by Tara Sivec
Tara Sivec
Christmas Cliché
Copyright © 2019 Tara Sivec
Kobo Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.
Edits by KD Robichaux
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Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
West Virginia, 17 years ago
“Aaahhh!”
My scream of terror is abruptly cut off when my cousin Jamie smacks her hand over my mouth.
We stand at the opening of the dark hallway for a few minutes, not moving or breathing, while we listen to the loud yet muffled hum of all the adults laughing and talking in the basement down below us. The soft glow of the multicolored lights from the Christmas tree back in the living room behind us gives off just enough light to be able to see the source of my initial terror when we first came around this corner. When the ruckus below continues and we don’t hear anyone yell up to us or footsteps pounding up the basement stairs to get us, Jamie finally removes her hand from my mouth.
“What is wrong with you, Allie?” she whisper-yells. “If Granny finds out we’re up here, we’ll be in so much trouble!”
Jerking my mouth away from her hand, I point at the wooden object standing on a small corner table right outside the bathroom. The one connected to Granny’s bedroom, which we’re never, ever allowed to use when all the adults are down in the basement and we’re in the middle of a party. Like, say, right now. Technically, all of the upstairs is off limits when there is no adult supervision, but the bathroom is our only goal right now.
“I couldn’t help it!” I whisper back. “I forgot she has a stupid nutcracker decoration here.”
“What is it with you and your fear of nutcrackers?”
“They have big, creepy teeth. And when you open and close their mouths, it’s just… uuugh, creepy!”
Jamie laughs and rolls her eyes at me, moving around me in the hallway and going first, because she’s a good cousin like that.
We quietly tiptoe into the bathroom, Jamie moving slowly so her stocking feet don’t make any of the old floorboards in the cabin squeak and alert the adults down below our rule-breaking. I try to push and shove her into the bathroom as hard as I can to quickly get past that stupid nutcracker and his creepy, big-toothed face.
When we’re finally inside and the door has been gently closed and locked behind us, we both move to our usual spots whenever we sneak up here during the yearly Christmas party. Sitting cross-legged with our knees touching, we face each other on the plush pink carpet in between the bathtub and the toilet, right next to the reason why we snuck up here in the dark.
The laundry shoot.
Our granny is under the impression that all of us kids are a bunch of wild animals, and if we’re left alone up here in the main part of the house without adults watching our every move, we’ll break her knickknacks or get into her “good makeup” in this bathroom. Which, to be honest, has happened on several occasions over the years and is the reason we aren’t supposed to be up here. I have seven-year-old twin sisters who are tornadoes of terror, not to mention Jamie’s three younger siblings, on top of the six additional cousins who are currently down in the basement, all of them under the age of ten. If we have to use the bathroom, we’re supposed to use the one down in the basement where the party is taking place, and since all the food is there in the basement kitchen, there really is no reason for anyone to come up here. But Jamie and I aren’t kids anymore. We’re thirteen. We’re practically adults. We’ve been sneaking away from everyone and coming up here to the bathroom during our family’s yearly Christmas party for as long as I can remember. It’s tradition. And my dad is big on family traditions, so really, this thing we’re doing should be encouraged.
“Remember last year, when we came up here and Aunt Evelyn was talking about sex stuff?” Jamie asks, giggling softly as she scoots herself closer to the little wooden door built into the lower wall of the bathroom.
“Eeew, don’t remind me. That was gross.”
My body shudders when I think about last year, sitting in this same exact spot, and the things we heard through the laundry shoot. With the way Granny’s house is situated, the opening to this laundry shoot down in the basement just happens to be right above the long table the adults have set up to drink, laugh, tell dirty jokes, gossip, and play poker for the rest of the night. We initially started sneaking up here when we were little to touch all the things we weren’t supposed to and to get away from all our annoying little siblings and cousins. And then we discovered the laundry shoot. We still like to get away from the little kids, but now we really come here for the dirty jokes and gossip. Unfortunately, some years we get more than we bargained for.
“Aunt Evelyn shouldn’t be having sex at her age. She’s like, thirty. That’s so disgusting,” Jamie adds.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the garbled hum of the conversations below us, a loud bark of laughter breaking through the indistinct words every once in a while.
“I bet you’re gonna get an Xbox for Christmas,” Jamie suddenly says. “You totally suck. I didn’t even bother asking for one, because I know I won’t get it since it’s too expensive.”
She smiles at me good-naturedly, and I smile right back.
“I’m definitely not getting an Xbox. I helped my parents pack the gifts, remember? There wasn’t an Xbox-shaped package.”
