Everything starts off quite tame. She's on one side of the table and Seth and I are on the other. There's silence but for the sweet jazz of Christmas carols floating around us. Sam is painting her cookies and then slapping them together to make sandwiches. I can tell Seth is itching to say something but he holds it in. Truth is, she's going through the icing so fast that there won't be enough for all the cookies.

I can feel Seth glancing in my direction every few seconds and I wonder what he's thinking. Does he think I'm judging his life? Hating his mom? Aching for tonight to end? I shoot him a reassuring smile, hoping he understands that the only feeling I'm experiencing right now is fascination... and maybe a little bit of frustration that she stumbled in here and popped the warm Christmas spirit that had been drifting around us.

I want to go back to his arms around me, the music and swaying, the timeless embraces. Instead, my eyes keep flicking from my cookie to the woman across from me, waiting for her to pass out. She's barely holding herself upright. Her body is slumped over her cookie, a lazy arm reaching her knife into the icing and sloppily slamming it onto her cookie.

A grin tugs my lips and I glance at Seth. His eyes are on his mom too, but there's no humor on his face. Instead, I see shame? Disbelief? Almost like he's seeing her for the first time from another person's perspective. He wants to know how I view her and apparently, the way he thinks I see her is absolutely revolting.

Sliding a hand beneath the table, I find his thigh and give it an encouraging squeeze. His eyes drop to his lap, watching the action before lifting to meet mine. A grateful smile tilts his lips as he looks at me and then he nods. It's subtle, but it's his way of telling me he understand how this all must seem to me and he appreciates my willingness to just go with it. At least, that's how I interpret the nod.

He drops his hand to his lap, giving my hand one quick squeeze before returning to his task of making the most outrageous Christmas tree known to man. I'm not sure if he's aiming for ugly, but the blobs of green and red, piles of sprinkles and strips of icing—meant to be strung lights—prove that his creativity is limited to movie-making only.

"Don't judge," he mutters, not glancing up from his work of art.

"I mean... how could I not?"

He chuckles, eyes sliding sideways to look at my sweater-shaped cookie. "Yours looks like the ugly sweater you wore to the party."

"Good," I clap, "that's exactly what I was going for!"

He tilts his head sideways, lips pinched to the side as he lifts a single shoulder. "Looks like you nailed it."

"This will be the only time you'll get away with calling my creations 'ugly' by the way," I tell him, mixing blue and red icing to make a dark purple.

"Not the only ugly thing here," a raspy voice mutters beneath alcohol-tainted breath.

"Maybe cookie decorating is your calling," Seth says, smoothly ignoring his mom's insult. I, on the other hand, am having a hard time holding my amusement behind my lips. I know her comment was directed at me but something about the way it was delivered was perfectly offensive. This will probably be the only moment in history where she's managed to earn a smidge of respect from me.

"You think?" I ask, picking up my cookie and giving it a once-over before setting it on the tray of finished cookies.

Noting the red is almost gone, I reach for the bowl to start mixing up a new batch when something snaps across my fingers. I glance down to find Sam watching me, her butter knife hovering over my fingers where she's just slapped it across my knuckles. I jerk my hand away, waving it in the air to diminish the sting.

"Mom!" Seth's voice is hard, like he can't believe his mom just hit me. He stands and yanks the knife from his mom's fisted hand. "What is wrong with you?"

"I wasn't done," she grumbles, standing up and making her way to the kitchen counter where she throws back another gulp of her precious liquid before tucking the bottle in the crook of her arm. Sitting back down, she resumes her cookie-decorating, using her fingers to paint on color now that her knife is gone.

"I was going to make more," I explain to her, glancing quickly at Seth. He's abandoned his decorating and now sits, eyes carefully watching every movement his mother makes.

"Shut up." The snarl of pure disgust sounds demonic coming from the small woman's thin lips. She doesn't look at me, but the hatred tied around her words is undeniable. "You wanna take my boy from me?" she sneers, abruptly standing and leaning across the table toward me. "Fine." Her eyes dance over my face, daring. "But give me back my knife."

Her tone is ice, eyes wild and unfocused as she examines me, looking for a reaction. I probably should be a little scared. I'm not sure if that was a threat, but I can't help but believe it was. And yet, I can't keep myself from smacking a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. Something about her anger mixed with her fragility is making this too much for me. She just told me to watch my back, and I'm laughing.

"That's enough." Seth stands, rounding the table and curling his fingers around her upper arm. "You're done here."

"Touch me, boy, and I will kill her."

