Page 53 of Checking It Twice
“I’m savoring.”
“You’re hoarding.”
“I’m appreciating the finer things in life.”
“Like overpriced crackers?”
“Like not having to share my food with hockey players who eat everything in sight.”
He reaches for another piece of salami, and I swat his hand away. The casual touch sends electricity up my arm, which is becoming a problematic pattern.
“Children,” Maddie calls from where she’s carefully unwrapping ornaments, her pregnant belly making the task more complicated than it should be. “Play nice or I’m separating you.”
“She started it,” Mitch says, pointing at me like we’re actually children.
“I did not start anything. I was sitting here minding my own business—”
“Hoarding cheese.”
“Appreciating cheese.”
Karen appears with a box of ornaments, beaming at us like we’ve just solved world hunger. “You two are adorable. Mitch, stop stealing Clare’s food and come help me with the family ornaments.”
The family ornaments, it turns out, are an archaeological dig through Drake family history. Baby’s first Christmas ornaments for each kid, handmade construction paper creations that somehow survived decades of storage, and professional photos trapped in clear plastic spheres like tiny snow globes.
I think about my own childhood Christmases—the generic ornaments my mom bought in bulk at Target, the way our tree always looked like a display model instead of something with history. No carefully preserved handmade treasures, no photos marking milestones. Just efficient holiday decoration that got packed away each January without sentiment.
This is what a real family Christmas looks like, I realize. Messy, sentimental, and beautiful.
“This is you at three,” Karen says, handing me an ornament with a chubby-cheeked toddler Mitchell grinning at the camera. “He’d just learned to skate and thought he was ready for the NHL.”
“Some things never change,” Evan observes dryly.
I study the ornament, charmed despite myself by tiny Mitch in hockey gear that’s way too big for him. “You were adorable.”
“Were?” Mitch raises an eyebrow.
“Still working on my current assessment.”
“Harsh.”
Sophie bounces over with her own contribution—a popsicle stick angel that looks like it survived a small explosion. “Aunt Clare, will you help me put this on the tree?”
The casual “Aunt Clare” hits me square in the chest. I’m not actually going to be anyone’s aunt after this weekend ends, but Sophie doesn’t know that. To her, I’m just Uncle Mitch’s girlfriend, which makes me family by extension.
“Of course,” I manage, letting her drag me toward the tree.
The next hour passes in a blur of ornament placement negotiations, Grandma June’s stories about ornaments from her own childhood, and increasingly ridiculous attempts by various family members to claim the “best” spots on the tree. There’s a heated debate about whether the star goes on before or after the final ornaments (after, according to family tradition), and Tom has to mediate a dispute between Jake and Sophie over whose handmade ornament gets the prime real estate at eye level.
Through it all, Mitch keeps finding excuses to be near me—reaching around me to hang an ornament, steadying me when I stretch to reach a high branch, his hand finding the small of my back when I’m balancing on the stepladder.
“You’re hovering,” I murmur when he appears beside me for the fifth time, ostensibly to help with a particularly fragile glass ornament.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re following me around the tree.”
“Maybe I like the view.”