I don’t tell her I got one a year ago, the day it came out. My dad has always told me it’s not nice to brag about the things you have that other people don’t. He says it’s “uncouth” whatever that is. My dad never wants his side of the family here in West Virginia to feel like what they have isn’t good or nice enough. We get a pretty good pile of things to open here Christmas morning, but it’s never more than what my other cousins get. When we go back home, that’s when we have Christmas number two, with my mom’s side of the family. That’s when it becomes a contest about who bought the most expensive present, or who got the most boxes to unwrap, or who paid more to have their home decorated, or who got the fanciest chef to cater their party. It’s extravagant and over th
e top and everything I hate. When we’re here, we’re just… a normal family. We wear our pajamas all day, we bake cookies, we play in the snow, we watch Christmas movies, we wrap presents, we play board games, and we just spend time together.
I suddenly notice how quiet it is and realize the adults must have stopped talking or, even better, they lowered their voices to talk about something they don’t want the kids who are playing on the other side of the basement to hear. The kids they assume include me and Jamie. Realizing this is prime laundry shoot listening time, I reach out to grab the little silver doorknob to open the tiny door. Jamie quickly grabs onto my wrist and stops me.
“Wait! You know the rules, Allie. You can’t open the laundry shoot without saying it.”
“We’re still doing this?” I laugh.
“Of course we’re still doing this. It’s tradition. I just had to accept a present from a really weird, old, drunk guy wearing the fakest Santa costume I’ve ever seen and sit on his lap for a picture. If my friends at school see that thing, I will never be able to go back to eighth grade again. I’ll have to drop out,” she complains. “On top of that, I got another stupid Bratz doll. That’s the third one today.”
I laugh and nod my head in agreement, even though I still think it’s fun and magical when we hear Santa jingling his bells, the stomping of his booted feet as he comes down the basement steps, and all the little kids screaming with excitement. I don’t care Jamie and I found out a few years ago that Santa isn’t real and Papa always asks one of his friends from the VFW to put on a Santa costume to stop by and deliver presents to the kids. It’s tradition and I love it. But I am in agreement about the Bratz dolls. Since we’re the same age, Jamie and I usually get a lot of the same presents every year. While it’s true that’s all we asked for last Christmas, it’s been an entire year since then. We’re way too old now for dolls.
“And we’re doing this, because it’s the one thing I’ve been looking forward to since you guys got here a week ago, and even though we still have another week together, I’m already getting sad thinking about you leaving,” Jamie adds, making a small lump form in my throat and my eyes itch with tears.
We’ve been coming to this small mountain town in West Virginia for Christmas every year since I was born. This vacation is the one I look forward to the most. Not the ones where my parents book the private jet and take us to Paris or rent a luxury yacht to go to Barbados. Right here, in a cozy log cabin in the middle of nowhere, everyone crammed under one roof, with the same Christmas traditions every year—that’s what I dream about the rest of the year when my family is constantly surrounded by the hustle and bustle of life in Los Angeles.
“Assume the position, Allie Parker, before your annoying little sisters find out we’re up here and ruin everything,” Jamie orders, knowing we only have a matter of minutes before Tori and Zoey realize we’re missing and either announce it to the adults or sneak up here looking for us.
We both sit up straighter, pushing our shoulders back. Then, we both giggle as we each lift our right hands, palms out.
“Promise when we’re really old, you’ll still come back to West Virginia every year for Christmas,” Jamie states, repeating the words she makes me say every time we come up here to spy on the adults. “And I’m talking really old. Like, when we’re Aunt Evelyn’s age. It doesn’t matter if I’m a flight attendant traveling the world or you’re a big, famous chef cooking for all the rich people in California—”
“Or, you know, just making nice, home-cooked meals for really small parties,” I cut her off.
Jamie laughs and shakes her head at me.
“I don’t know how you can grow up in L.A. and be so un-L.A. I would totally trade places with you in a minute.”
And I would totally let you.
“Anyway,” she continues. “As I was saying, no matter what our lives look like in the future, we promise that family means everything. Say it.”
“I promise.”
“You have to say the whole thing or it doesn’t count,” she reminds me, palm still up in the air as she glares at me.
“Seriously, Jamie?” I laugh. “It’s so cliché.”
“Whatever, butt munch. Say it.”
“Fine. No matter what my life looks like, I will always remember that family means everything,” I promise.
“And Jamie Parsons is the coolest person in the whole world and my favorite cousin ever.”
“I’m not saying that.” I laugh.
“Say it or I’ll tell your dad you snuck us wine coolers last night after everyone fell asleep.”
