to talk about someone's mother. How would you feel if Laurel called me a bitch?"
"I'd be mighty fucking confused because obviously you're not," I say, "but hers is." I tell her about yesterday, the awkward and slightly scary encounter at the garden center, and I sprinkle in a few of the old fights Laurel's told me about.
"I see," Mom says eventually, as we turn down the narrow lane that leads to the farm. "She sounds like a bitch."
"Thank you."
Cooper tugs on his leash as we wander through the rows and rows of trees, the selection already starting to dwindle sixteen days before Christmas. We're a week late getting our tree, according to tradition, but there are still plenty of seven-foot Nordmann firs for us to choose from.
"They don't drop their needles so much," Mom says as she inspects branches, "and they don't set off your dad's allergies."
"Since when was Dad allergic to non-Nordmann Christmas trees?" I ask, walking in a circle around an impressively wide tree. Too big for our space, else it'd be perfect. Cooper cocks a leg against it. His pee steams.
"Something to do with an allergen in whatever it is that makes Christmas trees smell like Christmas trees," Mom says. She shoves her face into the branches and sniffs deeply. "These ones don't smell."
I frown. "But the house always smells like a Christmas tree at Christmas," I say. The word Christmas is starting to sound funny. "Is this a new allergy?"
Mom laughs. "No, honey. The smell is from a candle."
"Oh my god. My childhood is a lie."
"I don't think you dad or I ever actively lied about his conifer scent allergy," she says, tutting. Then, quietly, to herself, she adds, "Might not have married him if I'd known."
"Jesus, Mom."
"I'm kidding, hon, I'm kidding, obviously." She moves to a different tree, inspecting every branch as though looking for evidence of dropped needles or structural instability. She might as well have a hard hat and a clipboard, the intensity with which she's examining each tree. "It's not like his allergies are a sign that he's incompatible with my favorite time of year, not at all."
"Because they're not," I say slowly.
"He's allergic to gingerbread, too."
I gasp and spin around to face her. "How do I not know this already? He told me he just doesn't like it."
Mom shrugs. "I think he's embarrassed."
"Embarrassed to have an allergy?"
"Two allergies," she points out. "Two very festive allergies. I'd be embarrassed."
"Mom. He can't help it."
There are no more revelations before we find the perfect tree, just over seven feet tall and bushy enough to fill the corner of the room without crowding it, and every branch meets Mom's high standards. We get it netted and into the car with a hand from a tall, broad guy with the dimensions of a Christmas tree himself. He makes Mom and me look like a pair of pathetic little weeds the way he practically foists the tree into the car with one hand. Cooper thinks he's helping, pacing in circles around the car and barking at the tree.
We're home by ten thirty and my hunger kicks in half an hour later, the moment the tree is secured in its stand in the living room. Mom has boxes of ornaments and tinsel and yet more lights, ready to turn the Nordmann fir from a tree into a work of art. Cooper's curled up at the base, his head resting on his front paws. He looks like something out of a saccharine festive commercial, like Santa's about to fall down the chimney and offer him a treat.
"Sustenance first," I say, backing away from it with a sheen of sweat on my forehead from the effort of getting the tree into the house. There are a few needles on the floor from trauma to the branches because between us, Mom and I barely possess the necessary strength to have gotten the tree upright. It was a struggle.
"What're you after?" Mom asks. "I need to go to the store, there's not much food in the house."
"Toast?"
"Sorry, hon, I had the last of the bread this morning."
"I take it that means no bagels either."
"I'm afraid not."
"Cereal?" I ask. She pulls a face. I grunt. "This is unacceptable, Mother, I'm a growing girl."
Mom scoffs "You're thirty."
"Hey! You take that back. I'm twenty-nine!"
"And eight months," she says under her breath, grinning when I catch her eye as I head to the kitchen.
The fridge is pretty bare. Half a portion of cold lasagne, a stick of butter, juice, several different cheeses and multiple open jars of miscellaneous sauces. Plenty of condiments and a bag of salad and a couple bottles of wine. The pantry is more fruitful, packets of pasta and rice and plenty of canned goods, but nothing I want for breakfast.
My phone buzzes with a text from Liyo: I'm craving Betty's, wanna join?
Perfect. it's like you read my mind, I reply. I grab Mom's keys from the dish in the hall and duck into the living room. "I'm going to meet Liyo at Betty's," I say, and Mom's face lights up. "You wanna join?"
"I wouldn't want to impose," she says, and there's plenty of space to read between those lines.
mind if my mom comes? I text Liyo.