Had I questioned her earlier threat before, I certainly don't now. Her eyes are fire, searing me to my seat. There are promises of death hidden behind her blue eyes—eyes far too similar to my own than I'd like to admit.

Seth disregards her words, reaching to haul her from her seat, but he's not prepared for her wiry fingers as they lash across his face. He jolts backward, stunned, which gives her the opportunity to lunge from her chair. Cookies topple to the floor and pans clatter after them as she slams into the edge of the table, hands sliding across the surface as she stumbles, trying to catch herself. A bowl of icing falls to the floor, shattering just as her foot descends onto the shards. She's unfazed and doesn't even wince as glass presses into her feet as she continues to round the table, coming toward me.

I've already scooted as far back as possible, my chair pressed up against the wall behind me as she draws nearer. My arms are up, humor gone, as I ready to fight her when suddenly she's yanked backward. Limbs are flailing, a screech of desperation breaking through her dry lips as I watch in stunned silence. Everything happened so fast. From her lunging for me to Seth flinging her over his shoulder and hauling her away must have been mere seconds, but it felt like my life was dangling in front of me for ages.

I don't move for several seconds, my mind swirling as I stare at the place Seth's mom was ripped from. There are streaks of red icing across the table where her fingers clung as Seth dragged her away, and crumbs litter the entire crime scene. There are even a few, very real, droplets of blood that lead a trail out of the kitchen. For a moment, I wonder how wounded she is. How deep did the glass go? The vengeful side of me hopes she's bleeding out, writhing in complete misery.

Blinking away my evil thoughts, I let reality settle around me. There's a stillness in this home that wasn't present before. Even with the jolly tune of 'It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas' dancing around the room, there's a ghostly chill in this place. I realize as I glance around that I'm an imposter here. I don't belong in Seth's past.

Slowly, I stand, finding the garbage can and pulling it toward the table. As I sweep crumbs into it, my mind goes quiet. I got a glimpse of Seth's childhood tonight and I'm suddenly awake. As I try to clean, I also try to block out the truth. I've just bent down to start picking up shards of glass when the reality of all of what happened hits me.

It begins as a clenching in my stomach, an uncontrollable need to express an emotion I'm not sure how to even describe. Shock? Fear? I don't know, but somehow, the indescribability of the moment causes me to crack and a chuckle bubbles from my lips. I try to keep cleaning but my arms grow weak as hilarity begins simmering until it can't be contained. The laughter pours from me like a rag being rung dry. It's a pitiful laugh, my attempt at pivoting this scenario into something worth laughing about.

I feel Seth's presence before I see him. His feet near me and then I see him bend down and pick up the chair his mom had kicked over in her desperate attempts to get to me. He sits down, seemingly exhausted. My laughter slows and I peer up at him. His hands are over his face as he groans into his fingers and I find myself pushing up onto my knees and shuffling toward him.

"I'm so sorry," he mutters, shaking his head as he lets his hands drop away.

I'm about to shake away his apology when I catch sight of his face.

"Seth!" I gasp, moving closer and grabbing his jaw so I can turn his face in my direction. "My goodness, she got you good."

A hum of confusion leaves his lips as he reaches toward his face. His fingers are red when he pulls them away, and it's not from the icing. He just lets his hand drop back to his lap, unperturbed by his injury.

I stand, searching drawers for a cloth and then wetting it before returning to Seth. I pull his face toward me again as I dab at his wound. It's not that bad, really, but the fact that his own mother was the culprit makes my stomach churn with bitter disbelief. I can't imagine growing up in a home like this.

Watching Seth's eyes as he stares across the room, I find myself picturing him as a young boy. Was he scared most of the time? Was the majority of his childhood spent hiding and avoiding his mother? Was she ever good to him?

"She wasn't always like this," he mutters, his eyes sliding to meet mine as he begins to answer my internal thoughts. "It used to be just alcohol, and even that was only socially. Before the drugs and the drunkenness, she was just a lazy, careless mom. She wouldn't hurt anyone and she was never aggressive. She was just selfish. Now," he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhausted, "she's a selfish drunk meth addict. Pretty much the worst combination of human."

I don't say anything, dropping the rag on the table and standing to search the cabinets for a first aid kit. Instead, I find a small tote filled with bandages and surgical tape. No bandaids. Seems a bandaid isn't good enough for the types of injuries that occur in this home. I shudder, wondering what kinds of violence has taken place here. What violence has Seth's body endured?

I manage to tear enough bandage to fold into a small square, and then lean down to tape it onto the bloody fingernail imprints across Seth's cheek. His eyes follow my movements and then shift to mine as I patch him up.

