After losing her job and her girlfriend, it's time for Annie Abraham to admit defeat and move back in with her parents. She has hardly been back to her tiny Montana hometown since the unforgettable summer before her senior year of college, when she...
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It's almost eleven before all three of my children are asleep, and Annie's still here. When I drag myself downstairs after finally getting Ava to settle, Annie's sitting on the sofa with a bottle of what looks like heavy cream in her hand, and a couple of glass tumblers she must've snagged from the cabinet. "How about a night cap?"
"What even is that?" I peer at the bottle, but it has no label.
"My mom's special eggnog." She pops off the top and fills two glasses with the viscous liquid. "It's incredible. I can't get enough of it."
I take a sip and reel back from the punch. "Oh my god, that's strong," I say, choking from the potency. "What's in this?"
"Brandy, rum, bourbon ... there might be something else." She grins and taps her glass against mine. "Bottoms up."
I take another tentative sip, anticipating the alcohol this time, and it doesn't hit so hard. I get the creaminess of the eggnog, the gentle spice from the nutmeg and the heat from the whiskey. It goes down a treat.
"That's dangerously good," I say. Annie has a line of cream above her top lip. I catch her chin in my hand and kiss it off. As the last of the log fire crackles, we cuddle on the sofa and it isn't long before Annie's pouring me a second glass of eggnog, hours after we ate pizza. The eggnog falls on an empty stomach, thick and filling and ever so strong.
"Careful with this," I say, already feeling it go to my head. "I still have to do the kids' stockings. Can't have them waking up tomorrow thinking Santa forgot them."
Annie's hand is on my waist, her fingers slipping under the hem of my sweater. "Ava has no idea who Santa is and the others don't believe," she says with a laugh, pressing her hand flat against my stomach and kissing me until I end up horizontal with her on top of me. The only light comes from the fire and without my glasses I can barely make out her features, but I know she's smiling down at me.
"It's not about whether or not they believe," I say, gazing up at her. Just because they know it's a farce doesn't mean I won't do it every year until Ava's left home, and probably long after that. For as long as my kids spend Christmas with me, I'll pretend Father Christmas came in the night. "It's the ritual. When did you stop believing in Santa?"
"Um ... when I was seven. This dickwad, Brandon Daniels, thought he was hot shit 'cause he had, like, six older brothers and he went around telling the whole class the truth. Lots of kids in tears that day."
"When did your mom stop doing stockings for you?"
She lowers her head so her nose touches mine. "I'll let you know," she says, our lips grazing with each word.
"See? If you're still getting stockings at nearly thirty, I think my children can have them," I say, my words loosening as the trio of alcohols makes its way into my system. I turn my head to the side to finish off the last mouthful from my second glass. It's like a dessert. It should be too sickly, but I only want more.
