I cringe at the babble I spewed at her. I’m not good at talking about my feelings. It’s as if after so many years of suppressing them in the years following my parents’ death and vehemently reassuring everyone I was fine, totally fine, I lack the vocabulary to make someone understand, even when I really want them to. This is where the non-biological-twin sense Finn and I share comes in handy. He just gets me, and vice versa.
“Ben,” she says, “But we were absolutely like that. But I know what you mean.”
“Who’s Ben?” I ask with a mix of curiosity and certainty that no matter who he is, their connection couldn’t possibly be the same as mine and Finn’s.
“My college boyfriend.” She stares down at her plate of quiche, suddenly guarded even though she volunteered his name.
“What happened? If you want to talk about it, I mean.”
“National Geographic happened, that’s what. He got his dream job as a travel photographer, so he’s currently somewhere in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Kind of hard to stay in a relationship with someone that only has cell service like ten percent of the time. We tried long distance, but he might as well have been on Mars. And I guess he loved the job more than he loved me because he’s still there and I’m very much single and still not over him.”
“I’m sorry.” Her admission about Ben makes me feel closer to her. Maybe her loss isn’t the same as mine, but it’s proof she isn’t just the sunshine and rainbows facade she projects either. I reach over to put my hand on her knee, but at the last minute I decide maybe we’re not those kind of friends yet and grab my fork to shove another bite of quiche in my mouth. It really is good.
“It’s not your fault,” she says.
“By the way, um . . . I meant to mention this earlier. Do you want to hang out with me and Finn today?”
“Oh, I don’t want to crash your plans,” she demurs. “I was going to go to the movies later. Christmas isn’t even a holiday for me. Seriously, don’t feel like you need to invite me because I told you about my ex-boyfriend drama.”
“No, I’d really love it if you came,” I tell her, and surprise myself by wanting her to say yes.
* * *
? ? ?
?At two, we meet Finn in the heart of the Village. Priya’s dressed in a sweatshirt I loaned her. Green with a fuzzy lamb on the front that says Fleece Navidad in squiggly cursive letters, the arms decorated with crisscrossing strands of Christmas lights. I’ve acquired quite a collection of holiday-specific attire over my four years of Christmas adventures with Finn. The plan is simple: we’re going on a two-person ugly sweater bar crawl through Greenwich Village. Now three, with Priya.
“Whoa, there are way more people here than I expected,” Priya says as we sidle up to a high-top table at Wicked Willy’s, a pirate-themed bar offering $2 Bud Light Limes on special. They have a steadfast commitment to a tropical theme, even on Christmas.
“College bars are always a good bet,” Finn says. “You get a mix of international students, Jewish kids, and the ones that can’t afford airfare, but can afford two-dollar beers. There are tons of people alone on Christmas if you know where to look.”
Priya looks around, taking in our fellow Christmas orphans.
“What’d you do for Christmas last year?” Finn asks her.
“Took half an edible, went to see the new Alvin and the Chipmunks movie, and ate an entire jumbo popcorn and a family-sized bag of Twizzlers. What’d you two do?”
“Oh my god,” Finn says, and flashes his gaze toward me, both of us remembering how great last Christmas—our first Christmas living in New York—was. “So it’s going to sound super cheesy, but we went to Dyker Heights. You know, in deep Brooklyn where they go all out on Christmas lights—”
“No, seriously,” I interrupt, “they go all out. I have never seen Christmas lights like this. Like, this is break the bank on your electric bill kind of lights.”
“So, we did the lights,” Finn says, “and then we were walking back to the subway at Eighty-Sixth Street and we passed this Italian restaurant. A real old-school red sauce joint that looks like somewhere the Mafia would eat, and it’s packed. So we decided to check it out. Turns out, it was the family that owns the place’s Christmas dinner, but they invited us to join them. I’ve never had ravioli this good before.
“We ended up sitting at a table with Carmela, the great-great-grandmother. Everyone was serving her like a queen. We sat with her taking shots of limoncello while she told us stories about growing up in Sicily.”
“Finn was obsessed with her,” I add.
“She was like a real-life Sophia from The Golden Girls. She sent me a Christmas card this year, you know.”
“That sounds really fun,” Priya says. “Seriously, thanks for including me this year.” She glances around the bar taking in the mix of twentysomethings, shouting and laughing. “I still can’t get over how many people are here. Actually, there are some cute guys. See anyone you’re interested in?”
“There’s nothing here for me,” Finn answers without bothering to look. “Everyone here is violently straight.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “What about you, Hannah?” They both focus their attention on me.
“I don’t need anyone else. Especially not today. I just want to spend the day with you guys.” I knock the neck of my beer against theirs and take a swig.
* * *
? ? ?
?Five hours and four bars later, we’re huddled around at a sticky wooden table at the Bitter End, a grungy bar–slash–music venue. The game of Never Have I Ever Priya and I are playing is interrupted when a man wearing a T-shirt printed with the bar’s logo steps up to the empty stage. He taps the mic twice, sending screeching feedback echoing through the room.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re going to start the open mic in fifteen minutes and there’s a sign-up sheet over at the bar.”
“We should sign Finn up,” I tell Priya. He stepped out a few minutes ago to answer a call from his sister. He was out of fingers in the game anyway.
“No, that’s so mean! I’d be furious if you ever did that to me.” Priya looks horrified by my suggestion.
“Trust me, he’ll love it.”
* * *
? ? ?
?Finn suggests we leave after the first two lackluster performances—a drunk college kid butchering “Summer Girls” by LFO and a woman scream-singing a particularly angry rendition of “You Oughta Know.”
“Let’s stay for a couple more,” I beg. “Please?”
He gives me a funny look but doesn’t protest.
When they announce his name, Finn glares at me. “I should have guessed.” But his mouth quirks into a coy smile.
“You don’t have to,” Priya says with a hand on his shoulder. “I told her it was cruel. Just so you know, it was all Hannah!”
Before she can finish her sentence, he’s already strutting up to the stage, performer mode activated.
* * *
? ? ?
?Priya stands on her chair and wolf whistles when Finn finishes his cover of “Bleeding Love.”