Someone To Love

Familiar Festivities

Snow dances from the sky, dusting the windshield with miniature paper-like flakes as Cruise drives us up an elongated driveway in an opulent gated community. The Alexander estate looks gothic in appeal with its cathedral windows, its upright stone lions just feet from the entry.

Cruise comes around and escorts me toward the tall mahogany doors. A pair of oversized tinfoil wreathes adorn the entry and manage to look slightly out of place among all the grandeur. But honestly, the only thing on my mind this past hour has been those heated kisses. My face still burns from their fire. I can still feel his tongue in my mouth, bumping against mine, and I replay it over and over like some muscular memory.

Cruise gives a good strong knock, and we wait in awkward silence. He washes a quick glance over my body in a covert manner, and his chest expands in response to my curves.

I wonder if he's thought of those kisses - if he still feels me in his mouth and how I measure up to the long line of girls who had been there before.

Cruise leans toward me and fills the interim between us with his spiced cologne. "So, Pennington" - he pauses - "asshole or douchebag?"

A voice emits from inside the house and the door rattles.

"Douchebag," I whisper.

Cruise locks eyes with mine while giving a brief nod. It's as if we're bonding right here on the porch over, of all things, Pennington's douchebag status.

I hope Aunt Jackie won't mind that I've brought someone along. Oddly enough, I know Cruise better than I do "Aunt Jackie."

The door swings open, revealing a woman dressed in gold lame from head to toe.

"Well look what the cat dragged in!" She sings the opera-like greeting. Her long black hair is frayed at the edges, and she sports an over-processed tan that looks less St. Tropez and more Oompa Loompa. Her lips glow a pale pink as if she smeared them with toothpaste, and her eyes are powdered a vulgar shade of indigo frost. "And who the hell is this hot little cutie?" She leans back on her heels - it takes a moment for me to realize she directed the question to Cruise.

"This would be your darling niece." Cruise fans a hand over me as if I were a carnival prize. "I'm just giving her a ride."

"Oh my gawd! Andrew, come here! It's Kendall! She's drop dead gorg!" She pulls me into a rocking hug and does her best to smother me in her cushiony breasts. Her perfume lays over me thick and cloying like strong tea without any sweetness. "Look at you! All grown up."

I smile awkwardly at Cruise because mostly she's propagating a lie. She's never seen more than a dozen pictures of me.

An oversized chandelier drips from the entry, and the room opens up to a sitting area. A supersized white Christmas tree, decorated with clear lights and strategically dispersed red bows, sits in front of the bay window. It's beautiful in a sterile sort of way. I suppose once you amass a certain amount of wealth, you have sophisticated standards to abide by. Gone are the popcorn-strung Christmases and children's art from yesteryear adorning the mantle. It's as if the capital in your bank account bleaches the fun out of everything. Strangely, it's just this sort of opulence I had been craving my whole life, and now that I see it with my own eyes, I'd trade it for that tiny brick house of Cruise's and the bushy Douglas fir in a heartbeat. I might have already.

"Andrew? We're in the sitting room." She ushers us in haste toward a palatial room that houses a giant oil painting of Jackie and her husband as they hover over a younger version of Pennington - and speak of the devil. He strides in the room looking perfectly preppy - a wolf donning designer sheep clothing.