A titter of laughter circles the table.
“I’m rubbish at talking about my feelings, but I wanted you to know how much being a part of this group has meant to me. So let’s raise a glass to Finn and possibly our last, but hopefully our very best, Christmas.”
“Hear! Hear!” Priya holds out her glass.
“Cheers!” Hannah adds her glass to the scrum.
I wordlessly lift my glass to meet theirs. Theo offers me a wink across the table. We all take a sip of our drinks to seal his words to fate.
There are no menus for lunch. Our bow-tied waiter returns with a two-tiered tea tray, the bottom filled with miniature pancakes and the top with a tin of caviar and a ramekin of crème fra?che. The caviar service is followed by a platter of pigs in a blanket with both beef hot dogs and vegetarian alt-meat ones for Priya, both kinds wrapped in a cocoon of pancake. Next there are miniature breakfast sandwich sliders—a runny egg, sausage patty, and slice of melted cheese sandwiched between two silver dollar pancakes. After that four waiters descend on our table simultaneously, each carrying a plate with a domed silver lid. They remove the lids with choreographed precision to reveal plates of obscenely fluffy Japanese-style pancakes in three stacks, the first drizzled with a berry compote, the second dotted with chocolate chips and topped with a cloud of whipped cream, and the third garnished with apple chutney.
A laugh escapes me when the plate is revealed. “Wait, did you get a restaurant to make us a meal that’s entirely pancakes?” The staff, who outnumber us two to one, must be so confused by our bizarre holiday meal.
“Historical accuracy is important,” Theo replies with a rakish tilt of his head, which sends his crown sloping to one side.
“Believe me, I was there, and there was no caviar at our first Christmas,” I tell him.
“No champagne either,” Hannah adds, “but I don’t see you complaining about that!”
“So, we gave it a little upgrade,” Theo says with a jaunty shrug.
We’re so full that we barely touch our dessert—rich chocolate pancakes that taste like flattened molten chocolate cakes. When the fifth and final course is cleared, we sit with coffees served in porcelain teacups and finish the dregs of our champagne. “So, what’s next?” I ask.
“Well . . .” Hannah hesitates. “This was kind of all we had planned.”
“I honestly thought it would take longer.” Theo looks down at his watch.
“We could head across the street to the King Cole Bar for another round?” Priya suggests.
“I think I’ll explode if I put anything else in my stomach,” Hannah begins, punctuating her statement with a sip of champagne. We’re onto a second bottle. “Plus, we’ll be sloshed and maudlin by sunset if we keep drinking. And David and I were maybe going to do gifts tonight.”
At the mention of David’s name, Priya flashes an approving smile at Hannah.
“I have an idea,” I say. “We’re right by Rockefeller Center and I’ve never been skating there. It feels like a New York Christmas rite of passage. Should we go? Mix in some new with the old?”
“Your wish is our command,” Theo says as Priya and Hannah nod their assent. “Lead on.”
* * *
? ? ?
?There’s a chance I miscalculated with my suggestion. The line of kids, hopped up on sugar and bouncing beside exhausted parents, starts at the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue and snakes back and forth on itself as far as the eye can see. Probably all tourists.
“Maybe this is the wrong line?” Hannah offers. “Maybe this is the line for Santa? Or Al Roker could be giving something away on the plaza?”
“Excuse me.” Priya taps the man in front of us on the shoulder. “Is this the line for skating?”
“You have to wait your turn like everyone else, weirdos,” he sneers back.
“Jeez, okay. I was just asking.”
It takes us an hour to reach the front, rent skates, and get them on, which requires some maneuvering because my fingers froze into icicles during the wait.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea.” Priya stands unsteadily in a pair of bright orange rental skates. “I can barely walk in this dress, never mind skate.”
“Maybe you can pull it up above your knees to get more range of motion?” I suggest.
“Or just hold onto the railing,” Theo offers.
“We waited in that huge ass line. We’re going skating. All of us,” Hannah shuts down her complaints.
Our group ventures onto the ice. The famous Rockefeller tree looms over the rink and pop music blares through the speakers. When the song changes to “Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays” by *NSYNC, I whip around to face the group so I can lip-sync the lyrics at them while skating backward. “This song was my jam as a kid.”
“Oh, you think you’re the only one with moves,” Hannah teases, “I took skating lessons as a kid. Watch this!” She lifts one skate off the ice, bringing her leg back into a low arabesque. She wobbles on her standing leg before putting her foot down. The whole thing lasts about three seconds.
“I used to be more flexible and remember that being much more impressive,” she admits.
From my new angle skating backwards, facing the group, I see Priya hugging the wall a few yards behind us. I feel partially responsible for forcing her into this, and now she’s clearly struggling. I skate back to her and offer my arm.
“Hang onto me instead,” I tell her. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”
“I think I’m getting off after this lap.”
“Don’t do that! Seriously, I’ve got you. I’m a great skater.” I speed up ahead of her and execute a quick circle, doing the fancy crossovers I taught myself at the roller rink as a kid. “See!”
I skate back to her side and grab her arm, pulling us forward to catch up with the group. The song changes to “Mistletoe” by Justin Bieber and I steer us to avoid a group of young kids pushing traffic cones around the ice for balance, all but dragging Priya along.
“You’re going too fast,” she complains.
“All you have to do is hang on. Trust me!”
“Finn, I’m going to—”
Before she can finish her sentence, her skate catches on a divot in the ice and she step-step-steps trying to find her balance. There’s the sound of fabric ripping and silver beads spray over the ice. “Motherfucker,” Priya swears under her breath, but at least she’s regained her footing.
“That’s bad language,” a pigtailed girl in a pink coat stops short to chastise Priya.
Time slows down as Priya crashes into the tattletale kid. I feel her arm unlink with mine and watch with horror as she falls. Hard.
nineteen
Hannah
Christmas #10, 2017
My dad died.
The minute Finn says those three words, our fight is forgotten. I rush to him and wrap my arms around his middle. His face crumples into the top of my head, tears soaking into my hair, while Theo yells at the video camera in the corner.
“Brian, we’ve got a real emergency in here!” He waves his arms overhead like he’s signaling a plane on a desert island.
“C’mon, Brian, don’t be a wanker,” he tries again, and slams his palm against the door for emphasis. I’ve never seen Theo lose his temper, but all signs point to us being close.