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kennedy
I trudge into the warm,festive living room, the smell of pine and cinnamon greeting me, almost like nothing’s changed. I grew up in a house where my parents took the holidays very seriously, wanting to make it magical for me, their golden child. My parents were always the older couple at back-to-school nights, a result of my mother having three miscarriages and a battle with infertility before giving birth to me.
It hadn’t even been six weeks after high school graduation when they both sat me down to a dinner of my mom’s homemade soup dumplings to have a “talk”. I immediately started crying, believing they were about to tell me that one of them had cancer. Their mortality had always been a worry of mine since I was a little girl.
It wasn’t cancer.
It was worse.
It was divorce.
After that, everything happened so quickly. My dad bought out my mom for her half of the house, and she moved to a condo forty minutes away. It happened right before my freshman year of college, but even now, it’s still weird coming home. Nothing is the way it was. Nothing makes sense. Especially when I walk inside and see a stranger taking up space where my mother used to stand.
“There’s my baby girl,” my father spreads his arms, waiting for me to run into his embrace like I did when I was a little girl. But I won’t, because standing next to him is Shane’s mother, her bony hand entwined with his.She’s always holding onto him like she’s afraid he’ll blow away.
“Hi, Kennedy, it’s great to see you,” she says in an annoying, wispy voice that is the complete opposite of my mother’s strong one.
In fact, Shane’s mom is the complete opposite of mine in every way, and I wonder what the hell my father sees in her. My mother has a slight figure, creamy tan complexion, and beautiful onyx-colored hair compliments of her Japanese heritage. She is gorgeous, and I count myself blessed that I share half of her genetic code.
Shane’s mother is justokaylooking. She’s a pear-shaped, pale redhead (although I’m not sure it’s natural) and the same height as my father at five foot nine. She’s young, polite, soft-spoken and gets on every last one of my nerves simply because she exists.
But here’s the kicker…
The two of them met at Final Decision Day at my university and simply because of our ill-fated connection, I haven’t been able to shake her cocky son Shane ever since.
“Hi,” is my simple return greeting.
My dad beams at me, unaware of the storm brewing inside my chest since Shane already gave me an idea of what I’m walking into.
“Are you hungry, Kee-Kee?” he asks, using my childhood nickname that Shane has now weaponized against me.
“I ate on the plane,” I tell him.
“You want to go put your bags upstairs, then come back down?”
“Down for what?”
His expression flattens. “To spend some time with me. I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Uh, sure.”
“Shane is coming by too,” Shane’s mother says, as if I don’t already know that. “He just wanted to drop his things at our house first.”
“We were on the same flight,” I deadpan. “I know.”
“Right, of course.” Her cheeks redden.
When Shane told me at the kickback that our parents were planning to celebrate Christmas together at my house, I knew that things had moved to the next step. I’ve been able to cool down the heat on their relationship for nearly two years now, but when a couple decides to spend a family holiday together, that is pretty significant. Honestly, it was just a matter of time.
I’m not exactly sure how much time flies by as I sit in my room staring at a pair of old, white ice skates that hang on a hat rack stand in the corner of my room. I loved ice skating as a kid and would skate regularly at my neighborhood rink until the city shut it down due to budget cuts. I fantasized about being the first biracial girl to skate professionally in the US and in the Olympics for Japan, but of course, that was just a pipe dream. For one, I’m not a dual citizen of both countries, and second, truth be told, I was never that great of a skater.
“Hey.”
I didn’t even hear Shane come into the house, much less upstairs, but he’s standing in my doorway looking like he actually feels sorry for me.
“Don’t give me that pity stare.”
“One thing I’d never feel is pity for you,” he replies, and the cool gaze in his eyes confirms that. Okay, he’s still the same ass I’ve grown to detest.
