Back to December

Fifteen

December 25th, 2022

    Those who know me know there is nothing I love more than sleeping in. I crave the weekends just so I can stay in my bed, my blinds closed so the sun can't beam in and wake me. I love going for a late brunch at my favourite spots in the city and taking time to work on my writing while eating avocado toast that I could easily make at home for cheaper.

    I hate waking up early, especially when I'm not working. That's why when I feel someone touch my shoulder, attempting to shake me awake, I turn over, tugging my blanket over my head, "It's too early, Skye," I grumble, my voice hoarse and tired, "you know we can't see what Santa brought until after breakfast. Go back to sleep."

    "Uh, it's not Skye."

     I flip back over, my eyes landing on the digital clock on my nightstand. It was 6:00 am. Why was Wyatt waking me up at six in the morning, "Do you not realize how early it is?" I grumble, blinking up at him. He looked more awake than me but still tired. His PJs were wrinkled from sleep, his hair messy.

    "I need your help," He admits, tugging at his curls.

     "At six in the morning?" I grumble, tiredly pulling my blanket back over my head. "What could you possibly need help with at six in the morning?"

    Wyatt is silent for a second, so much that for a minute, I think maybe he's left me alone to sleep, but then he sighs, "I wanted to make breakfast," He admits, in a bashful tone, "it's stupid. I shouldn't have woken you. I just thought because-"

    "Your dad always made breakfast." I finish his sentence for him, realization striking me. Christmas morning breakfast was always Tom's thing. He'd make pancakes shaped like Christmas trees, cut up all of our favourite fruits, and add a candy cane to the side of our hot chocolate, accompanying it with way too much whipped cream. It'd just hit me that even though the Olivers were here, and we were bringing back all of our old traditions. We wouldn't be having Toms's famous breakfast.

    "I know our moms said they'd make something," He continues, shaking his head as if his idea was dumb. "I just really want to do it. For my dad." I sit up, wanting to get a better look at Wyatt. He looked broken, his eyes gazing down at his feet glossed over with tears. He cleared his throat before continuing, "I would do it by myself. It's just... I don't really know what I'm doing."

    "You can't cook?" I ask Wyatt. I guess the information isn't too shocking. He probably has private chefs and eats at fancy restaurants. He doesn't need to know how to cook. People do it for him.

    "Not really," Wyatt scratches behind his neck, "so, will you help me?"

     I sigh, looking from him over to my pillow. I'm so tired I could fall back asleep within seconds if he left, but I can't do that. This means a lot to him. He wants to do this for his dad. I can't say no. "Go ahead and make coffee," I instruct him tiredly, "I'll be down in a second."

    Wyatt lets out a relieved sigh before rushing out of my room and back down the steps. I drag myself out of bed, quietly entering the bathroom that connects mine and Lizzie's room—splashing my face with cold water and fixing the messy bun in my hair that had fallen in my sleep. I look as tired as I feel. Large bags circled under my brown eyes, making them look squinty and swollen.

    When I walk into the kitchen, Wyatt sits on a barstool, two cups of steaming coffee in front of him. I'd never been so happy to see a cup of coffee in my life. "Salted caramel creamer and sugar," Wyatt pushes my coffee towards me. "You still take it that way, right?"

    I tried for years to drink coffee without as much sugar as I do. During high school, I only drank it during Wyatt and I'd all nightery study sessions or sleepovers. You'd think as an adult I'd be accustomed to drinking it regularly, but I can't. I drink the sweetest coffee you can get. Coffee is merely fuel for me.