Page 1 of A Love Like Christmas Time
Prologue
Lauren
“You can do this, Lauren,” I mutter to myself as I pull the key out of the ignition, roll my shoulders and close my eyes then take a deep breath. Then another one.
It’s that time of the year again. The season of only so many family birthdays I can excuse myself from.
Once I’ve exhaled slowly, I open my eyes again, I pull down the sun visor and open up the little mirror. My nude lipstick smudged slightly in the corner of my mouth, but I’m afraid that’s fixed within only a few seconds.
I spent the entire morning getting ready for this. Curled my hair to perfection, sprayed every strand carefully into place, re-drew my eyeliner about a thousand times to make it sleek, subtle,sophisticated. As perfect as possible, knowing that every inch of my appearance is about to be scrutinized harder than a Pokémon card being evaluated for resale.
They can talk about my cream summer dress with blue flowers being too short. How my nails are too long, my platform heels too high, but my makeup? For once, at least that’s too perfect to become part of the scrutiny.
I let out a deep sigh. I have no more excuses to stay in the car.
Grabbing my handbag, I climb out of my Mercedes.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself again. Maybe I can speak some confidence into existence. For fuck’s sake, I’ve justdone a press tour in five countries, spoken to what must have been thousands of people. I can survive a family function.
Holding the bouquet and present I brought high over my head, I make my way through the labyrinth of expensive cars in my parents’ driveway. There are SUVs, minivans, and a shiny Porsche that I’m sure belongs to one of my cousins’ hedge fund husbands. The hydrangeas lining my parents’ driveway are aggressively blue and white, topiaries trimmed to perfection, not a single leaf dancing out of line. And I’d rather accidentally nick one of the cars instead of my mother’s pride and joy.
The sounds of laughter and screaming children drift from the garden all the way here. Sounds like everyone but me has already arrived.
Fuck. I should have Ubered here. Now I can’t even have a drink to make the entire ordeal more bearable.
The garden gate is wide open. As if it’s mocking me. ‘Gee, Lauren, nice of you to finally turn up.’
I subtly show it my middle finger as I walk inside, closing it behind me.
“Oh, shit!” A tennis ball flies past me, missing me by only a hair before bouncing off my parents’ high wooden privacy fence.
Four of my cousin’s children are engaged in what I think might be their interpretation of a Marvel fight with less slow motion. Two more are honing their gardening skills by digging up my mother’s flowers. Another one is running around with a towel stuffed into the top of his t-shirt, screaming, “I’m Superman!”
Thankfully, the party is happening outside. My family is not small, and it’s hard not to get claustrophobia with everyone crammed into a room. I much prefer press tours. At least those are controlled chaos.
Clusters of adults stand and sit in loose circles, orbiting around each other. My mother’s group is near the patio,champagne glasses in their hands. Most of the women are standing by, keeping an eye on the children, armed with juice boxes and wipes. Meanwhile, the men huddle around the barbecue, probably analyzing and waiting for the exact right time to turn the steaks while holding onto their emotional support beers.
“Lauren!” My cousin Maisie is the first one to spot me. Her voice cuts through the noise before I even see her. She appears out of nowhere, all sunhat, brown hair falling in perfect beach waves, white dress and her one-year-old in her arms.
“Oh my God, look at you! Straight from Hollywood to this humble backyard!” I lift my eyebrow. The rose bushes and giant water fountain would beg to differ.
“It’s good to see you, Maisie,” I say and set the bouquet and present down on the designated table before she gets to throw her arms around me.
“Likewise! I thought you’d be at the Oscars or something.”
“Those are in March,” I reply dryly.
“Oh right, I think I saw footage of you on the red carpet there. I need to know everything! But first-” She glances over my shoulder, suddenly distracted. “Ethan! Your daughter is eating dirt again!” She brushes past me and, just like that, I know the need to know everything has burst into thin air.
“Great,” I mutter to myself and turn around to search for something to drink.
Mom intercepts me halfway across the lawn to their mini-bar. Her lipstick is sharp enough to rival the grim reaper’s scythe, her scrutinizing stare sending the same goosebumps down my spine as when I was fifteen and slightly late for curfew.
“You’re late,” she says pointedly. “Let me guess. Traffic?”
“Hello to you too, mother. The traffic was fine,” I make a vague gesture with my hand. “But I drove around the block to prepare myself emotionally, then got slowed down by thecrushing weight of maternal expectations. You know, the usual.”
“Always trying to be funny.” She leans in and air-kisses both my cheeks, the scent of her heavy floral perfume assaulting my nostrils.
