He frowns my way. “No use for the holidays? What kind of blasphemous nonsense is that?”
I groan. “Jamie. Don’t tell me you’re a holiday fanatic.”
“Not a fanatic. But I do love a quiet stroll in the snow, singing Christmas carols around the piano, a glass of eggnog in front of the newly decorated tree, though not the homemade variety made with egg whites—no amount of deliciousness is worth the risk of salmonella.” He pauses, then says carefully, “Why aren’t the holidays of much use to you? Is it . . . because of your parents? I’m sure that it’s hard, that you miss them especially then.”
I peer down at the soapy water, mulling over how much I want to share. “I do miss them especially then, yes, and that’s certainly part of what makes the holidays less appealing to me now. But mostly it’s the aura of self-imposed stress that saturates everything during this time of year. People seem to lose perspective when it comes to all they do have, with this pressure to be and do even more. I want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say, ‘At least you have money to buy presents, to put food on your table and heat your homes and clothe your kids for the cold weather. At least you have loved ones to be stressed about buying presents for. At least they’re here.’?”
Tipping his head, Jamie says, “Perhaps I’m projecting my despicably entitled father who embodies all of that, but does it happen at work, managing wealth? Do you deal with people who have so much yet who’ve lost sight of that?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. That’s the beauty of how we work. Most hedge funds don’t care about how they make their money and their clients don’t either, but we care and our clients do, too. The entire point of how we manage and invest money is to pursue perspective, to recognize wealth’s privilege and allocate it into reparative, revitalizing, equitable initiatives, companies, and organizations.”
“Ethical investments,” he summarizes.
“Exactly.”
A fresh burst of Kate and Bea’s laughter draws our focus again. Kate scoops up the ball at her feet and dribbles toward the hoop, Bea guarding her sister while careful of her right arm in its sling.
Kate flashes a feisty smile that I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from. Between dribbles of the ball, she pokes Bea in the armpit, making Bea shriek and stumble away. Taking advantage of her sister’s defenses being down, she shoots a layup.
“Dirty move,” I mutter.
Jamie huffs a laugh. “She is playing one-handed. I think she’s allowed to get a little creative.”
“Since when are you on Team Kate?”
He grins, eyes locked on Bea as he dries the pan. “Since Kate came home and put that smile on my girlfriend’s face.”
Bea dribbles toward the basket while Kate does some ridiculous defending that looks more like trippy dance moves. When Bea starts laughing so hard she can’t even dribble, Kate swats the ball away, then runs toward the hoop, making another layup.
As she turns, arm raised in triumph, our eyes meet. Her glare could peel paint off the walls.
“How did you end up faring last night, with the migraine?” Jamie asks.
I blink, glancing his way. “Sorry?”
Jamie taps his temple. “Your migraine that was coming on last night.”
“Oh. Uh. It wasn’t the worst I’ve had.”
I’m still kicking myself for confiding in Jamie that I get migraines in the first place, let alone that I had one last night. But when I was about to leave early from Friendsgiving last night, just as he and Bea showed up for pumpkin pie and a nightcap, looking like they’d enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying reunion, he seemed so disappointed that I was leaving. The truth just . . . came out. I told him I felt a migraine coming on, and I asked for him to keep it between us.
“How long have you had chronic migraines?” he asks.
“Easy now, the bromance isn’t that developed.”
He clears his throat. “Sorry, I get in doctor mode when I’m concerned about the people who matter to me. It’s a bad habit.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” I tell him, meaning it. “I appreciate you caring, I’m just not used to talking about them with other people.”
“Well,” he says, “I respect that. But I’m here if you need to vent or if you ever need anything. I promise not to medicalize you or tell you that while lowered stress and more rest, especially around hectic times of the year like the holidays, won’t cure your chronic condition, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea to take time off and practice self-care.”
“Ah, but then who would take my place as local Scrooge, amassing his wealth while everyone else decks the halls?”
He gives me a dry look and sighs.
“Poor Jamie,” Kate says. The door bangs shut as she marches in, Bea behind her. Cheeks pink, the scent of cool autumn air lingering around her. “He’s badgering you into his capitalist schemes, isn’t he? Typical Christopher.”
I roll my eyes as she strides purposefully toward the leftovers. “Typical Kate. Misses most of what’s happened, then shows up and acts like she’s got it all figured out.”
Kate glares at me, ripping off the lid to a container with her name scribbled on it in Sharpie.
“Wow,” Bea says brightly, clearly trying to move past our tiff. “You two crushed the dishes. Thank you, Christopher.” Her voice warms as she wraps her arms around Jamie’s torso. “And thank you, Jamie.”
Leaning in, he brushes back the hairs stuck to her cheeks. “No trouble at all.”
I glance away from the lovefest and redirect my attention to the sudsy water as I fish around for lingering silverware.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging my hand out of the water. I stabbed my thumb on a knife. Inspecting it, I’m relieved to see I’m barely bleeding.
“Mess up your manicure?” Kate says.
I give her an incinerating glare, but she’s oblivious or ignoring me, eyes down as she stabs a fork into her food. “And if I did? It’s sexist to imply that a man getting a manicure is fodder for humor.”
“I implied nothing,” she says airily. “I asked a question.”
Our eyes meet. I telepathically call bullshit. Kate beams a silent middle finger my way.
I stand at the sink, white-knuckling its edge, while Kate leans one hip against the counter and glares death at me. Raw, electric aggravation crackles in the air between us.
Why, when I can control everything else in my life, can’t I control this?
As if looking at Kate hard enough will answer my question, I stare at her, hating that I notice every tiny auburn tendril kissing the nape of her neck. My gaze dips to her clothes, the ripped-up jean overalls she’s wearing, the gray long-sleeve shirt that’s so gossamer light I can see her skin through it.
I spend enough time around wealth to know her wardrobe isn’t the purposefully distressed style rich folks drop three, even four figures on. Her clothes are old, sun-bleached, and threadbare. I wonder if she’s struggled to find work or keep it, if that’s why she looks like this—beaten-up clothes draping on her beanpole-thin frame. If she’s home because she’s financially strained.
My chest tightens sharply.
Her eyes narrow, still holding mine. “Stop staring at me.”
“I’m not staring at you,” I lie, rinsing my smarting thumb under cold water. “I’m trying not to gag at the sight of you eating tofurkey and gravy made with vegetable broth.”
“Yes, well, at least I can rest easy knowing an animal wasn’t slaughtered for me to consume on a holiday commemorating mass genocide of indigenous peoples.” She throws me a fake-as-hell smile. “Not that you’d understand, Christopher, but some of us like to sleep with a clear conscience at night.”
My jaw clenches. I slap off the water I’ve been running over my cut, then wrap my thumb in a paper towel. “Of course. Because I’m so morally bankrupt.”