“No you won’t, because I didn’t even drink them!” I remind her. “You drank them both and then threw up in Granny’s poinsettia in the dining room.”
“Do you think she’ll notice it’s missing? Maybe we should have gone farther into the woods to toss it,” she worries quietly.
“Come on, it’s your turn,” I prod, nudging my knee harder against hers.
“Okay, I also promise that no matter what my life looks like, even while I’m flying to France sipping champagne, and you’re cooking disgusting meatloaf for some loser, I will always remember family means everything, and I will always invite you to spend the holidays here, every year,” she states.
“Christmas Promise lick it!” we say at the same time, both of us breaking out into more giggles and then wincing in disgust as we quickly lick our palms.
“Christmas Promise stick it!” we quietly cheer through our laughter, smacking the palms of our right hands together and twining our fingers.
“And now, by the power vested in me as your favorite cousin ever, I pronounce this Christmas Promise sealed!” Jamie announces, both of us letting go of each other’s hand and wiping our palms on the thighs of our pants. “We really should have come up with a tradition that isn’t so gross.”
“We were five. We licked everything then.” I shrug. “Can we spy on our parents now?”
“One last thing,” Jamie states, stopping me when I try to open the laundry shoot door again.
She squeezes her eyes closed, and I quickly do the same, almost forgetting about the last part of our ritual.
“The only thing I wish for Christmas this year is an Xbox, but since I know I’m not getting that, I want a pair of jeans from Abercrombie, and makeup from Clinique,” Jamie whispers.
“The only thing I wish for Christmas is for Tori and Zoey to stop being so annoying and up my butt all the time. Oh, and snow!” I whisper after her. “I want snow for Christmas!”
“Have you looked outside? It’s been snowing since yesterday. You’re insane.” Jamie laughs, both of us opening her eyes.
I shrug, reaching again for the little silver knob and finally tugging on the wooden door until it pops open. “Whatever. This is the only time I get to see snow and I want more of it. I want all the snow!”
Jamie is still laughing at my excitement over the white fluffy stuff I can see falling right outside the small bathroom window as we squeeze in as close as possible. We stick our faces right into the square opening cut into the wall of the bathroom, finally able to hear every single word coming out of my dad’s mouth from down in the basement.
In hindsight, spying on people is always a bad idea. It never ends well.
Neither does wishing for snow.
“It’s not a fucking Christmas tree!”
Los Angeles, present day
“…because I want snow!”
“You’re insane! We can’t have snow at the Christmas Eve party. Do you have any idea how tacky that is?”
“You are such a bitch, Zoey!”
“Allie! Tell Tori snow at a Christmas party in L.A. is tacky and so last year.”
When I hear my name, I don’t even bother looking up from the email I’ve been glancing at off and on since first thing this morning. I lean against the doorjamb in the formal sitting room, trying to block out the sounds of my sisters arguing over the last minute details of our family’s annual C
hristmas Eve party. My least favorite day of the year. Actually, the entire month of December can just fuck right off.
“I have no idea what’s tacky or not. You know this about me.” I sigh, closing out the email again, shoving my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, and crossing my arms in front of me. “But either way, you can’t have a snow machine in L.A. right now. California is in a drought.”
God, I hate my life.
Both of my sisters look across the room at me from their spots on either end of our mom’s white couch pushed up against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens, with equal looks of confusion on their faces. Their matching, poker-straight blonde hair extensions are hanging down over their shoulders without one single strand out of place. Their makeup the styling team spent two hours on this morning is still flawless, and their matching designer sweatpants and hoodies are wrinkle-free and spotless. They look stunning and perfect, just like always, but I know damn well what’s about to come out of Zoey’s mouth in two seconds, because Zoey is always the one who speaks without thinking. Unfortunately, my brain is still stuck on that email and not functioning properly, and I’m not fast enough to blurt something out and divert her train of thought.
“What the hell does water have to do with snow?” Zoey asks, which makes both me and my mom, who just walked up next me, quietly groan.
“And cut! I think that’s a good place to stop. We’ll come back after lunch and start setting up for the dinner party later.”
“Guys, can we please take that out in post-production?” I beg to anyone who will listen as the crew for my sisters’ reality show start to scramble around the room, moving lights, breaking down equipment, and talking amongst themselves.
“Sorry, Allie, but that was reality show gold.” Andrew, the producer for the show, chuckles as he steps over to me, pulling his headset down off his head to rest around his neck. “You know there will be gifs galore all over the internet five minutes after this episode airs. You can’t buy that kind of promo.”