"I'm sorry." It's me apologizing this time. Not that I feel guilty for anything, but because I hate that this was his life. That a man with such a pure heart had to live such a filthy life. "You didn't deserve this."

He shakes his head, his hand sliding over mine where it's working to secure the tape to his face. I stop my task, letting my hand go still beneath his.

"It's okay," he assures me. "Maybe you can keep showing me what a real family looks like now."

"Definitely." I smile, letting him release my hand as we both drop our arms away from each other.

"But," he adds. "For now, I think it might be best if you and your family go home."

Somehow, I knew that's what he would suggest. He wants to protect me from his life so much that he'd shoo us away and take the brunt of his mother's craziness alone. I don't think so.

"No."

Seth's eyes flash across my face, brows dipping at my non-negotiable tone.

"No," I repeat, shrugging. "I'm staying right here. With you. Don't you dare try to change my mind. I'm not leaving you with Psycho Sam for even two minutes." I lift a finger and jab it into his chest with each word as I say, "You. Are. Stuck. With. Me."

I gentle smile spreads across his lips and he nods once. "Fine. I'm stuck with you."

And though being 'stuck' with someone never sounds like a positive situation, the look on Seth's face reflects his gratefulness. If he has to be stuck with anyone, it seems he doesn't mind the idea of it with me.

———

We salvage as many cookies as possible and then toss the scraps into the trash. The cookie decorating has come to an end. Seems neither of us is quite in the mood anymore. So, instead, I offer to make some hot chocolate... except his uncle has almost nothing in his pantry cabinets. So, instead, I make tea.

I'm just finishing up when the front door opens and my family saunters in. They've got bags and bags of stuff, which I'm not surprised about, but when I spot my dad in the back pulling a Christmas tree behind him I feel a tug of excitement. With Seth's mom passed out upstairs, the five of us are free to decorate in peace.

Apparently, Seth's mom had cut her foot on the broken glass earlier, but it was minor and he managed to patch her up easily. Now that the drugs are starting to wear off, he thinks she'll manage to sleep until morning. Thank goodness.

We get the tree set up, munching on cookies and Cinnabons as we string lights and hang ornaments. Few questions are asked regarding Seth's patched-up face, but I think enough information is given to keep them from asking any more questions. Instead, we slide into an evening of ignorant bliss. There's no danger lurking now, no threat of crazy attacks from bitter mothers. I've grateful for this moment. This evening could have marked a terrible memory for us, but it feels like this has helped to overshadow his mom's incident.

We'll go to bed tonight and remember what happened, but this—the music and laughter and warmth—will intermingle itself with the dreaded cookie incident and soften the repugnance of it all. Like marrying color with darkness, you create depth and life—authenticity. His mom's animalistic sneer will be seared into my memory, but stripes of colorful laughter and joy will give tonight a beauty that wouldn't have existed otherwise.

My mom is just finishing up making the egg nog when the front door bursts open and a well-built, gold-necklace wearing man enters. He freezes, eyes scanning the newly decorated room before he reaches a hand behind him, blindly finding the door and shoving it closed. Narrowed eyes beneath sharp brows swing from one person to the next and a low, guttural curse leaves his lips.

"You fools have thirty seconds to get the he—"

"Uncle Hank," Seth warns, stepping through the kitchen and heading toward his uncle. "You don't have to worry about them. They're friends. Just here for Christmas."

"What have your friends done to my home?"

Seth chuckles, turning to survey the abundance of lights and vibrance. "As far as I can see, they've improved it."

Hank's brows dip, a calm fury humming underneath his skin.

"Don't worry," Seth says, as if sensing his uncle's rage. "We'll have it all cleaned up after Christmas. Care for some egg nog?"

The older man just grunts in disgust, eyes lingering over each person standing frozen in his living room. Then he pulls his coat off, flings it onto the couch, and marches upstairs. I watch until he disappears and then turn to Seth only to find that he's already headed back into the kitchen, unbothered by his uncle's behavior.

For another hour, we sip our drinks between dancing and decorating, and by the time we're done, the entire downstairs has been transformed. We're going to give Sam and her brother the most epic, magical Christmas they've ever had. Only, we're not prepared for what they have planned.

Seems we'll be the ones surprised with an epic Christmas, only, this one will lack even an inkling of magic.

---

The next two chapters are my favorite ones! They took me ages to write with so much deleting and rewriting. I thought they'd turn out horrible. But... somehow they came together. It's gonna be a huge part of the story and I'm SOOO excited to post them (tomorrow, I hope). :D