Christmas Eve dinner at the Brooks residence.

We barely ever use the table in the living room. Since most of the time it’s just mom, Isabelle and I, the table in the kitchen is enough. It would be enough for four people, too, but we weren’t going to have dinner there on Christmas Eve of all nights.

The turkey was the clear centerpiece of it all, roasted to a perfect golden brown and sitting on a bed of lettuce. It really was mom’s signature dish. Then, to go with it, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, sauteed green beans with pesto, and a salad of cherry tomatoes and mozzarella cheese.

“God, this looks incredible,” Grace said as she sat down.

“I don’t cook often, but when I do I like to be a little extra,” mom said.

I sat next to Grace, mom sat across from me and Isabelle next to mom.

“I think I look forward to this more than I do the gifts every christmas,” Isabelle said, grinning from ear to ear as she looked over the food on the table.

“And I suppose this is a special enough night, and you’re all already 18 years old, so… I suppose letting you have a glass won’t hurt.” Mom smiled and picked up the wine bottle she had set on the table. “Grace, do you drink?”

“...From time to time, yes,” Grace said.

Mom shook her head with a smile. “Relax. I’m not enough of a hypocrite to chide anyone over things I also did when I was young.” Mom poured us all and herself a glass of wine. “I used to hang out with a bad crowd, so of course I drank more than I should’ve. Good thing I built up a resistance.”

“After my first hangover, I swore I’d never drink to that point again,” Isabelle said, shuddering. “It was disgusting.”

“I’ve never had a hangover,” Grace said, “but I also always make sure not to drink over a certain limit.”

“I don’t really like **** much at all,” I admitted, looking into the glass of wine. “This’ll be the first time I drink wine.”

“That’s all very reassuring to hear, assuming you’re able to stick to it,” Mom said, laughing. “Well, a toast. To another Christmas and to having Grace with us tonight.”

We raised our glasses and drank.

…

Yeah, I wasn’t sure how I felt about wine. Better than beer, but still not exactly to my taste. Maybe I’d get used to it, but how often would I be drinking wine?

We began to dig in, and as expected, everything was amazing. The turkey was tender and juicy, the mashed potatoes were creamy and the salads perfectly seasoned.

Isabelle and I shared a look of defeat. Mom cooked maybe three or four times a year and still had us beat. We didn’t comment on it, though. We’d get there. Someday. Hopefully.

“So tell me, Grace,” mom said after drinking some wine. “How long have you known Oliver’s… other girlfriends?” She said it like the sentence itself was foreign to her, and I didn’t blame her.

Grace smiled. “Oh, I’ve known Mila, Sarah and Alice for years. Our parents have worked together before and we went to the same middle school. We’ve always been very close. I’ve only gotten to personally know Noelle recently, though, but we’re getting along great.”

Mom nodded, smiling as well. “What does your father do?”

“He owns a contracting company. They got a sudden job now after another company wasn’t able to meet the requirements for a project.”

“Is that why he’s out of town?”

“Yes. It happens a lot.”

“And your mother?”

“She works in real estate, so she travels a lot, too. Though right now she’s probably landing in Dubai, on holiday with her friends. I guess Oliver already told you, but my parents are divorced. I live with my dad and go stay with mom every two weekends.”

“Um…” Isabelle looked troubled, but still spoke. “If you don’t mind me asking… Did you choose to stay with your dad?”

“Ah, yeah, I did,” Grace nodded easily.

“Why?” I asked her.

“Hmm… I figured mom would be fine without me, but I worried my dad would… fall into depression.” Grace showed a troubled smile. “Sorry, that’s a bit of a heavy topic.”

“You don’t need to continue if you’re not comfortable,” I told her.

Grace shook her head. “I don’t mind. I just don’t want to bring the mood down.”

I frowned as I noticed her lying. Grace looked away from me, turning to mom. No doubt she knew I noticed. She did it so easily, too. I doubt mom and Isabelle noticed.

It wasn’t that talking about it made her uncomfortable, though. It was the fact that her parents were… like that. I could feel a stinging in her chest.

“How old were you when they got divorced?” Mom asked.

“I was… twelve, I think.” Grace nodded. “Yes, twelve. They got divorced because they’re both workaholics who barely ever spent time at home.”

I saw Isabelle pursing her lips before she looked down. I had a small inkling of what she was thinking. She had formed for herself an idea of who Grace was based on rumors and hearsay, but now she was hearing of the girl’s struggles. It was made worse because Grace didn’t frame it as problems, but simply facts. Grace didn’t, at any point, speak of how she felt during her parents’ divorce or how she felt about them not being home.

I could tell it had affected her, though. Fuck, I wanted to give her a hug, but I held back. Grace had her pride, and I wanted to respect it.

“Do they know about you, Oliver and the others?” mom asked.

Grace shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t found the time to sit down and talk to them about it properly. Still, I know they’ll have no problem with it.”

Mom sighed. “I suppose it makes sense, if they’re always so busy. Sorry, I’ll stop, but thank you for telling us.”

Dinner went on, with mom then deciding that fair was fair and paid Grace back for opening up to us with stories of Isabelle and I. She told her of that time we went to the amusement park as kids, when Isabelle fell into the pond and I jumped in to help her. Grace laughed, remembering that I had told her that story before. I had forgotten I had, actually.

We shared anecdotes and stories. It was peaceful and it felt nice. It wasn’t any sort of dramatic click that made mom instantly like Grace. It was more like she just seamlessly fit in.

I couldn’t ask for more.

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