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My legs tremble as I hurry downstairs, not even careful that I could pitch headfirst down the slick, polished wooden steps. I hurry through the living room, where Lily is opening presents in front of the fireplace while everyone watches with rapt attention and Mom snaps pictures with her phone. I step into the kitchen, where two trays of orange rolls sit on the table, dripping with glaze, as picture perfect as they look in the spread in the ancient copy ofSouthern Livingmagazine where Dadfound the recipe. Carols play softly from a speaker in the corner, but I hardly hear the music over the rushing of blood in my ears.
I look around, halfway expecting to see him, but the room is empty. Maybe they’re just cinnamon rolls.
Swallowing hard, I approach the table, leaning over and taking in a deep, slow breath. The delicate scents of cinnamon and sugar fill my senses, along with a tendril of bitter orange.
Snapping upright, I march back into the living room.
“Who made orange rolls?” I demand, glaring at the adults, who all look up at me with dumbfounded expressions, like they didn’t do anything wrong.
“I did,” Mom says after a pause.
“Why would you do that?” I say quietly, my voice shaking with rage.
“Honey…” Mom says, glancing around at Dad’s family. How could they have let her do that? How could she even have asked?
“You make frittata,” I grit out through clenched teeth, my fists clenching at my sides.
“Your sister wanted orange rolls,” Mom says, giving me a tight smile as she strokes her hand over the top of Lily’s head.
“They’re my favorite,” Lily says, finally lifting her head to beam up at me.
“That’sDad’srecipe,” I snarl at Mom, not daring to look at the others. I know I’m making a scene, but I can’t stop myself. “You have no right!”
“Sky,” she scolds, but I spin on my heel and run for the stairs before the tears can spill over.
I thunder up the stairs, then pause halfway. “Don’ttalk about me when I’m gone!”
I run down the hall and into my room, where I throw myself on my bed and bury my face in the pillow, muffling my scream. Tears pour from my eyes, and I let them this time.There was no way our first Christmas without Dad wouldn’t suck. Technically our second, but the last time doesn’t count. This time we know he’s not coming back. We shouldn’t have even tried. Nothing is the same. Pretending only makes it more obvious.
A tap sounds at my door, and I quickly wipe my face, sniffing and trying to hide my tears.
“You up?” Meghan asks.
“Yeah,” I say, relieved it’s just her.
My cousin shuffles in, her eyes puffy and her hair sticking up in all directions. “You been downstairs to check out the Norman Fucking Rockwell charade?”
“Mom madeorange rolls,” I burst out. “Dad’sorange rolls.”
“That’s fucked up,” Meghan says through a yawn, stretching her arms over her head.
“Right?” I ask. “She’s such a freak.”
Meghan’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes when my sister comes in holding a gift box. “I got you a present,” she says, handing it to me warily, like she thinks I might go off on her for asking for the orange rolls.
Guilt churns inside me as I take the box and pull the paper off. I stare at the white gift box inside, my heart sinking.
“Well, open it!” Lily says, bouncing on her toes in excitement.
“Where did you get this?” I ask slowly, looking at the too-familiar box.
“I bought it,” she says, a huge grin on her face.
“Dude, just open it, already,” Megan says, sounding bored.
I take the lid off reluctantly, already knowing what’s inside. I’m right. It’s the track suit Chase tried to give me.
“Nice job, Lilypad,” Megan says, glancing at it, sounding as impressed as possible for her.
