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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
JAKE
Mom’s house is in the midst of its customary holiday mayhem when we arrive.
Beatrice is perched on a step stool in the foyer, laser-focused on marrying a string of Christmas lights with a garland of autumn leaves and tacking them along the crown molding.
Yvonne hovers below her, gingerly holding the surplus jumble like it’s a snake ready to strike.
The moment she spots us, she springs to life. “Hey, baby brother,” she bellows, as if I’m a long-lost relative back from an Arctic expedition, not someone who only this morning was standing on her toilet seat swapping out a burnt-out bulb.
In one seamless motion, she wraps me in a hug, deftly offloading the tangled mess in my hands before pivoting to loop her arm through Amelia’s, pulling her inside with whispers of ribbed candy cane vibrators. I don’t want to know.
Just as I’m about to follow, Beatrice’s hand clamps around my collar like I’m a dog about to bolt. “Not so fast. You’re not ditching me to handle this solo. Brady already bailed, sticking me with Yvonne. Your turn to step up.”
“Can’t you recruit another minion from your little army?” I protest.
“Nah. I’ve left the rest of the insurgents at plotting world domination. They’ve been calling me Lady Tremaine just because I made them clean their rooms.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re their real mom. Shouldn’t that make you, like, Maleficent-level scary?”
She sighs dramatically. “Oh, please. I wish I had a dragon. All I’ve got is a Dyson and zero respect.”
I snicker. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Eh, I’ll take it. Villains get more screen time. Plus, better wardrobes.”
Once she’s sure I’m not about to run, she parks her hands on her hips. “Ha. Seems like you’ve been up to your own brand of mischief, baby brother.” She slides a glance over at the passageway through which Amelia and Yvonne have vanished.
Her tone stops me, and I look at her, confused. She fishes her phone out of her back pocket and waves it around before pulling up an app. “A couple of months ago, you were online like an ad for BDSM ‘R’ US, and now you’re all Lady and the Tramp .”
She shoves the screen in my face. It’s a photo of me with Amelia poised over a punchbowl, our heads nearly touching. Our yellow bendy straws resemble spaghetti. The only thing missing is a strawberry to play the meatball.
“I swear, you just need a meatball.” Beatrice mirrors my thoughts exactly. Fifteen years apart and here we are, twinning.
I roll my eyes, nudging the device away. “Has anyone pointed out that you may be overdosing on cartoons?”
“Ya think?” She grimaces in disgust. “Seriously, the number of brain cells I have sacrificed to the church of Disney.” She presses her palms together and looks heavenward. “And those songs? Pure sorcery. They stick in your head like gum on your shoe. Forever.”
She drops her angelic pose and turns back to me. “So, tell me, what’s the deal? Are you two a thing now?”
“Keep it down!” I hiss, glancing around.
Once I’m sure no one’s in earshot, I let a conspiratorial grin spread across my lips. “Amelia’s convinced Yvonne’s gonna be pissed and go full Hulk when she finds out. Honestly, I’d rather be the one dodging the green rage monster. It’s basically cardio at this point.”
“She’ll be pissed regardless.” Beatrice waves off the concern with a flick of her wrist. Suddenly, she’s on the move, hopping down from her perch and tugging me along. “Come on, rip off the Band-Aid. Confession is good for the soul.”
We enter right as Carla and Rick are juggling dishes with tonight’s dinner.
“Babe, can you grab the cheese? We’re out of hands here,” he calls.
“Sure thing,” Beatrice responds, disappearing into the kitchen.
The early birds are already at the dining table. I head over to Mom, drop a kiss on her cheek, then settle into a spot at the end, beside Amelia. Across from her, Yvonne’s chatting away. And dinner? Spaghetti, naturally.
Plates loaded with generous portions make their way around. I’m on the verge of digging in when Beatrice reappears, brandishing the rotary grater.
She stops by me first, leaning in with a smirk. As she sprinkles Parmesan onto my plate, she sings softly, “Jake and Amelia, sitting in a tree…”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Really? That’s your best material?”
“After years of talking animals and magic wands, this is peak creativity.” She taps her temple, then straightens and continues her rounds, finally plopping down next to Yvonne.
Conversation flows as people catch each other up with the latest happenings.
Carla and Dave announce their plans for a January camping vacation, prompting Jerry and Rick to propose making it a couples’ trip. That notion doesn’t quite land with Helena and Beatrice.
Meanwhile, Mom outlines the Thanksgiving menu, which morphs into a negotiation with Heidi about delaying her vegan diet until after the holidays, a topic that somehow turns into a table-wide debate.
When there’s a lull in the discussion, I stand. “So, fam. It is with my joy that I share the Nurture NYC gala is officially set for the second Saturday of December. Details should hit your inboxes soon.”
