Page 40 of Go Back to December
Watery winter sunshine filters through two bay windows; one brackets a gray sectional, the other frames a dining nook with a small round table. Behind it, a live Christmas tree decorated in white lights rises like the sun.
I’ve always wanted a real Christmas tree, smelling of holiday heaven and lit with sparkling trimmings. They’re outrageously expensive, not to mention cumbersome to retrieve without a car or a second person to install them. I wonder if Baz picked it up on his own. He must have decorated it alone; he only managed lights, no ornaments. No twin of the Allie bear that Luiza and I glued back together last night.
Sofia calls a harried welcome from her post in the kitchen. Peter gets to us first. He’s carrying a red-cheeked toddler under one arm. He wraps his other hand around Baz’s shoulder. “You look good. Doesn’t he, Oscar?”
“Merry Christmas, Oz.” Baz gives Oscar a trace of his genuine smile.
Oscar squeals and scissors his small body over to lunge for Baz’s crutches.
“Gentle,” Peter warns. “Those aren’t toys.”
Oscar bellows for the aforementioned toys, and Peter swings him onto his other hip while giving my arm a gentle pat. “Merry Christmas, Melody.”
A bellow of frustration rises above the screech of a whistle blaring from a sizeable flat-screen TV. The guy parked in front—Annabel’s husband Mark, judging from the curls he shares with Oscar—takes the toddler with a wince, and then he and Peter both growl at the television.
Mark turns and catches my eye. “Welcome to the pandemonium, Mel.”
I laugh. “Thanks, I think?”
“Baz must really like you if he let you drive his car.”
Baz smirks. “Asshole.”
“Asshooooole,” Oscar echoes the moment Annabel returns.
“I was gone for two minutes!” she shouts. “Luiza, I told you to watch him.”
“I’m helping Mamá with the food.” Everyone knows it’s a lie, because she hasn’t looked up from her phone since we walked in.
Oscar whimpers and points at the stack of presents in the corner, then claws at Mark’s sweater.
“Oscar!” He clamps him still. “Stop that. Words first.”
“Baz, miho, sit down,” Sofia shouts without looking up from the food. “You’re supposed to be elevating that leg.”
My attention shifts back to where Baz stands between the kitchen counter and the living room, propped on his crutches like a stranded ship.
A furious, silent ship in a storm of collective chaos he can’t control.
The sight makes my stomach drop with a small thrill. Speechless and frustrated may be my new favorite Baz.
That thought dissipates upon closer inspection of his tormented expression.
Everything that’s happened since we walked in feels like the typical frenzy of a family holiday. But Baz hasn’t had that for a while. He spends his life playing people, but he can’t slip into this role today.
“Melody, where is he hiding all his placemats?”
Baz’s jaw tightens when he turns to me, and I register his fatigue and the unspoken SOS. A twinge of guilt pulls at me, for siding with the Johnsons rather than him, and it’s not just because I’m afraid I’ll jeopardize our bargain.
That odd sense of needing to protect Baz rises so strong that my voice wavers when I reply, “I’ll help you find them in a minute. After Baz gets settled.”
With surprising speed, he shuffles to the room at the end of the corridor, and I trip along behind him, carrying his bag. He waits for me to slip inside before slamming the door and sinking onto his huge king-size bed. When he swivels his bad leg around to elevate it, he sucks in a gasp.
“I’ll get you some ice.”
“It’s fine,” he snaps, chest heaving. “Give me a second.”
I allow Baz his second, because I also require a moment to process that we’re having alone time together in his bedroom. It’s basically a boutique hotel suite: dark-gray walls, cream sheets, neutral plush rug beneath the bed. Behind it, books and vintage record albums stuff the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
