Love, Louis

19

IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, AND something feels a little bit off.

Not bad. Just off. I don't know how to explain it. We're hitting every one of the Tomlinson traditions. My mom made reindeer turds, a.k.a. Oreo truffles. The tree is lit up and fully decorated.

It's noon, and we're all still in our pajamas, and everyone is sitting in the living room on separate laptops. I guess it's a little awful that we have five computers-Shady Creek is that kind of suburb, but still. We're scavenger hunting on Facebook.

"Call it, Dad," says Lottie.

"Okay," he says. "Someone visiting somewhere tropical."

"Got it," says my mom, turning her laptop around to show us someone's pictures. "Done and done. All right. A breakup."

We're all quiet for several minutes, scrolling through our newsfeeds. Finally, Daisy's got one. "Amber Wasserman," she reads. "Thought I knew u. Looks like I was wrong. One day ur gonna turn around and realize what u thru away."

"I'd call that an implied breakup," I say.

"It's legit."

"But you could interpret it literally," I say. "Like she's calling him out for throwing away her iPhone."

"That's Louis logic," says Daisy, "and I won't allow it. Go, boop. Your turn."

My sister's invented the concept of Louis logic, and I can't seem to outgrow it. It means wishful thinking supported by flimsy evidence.

"Okay," says Daisy. "The opposite. A mushy, disgusting couple."

An interesting choice, coming from Daisy, who basically never talks about anything related to dating.

"Okay, got one," I say. "Carys Seward. Feeling so grateful to have Jaxon Wildstein in my life. Last nite was perfect. I love you so much, baby. Winky face."

"Gross," says Phoebe.

"Is that your Carys, bub?"

"I don't have a Carys," I say. But I know what Lottie is asking. I dated Carys for almost four months last spring. Though none of our "nites" together were that sort of perfect.

But here's the crazy thing: for the first time ever, I almost get it. It's weird, it's gross, and that creepy little winky face pushes it into the realm of TMI. But yeah. Maybe I'm losing my edge, but all I can think about is how Blue has been signing emails lately using the word "love."

I guess I can imagine us having perfect nights sometimes. And I'll probably feel like shouting it from the rooftops, too.

I refresh my browser. "My turn. Okay. Someone Jewish," I say, "posting about Christmas."

"Why doesn't Harry ever post anything?" asks Phoebe.

Because he thinks Facebook is the lowest common denominator of social discourse. Though he does like to talk about social media as a vehicle for constructing and performing identity. Whatever the hell that means.

"Got one. Jana Goldstein. Movie theater listings in one hand; takeout menus in the other. Ready for tomorrow. Merry Christmas to Jew!"

"Who's Jana Goldstein?" my mom asks.

"Someone from Wesleyan," says Lottie. "Okay. Something about lawyers." She's distracted, and I realize her phone is buzzing. "Sorry. Be right back."

"Lawyers? What the heck, Lottie?" says Daisy. "That blatantly favors Dad."

"I know. I feel bad for him," Lottie calls over her shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs. "Hey," she says, answering her phone. A moment later, we hear her bedroom door shut.