Mom’s sigh is a mix of relief and anticipation. “Finally! I was starting to wonder if we’d been left off the guest list.”
Amelia turns to me. “Wait, you didn’t tell them it had been canceled?”
The “c” word hangs in the air like a bad odor, and Mom’s tone sharpens. “Canceled? Why?”
“Umm… Press issues,” I hedge, dropping into my chair and stabbing at the noodles as if they’ve personally betrayed me.
“Jake…” My mother’s warning is clear.
“But it’s on again,” I say, plastering on a bright smile. “And in other news.” Time to toss in a smoke bomb and disappear to divert from that revelation. “Amelia’s going as my date. Yep, we’re together.”
The table goes quiet, and Amelia’s eyes dart to me, wide and screaming with “what have you done” kind of alarm, before locking on Yvonne, who’s glaring at me. Ah, sibling love.
“I can’t believe you—” she starts, her words a cocktail of incredulity and impending doom.
Before the storm can hit, Amelia jumps in. “I’m sorry.”
Too late. My sister barrels on. “—couldn’t wait until Christmas.” There’s a dramatic pause, the kind that precedes a plot twist in a holiday movie.
Beatrice hoots, and an obnoxious smirk of victory spreads across her face as she holds out her hand. Yvonne yanks a bill from her wallet and slaps it into the waiting palm. Carla lets out an exaggerated “ugh” and smacks her forehead before motioning to Dave, who dutifully hands over a crisp fifty.
Our resident Disney Villain collects it with a flourish, then shifts her gaze expectantly to Heidi and Helena, who quickly follow suit.
Mom, ever the pragmatist, asks, “Bank transfer okay?”
She gets a magnanimous nod in return.
“Fucker,” Yvonne mutters at me, scowling. “Couldn’t you have waited? Times are tough.”
“You knew?” Amelia surveys the assembled betting pool, one by one, before ending on Yvonne.
“Of course, I knew.” Her response is all “Elementary, dear Watson.”
Thank goodness, I was genuinely starting to worry she’d lost her touch.
“And you aren’t mad?” The question is feather-light.
“Not with you.” Yvonne smiles at her before shooting me a side-eye. I smirk and stuff another bite of spaghetti into my mouth.
“So, when did you figure it out?” Amelia asks.
“First day I brought you home. You two were all googly-eyed at each other. By brunch, I was sure you’d done the dirty.” She fixes her frown on me. “So much for not sleeping with my friends.” Her elbow finds a hollow spot between my ribs.
“You think you’ve got dibs because Luna pissed on her?” I return with a playful nudge of my own.
“What if I do?” She jabs me again. “I’m not fourteen. I can handle you dating a friend.”
“You sure?” I poke her back.
“Yes!” she declares, retaliating with a punch that packs surprising force.
And just like that, the two years between us evaporate. In unison, we yell, “Mom!”
“Kids! Stop! Time out!” Mom thunders, slamming her hands on the table.
We both shut up. I dive into my spaghetti once more. “Technically, I found her first. She’s the one who freed me after that whole handcuff incident. That means I win.”
“Wait, she’s handcuff girl?” Beatrice’s cackle fills the room. “And then you went from that to lovers?” She pronounces it lo-vahs —all British-like. “Forget Disney, your origin story is straight out of Fifty Shades !”
Yvonne’s still gaping. Finally, a bombshell that has her speechless.
Yep. I give her a victorious, “you see” smirk.
“Well, I was her friend first,” is her sullen response.
I grin. “Well, I fu?—”
Amelia slaps a hand over my mouth. “Please excuse him.”
I nip at her palm, prompting a round of laughs and a few “awws” from the peanut gallery.
“Don’t you guys work together? That has HR horror story stamped all over it.” Helena leans back, arms crossed, in full lawyer mode.
“Amelia’s a temp. Her contract’s over after the last home game. We’re going public at the gala.” I throw a pointed glance in my girlfriend’s direction, waiting for her confirmation.
“At the gala,” she echoes, surrender and acceptance in her tone.
“Perfect. Because I’ve figured out our couple name.”
She blinks. “Couple name?”
“Yep. As part of our big reveal. The official outing. Think Ameliake. Jamelia. Amejake. Jammies. Jakeamee…”
She looks at me in confusion.
“I know, right? They sucked.” I pause for effect. “Now, just wait for it.” Then, I spread my hands wide, as if asking her to picture a marquee at the cinema. “JAM,” I pronounce, satisfaction oozing from my voice.
“Jam?” she repeats blankly.
“JAM.” How could there be any other choice?
“Like the food?”
“And the dance. Simple. Perfect. Hard to misspell.”
She snorts, catching on. “Ah yes. A gift to the masses. The ability to spell our couple name correctly.”
I beam. “Damned right. It’s the pinnacle of couple names. What other couple names aspire to be.”
Table of Contents
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