You tell Diana I love her and she is more than welcome, she replies instantly. She spent enough time here when we were younger that my parents often counted her as an extra one of their own; my mom is a second mother to her, especially now that Liyo's parents are so far away. Over the last decade, Liyo has spent more time with my mom than I have.
"Liyo says you can come if you absolutely must."
Mom abandons the decorations and brushes glittery hands on her jeans. "My darling Liyoni would never say such a thing." She plucks the keys from my hand. "Come on, stinker. Get your butt in the car."
"How come Liyo is your darling and I'm stinker?" I don't bother with my coat. Betty's will be plenty warm enough and Mom has the magic touch when it comes to parking; she can always find a space exactly where she wants one.
"Because," she says as she pulls the door shut behind us and gets into the car, "we've bonded. You see, we both know what it's like for our families to up and leave us in this town."
"Are you trying to steal my best friend?"
"The more pertinent question would be," Mom says as we leave home for the second time this morning, "is Liyoni trying to steal your mom?"
"Without a shadow of a doubt," I say with a faux grumble. I love how close my mom and my best friend are; it tickles me.
"Don't you worry, I love you both." She pats my knee.
"I hope not equally," I say, "seeing as I'm your actual daughter – your only daughter, might I add."
"Stop your fussing, Annie."
"See, you're not actually saying it, which is leading me to believe you actually prefer hanging out with Liyoni."
"I love you the most, you are my favorite, is that good enough, my precious little flower child?"
"I'm your favorite? Damn, wait until Theo and Nathan hear this." I whip out my phone and without tearing her eyes from the road, Mom smacks my hand away.
"Annabelle Abraham, you are a terror. You know exactly what I meant."
"Heard it loud and clear. You love me most." When she glances at me, I give her an exaggerated wink and she sighs through her nose.
"Youngest child syndrome alert," she says as she – of course – pulls into a space right outside Betty's. I look up youngest child syndrome, not for the first time in my life.
"Charming, confident, and creative," I say. "Sounds about right."
Mom laughs and says, "See also: attention whore with an obsession with being the favorite."
"I can't help it that I just am," I joke. When we get out of the car, Mom slings her arm around me and kisses my temple.
"Love you, baby."
"Love you more."
She tuts as she pushes open the door to the sweet little cafe. "If you ever have children, darling, you'll see how that is impossible."
Liyo's inside already, saving a table big enough for Cooper to lie under, keeping his bushy tail out of the way. Mom gives me her order and presses her card into my hand, her treat, and Liyo tells me to surprise her. I order three drinks, a brownie for Liyo, a muffin for Mom, and breakfast for me. A dense cinnamon swirl the size of my head with lashings of cream cheese frosting, plus a fruit cup.
As I wait for the drinks – two gingerbread lattes and a hazelnut mocha – I wonder what Laurel's up to right now. We haven't spoken since last night, when I got home in a lust-addled state of agonizing arousal and she texted that letting me go was the biggest regret of her life, and that didn't help the whole painfully horny situation.
I couldn't find my vibrator amidst all the stuff I have still only half unpacked, but I didn't need it to finger myself to a thigh-shaking orgasm. I had to press my face into my pillow to stop myself from crying out as I came, remembering the last time Laurel touched me like that. It took everything to turn down her offer to stay last night. God, I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I wanted to push her onto the bed and kiss her until she was breathless; I wanted to push her dress up to her waist and pull off her tights and give her the best orgasm she's ever had.
But not yet. And certainly not with Ava in the room.
I set the tray on the table and take a seat next to Mom so I can see Liyo when I accuse her of stealing my mom's affection.
"What can I say? Moms love me." She shrugs and slurps her gingerbread latte, smacking her lips. She's in another stylish all-black ensemble today, except for the yellow belt around her waist. I guess she's slowly trying to introduce another color to her repertoire.
"Does that mean Cas's mom has come around to you?" I ask. She laughs.
"In my dreams. No woman will ever be good enough for her perfect little Cassidy Brown," she says as she cuts her brownie into four equal pieces and pops one into her mouth. "I've stopped trying so hard, though, and she's been nicer. She's not an easy woman to please, but I think we've reached a place of mutual respect."
"I don't think I have any chance of that ever happening with Laurel's mom," I say. Liyo raises her eyebrows and shoots a glance at Mom, who is sneakily feeding a bit of her muffin to Cooper under the table.
"She knows," I say, and I fill Liyo in on everything that's happened since we last hung out. I really ham it up when I tell the story of my encounter with Laurel's mom, making her out to be even more of a fire-breathing dragon.
"It's a wonder Laurel turned out so ... normal," Liyo says, her eyebrows having climbed up so high they almost meet her hairline by the end of my tale.
