“Should we get this party started?” Fern’s smile is a little too gleeful, but when she opens the door, we follow her in.
I’ve never been here, since Mulholland and I weren’t friends, but I lived only a few blocks away on Fifth Avenue, right across from the Met. Despite being in the same neighborhood, though, our childhood homes couldn’t be more different. This apartment is big and warm and colorful, bursting with people, music, and enough mismatched furniture to give my mother the vapors.
“Valencia, honey!” A short woman with caramel-blond highlights who looks like a Gen X version of Fern charges toward us. She envelopes Valencia in a big hug, and it’s suddenly obvious why we’re here. Maybe things didn’t work out with the son, but Mulholland’s mom cares about Valencia and clearly misses her.
Then Mrs. Mulholland turns to me, and her expression is one of stunned recognition. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Andrea Noble’s boy! Look how tall you’ve gotten. Remind me of your name, dear. Is it Gabriel?”
“Gideon.” I lean down to let her hug me, too, and something about this whole interaction makes me wish my own mother were here in New York, even though she’d call this level of effusiveness gauche. “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Mulholland. Merry Christmas.”
At my side, Valencia stiffens at the “us,” and I don’t miss the way Mrs. Mulholland’s eyes dart from her to me. But all she says is, “Please, call me Heather.”
There is apparently a whole crew of Mulhollands, and I’m introduced to the father—a stocky, balding man named Patrick—a pair of uncles, their wives, and too many cousins to count. Fern stands apart with a glass of eggnog, watching the proceedings with an anticipatory gleam in her eyes.
No one mentions Everett Mulholland.
Once we’ve made the rounds—and Valencia has handed Heather a bottle of homemade coquito—I pull Valencia into a quiet corner of the living room. “I need to tell you something.”
“Are you doing okay?” She sends me a concerned look.
“Fine. Are you?”
She gives a little shrug. “Could be worse. What did you want to talk about?”
I take her hands and sweep my gaze over her slowly. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”
Her lips part in a bashful grin, and her cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink. She’s wearing a long-sleeved blackshirt tucked into a flared, red and black plaid skirt that hits below her knee. It’s tasteful and casual, but still stunning.
Then again, I think she’s gorgeous in a T-shirt and sweatpants.
“You didn’t need to say that, but thank you.”
“I wanted to say it,” I insist. “Just like I want to tell you how fucking strong you are for even entertaining the idea of coming here. You have a kind heart, Valencia Torres. Kinder than any of us deserve.”
Her eyes go soft and dewy, and she opens her mouth to speak. But before she can respond, there’s a commotion at the door.
Mulholland has arrived.
“Merry Xmas, fam!” he shouts, louder than is appropriate for an indoor holiday gathering.
And yes, he really says “Xmas.”
Then his face transforms into a ferocious scowl as he spots Valencia and me holding hands.
“What the fuck ishedoing here?” He roars it, and his mother is on his ass in a second, telling him to shut up, but her words have no effect.
Mulholland storms over. He’s big—not as tall as I am but built like the professional athlete he is, with hands the size of dinner plates. Otherwise, he’s regular-looking with sleepy eyes,short brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and an overlarge nose that’s clearly been broken since the last time I saw him.
I don’t want to fight with this guy in his mother’s living room, but I’m also not letting him get through me to Valencia. I step in front of her, but she, of course, has other plans, and steps in front ofme.
“Him?” Mulholland sounds apoplectic as he jabs a finger in my direction. Everyone in the room tenses, but I don’t flinch. “This is your date? Gideon Fucking Noble?”
“Everett!” Heather shrieks from the kitchen doorway. “Watch your mouth.”
Mulholland ignores her, but when Valencia snaps, “Lower your voice,” he seems to calm somewhat. He reaches for her, soIreach forhim, but Valencia neatly sidesteps his touch and blocks me from grabbing him.
“Whatever you have to say to me, Everett, you can do it in private.” Her tone is prim and professional, and I can suddenly imagine her in court.
“Fine.” He appears to be grinding his teeth as he stomps down a hallway with Valencia two paces behind him.
