It does, but my attention is suddenly drawn to what’s happening elsewhere. Or, rather, to what’s not happening. Everyone is still so focused, so silent. Andrew and I are the only two people talking. I’m not seeing any of the open-mouthed laughs or hearing any of the excited screams of the snowball fight. I can tell how hard we’re all working on our projects, but we’re doing it because that’s what we do. That’s the routine. But no one—not even Ricky—is relishing it.
The snowball fight was spontaneous, it was hilarious. It made everyone laugh and feel connected. I shouldn’t have ever tried to stop it.
“This isn’t right,” I say.
Andrew looks at me, and then out at our families. “What isn’t right?”
“They’re all moving like cyborgs. What are we even doing this for?”
“Because it’s tradition,” Andrew says, like it’s obvious— and it is—but how many of us really care anymore? He follows my attention to the other groups, working with grim determination.
I stand, grinning over at him, before bending to scoop up a big ball of snow. Packing it tight in my palms, I scan my eyes across the potential victims. “The question is who deserves this.”
Without hesitation, Andrew bends, packing his own snowball. “Theo.”
“Maybe Miles.”
“Maybe your dad.”
“Definitely my dad,” I agree.
“My mom chose that horrible music even though you told her not to,” he counters.
“Kyle never gets hungover. It’s unfair,” I say.
Andrew hums. “Do you think the snowball would disappear into the black hole of Aaron’s dye job?”
“Worth testing,” I agree. “Science depends on us.”
“But then there’s Benny,” he says. “He’s been chilling on the front steps with a warm cup of coffee this whole time.”
“Because he’s smart.”
“Damn him and his good decisions.” Andrew tosses the snowball back and forth between his hands.
“Benny, then. On the count of three,” I say. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
We launch our snowballs directly at an unsuspecting Benny. Mine hits him in the shoulder. Andrew’s hits him squarely in the chest. At first, he looks at us with deep and immediate betrayal. But something shifts in his expression when he sees me and Andrew standing here together, bending to pack fresh snowballs. Maybe he sees the dynamite in my gaze, or maybe he can tell how much Andrew needs this change in the routine—maybe he even sees how much I need this to happen—but he picks up a clump of snow himself, packs it, and hurls it directly at Ricky.
Within only a handful of seconds, I lose track of who’s hit me, who’s hit Andrew, when Thea gets crushed, and what’s even happening amid the flurry of flying snow. All I know is that the sound of my loved ones’ laughter bouncing off the hillside is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
Another small victory.
chapter thirteen
The Park City Nursery is a traditional nursery most of the year, but in the winter it’s transformed into a twinkling, sparkling wonderland. The little green building that usually houses gardening tools is covered in a selection of fresh wreaths and filled with holiday decorations and gifts. Strands of lights stretch overhead, and instead of pots of brightly colored summer blossoms, there are holly garlands, poinsettias, and tiny fir trees everywhere. There’s even a giant firepit ringed with seating, and employees handing out spiced cider.
Usually Dad and Ricky brave the masses, but tonight I needed to get out of the house. Since just doing what I want hasn’t failed me yet, I told Andrew he should come with me. Happy to avoid navigating this mess, the dads dropped us at the curb, headed to a coffee shop, and told us to call them when we had a tree ready to load up.
I can feel Andrew watching me as we maneuver through the crowd, and it has the odd effect of making me feel both overheated and shivery. “I should have asked you about work,” I say, stepping around a couple crouching to check the price of a tree.
“You were too busy starting a snowball war.”
I laugh. “How are things in Denver?”
“I’m in that strange position,” he says, “of having the utterly perfect job, but absolutely no opportunity for advancement. The only other position above mine is lead sound engineer, and the guy in that job is only five years older than me and is never going to leave Red Rocks.”
Andrew has always been what we affectionately refer to as a sound geek. He took every music class he could find in school and went to every show that came through town. I envy his love for what he does; he’d probably do the work for free.
“Have you ever thought about getting into music production?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have the mental intensity for that life.”
“Want me to knock this coworker off? Maybe my career problem is that I haven’t found my true calling as an assassin.”
Andrew grins. “I wanted to say, you will figure things out, Mae. You’re so talented. The artistic apple doesn’t fall far from the artistic tree.”
His perennial confidence in me is bolstering. “Thanks, Mandrew.”
“This is random, but have you ever had your tarot cards read?” he asks.
“Is that a serious question?”
He laughs. “Yes?”
“I haven’t,” I admit, “partly because I never want to hear bad news.”
“I had mine done,” he says, and immediately holds up his hands. “I know, it sounds crazy—believe me, I thought it was a joke—but a woman was reading them at a party. She says only assholes do tragic readings.”
“You think I should have my tarot cards read to find out my true career path?” The last thing I need, I think, is to play with more cosmic energy.
“I’m just saying maybe it’ll shake something in you.” He shrugs sweetly. “I feel like it shook something in me.”
A woman elbows me accidentally as she passes, sloshing my hot cider off the lip of my cup and down my hand. I hiss at the mild burn.
“Is it always like this? I don’t think I realized everyone else in Park City procrastinates as much as we do.” I bend, licking the sweet drink from my finger. I might be imagining it, but I swear Andrew does a double take.
“I bet most of these people don’t live here and are also vacationers getting their own last-minute trees.” He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Dad always complains that it’s a madhouse.”
“Parking must be a nightmare. Why don’t we have them drop us off every year?”
Andrew gives me that look, the one that tells me it’s a silly question. We do it because that’s how we’ve always done it, his eyes say. Tradition, duh. How many things like this do we do without thinking, just because it’s the way we’ve always done it? The same food at every meal; the same games every night, with the same teams. The same songs. I’m the worst of all of us—I’m never willing to give up a single thing.
Being hit with the realization is like having a light turned on in my brain.
Holiday music plays overhead and Andrew bops contentedly along beside me. With these new eyes, I wonder if he’s been suffocating under the predictability of the holidays—if we all have.