"I think her normalcy is a rebellion," I say around a giant mouthful of my cinnamon roll. It's heavy and sticky and absolutely divine, the dough still soft after being freshly baked this morning. Everything at Betty's is made in house on the day, using all the same recipe's the owner's mom – the Betty this place is named after – wrote in the fifties.
"You're down bad for this chick," Liyo says. Mom hums her agreement. I nod mine.
"First woman I ever fell in love with," I say, and then on second thought I add, "Maybe the only. No offense to Holly."
Liyo laughs and kicks me and says, "On her behalf, lots of offense taken. Jeez, you really spent three years with her and you didn't even love her?"
"I said maybe," I say, a little too defensively.
"I think," Mom says, her tone measured, "if you had really been in love with Holly, you might have been a little more torn up when she broke up with you."
"Mmm."
"I have a question," Liyo says.
"Ask away."
"If you're so disgustingly in love with Laurel, why are you having coffee with us?"
I pretend to pack up my stuff. "Great question. Not sure, actually."
Mom grabs my wrist and pulls me back to the table. "Not so fast, missy. You can see your girlfriend later. We've got a tree to decorate before your dad gets home."
Liyo's face lights up. "Cas is working all day. Any chance you could use an extra pair of hands with the decorating?"
*
We really could've done with Liyo's surprising strength when we were breaking our backs hauling the tree into the house. She's a whizz at untangling the lights, even more so than Mom, and she's like a billy goat when we get the stepladder out and she scrambles up it to wind the lights around the top of the tree.
"You have the cutest ornaments," she says, sorting through the box of decorations that we've been growing for thirty years. Some are homemade, bits and pieces my brothers and I made at school or during one of Mom's weekend crafty sessions, which means several are unidentifiable. Liyo holds up something fuzzy and asks, "What's this supposed to be?"
"Um..." I take it off her and turn it over. "A bear, maybe? Or a deer?"
Mom looks over and says, "That's a robin, hon. You made it!"
"That's a robin?" Liyo pulls a face and searches in the box for something more obviously Christmassy. "Where's its red chest?"
"I don't even remember making this."
"That was from your screw the patriarchy phase, when you were about nine," Mom says. Not a phase; I stand by that sentiment. "You thought it was unfair that the male robins get all the glory just because they're prettier, so you made a girl robin." She tames the fuzz and finds a couple of felt feet and a little beak. "There you go!"
Liyo's laughing in the corner. "And it still took you more than a decade after that to figure out you're super fucking gay."
We spend hours putting the finishing touches on the house and making the tree as beautiful as it's possible for it to be with a nine-year-old's attempt at shunning the patriarchy hanging from one of the branches, losing track of time until we look up and it's dark outside. It's after five already.
"Damn, I should get going," Liyo says. She's covered in glitter and stray strands of sparkling tinsel that she starts picking off but soon gives up on. "Cas'll be wondering where I am."
I drive her back into town, where she left her car. I'm only gone for ten minutes, max, but when I get back home, there's a car in the driveway. I park up next to it and let myself into the house and there's a moment of shock when I see my mom locked in an embrace with a salt and pepper haired man, until I realize it's my dad.
"Dad?" He turns around at the sound of my voice and opens his arm, inviting me in for a hug. He smells like cologne and snow.
"Hey, Annie. Long time no see," he says, kissing the top of my head when I hug him. He's a good hugger, the kind of hugs that make you forget anything you're stressed about.
"What're you doing back? I thought you were coming home tomorrow."
"I was supposed to spend tonight in Texas and fly up to Seattle tomorrow morning but I managed to wrangle my way onto a direct flight into Kalispell," he says. "I couldn't wait another day just for the sake of it." He looks around the living room, his hand on Mom's waist, holding her close. "The place looks amazing, Di."
"It's not just me. I've had Annie and Liyoni helping."
"Come on, Mom, it's mostly you," I say.
"Well, it looks great. Very festive. A wonderful homecoming." He kisses Mom's cheek and says, "I don't know about you, but I could do with a glass of wine."
"Good, because that's pretty much all that's in the fridge," I joke. I fetch a bottle of white and a couple of glasses while he and Mom make themselves comfortable on the sofa and Cooper sprawls out at their feet.
"I meant to go to the store, but I wasn't expecting you back so soon," Mom says, which doesn't account for the fact that even without Dad, we need food.
"Then it's pizza for dinner, I think," Dad says. I keep my laugh to myself as I top up his glass and find one for me, throwing myself onto the second sofa next to the tree. Damn, Laurel and I have really ruined the meaning of pizza. I can't wait to see her again and ruin it more.
*
i hope you're enjoying the story, thank you for reading!