Christmas morning at the Brewster house is picture-perfect. My mother’s decorator outdid herself this year, although I think that every year.

This year’s theme is silver and white, so I put on a dark blue silk blouse and white wool pants.

Picture-perfect. Actually perfect would be pyjamas until noon and unlimited buttery toast.

One does not eat buttery toast in dark blue silk. Or anywhere in the Brewster house, for that matter.

We do have unlimited mimosas, though. That’s something.

I find my mother in the enormous eat-in kitchen, glass in hand. Excellent idea. I pour myself a drink from the fruit juice bar, top it up with champagne, and take a seat at the table. “Merry Christmas,” I say, holding up my glass.

She gives me a warning look, like she knows I’m just waiting for my father to come downstairs so I can launch back into my argument with him. I’m not sure how she can anticipate that—I’ve never been fired up to fight with him in the past.

But she is my mother. Maybe she can sense that everything in my life is shifting.

New opportunities.

New friendship.

New passion.

This isn’t about Tate. He invades where he doesn’t belong, like my churning thoughts about what to do when I graduate.

I take a big swig of champagne and orange juice, wishing it were buttery toast instead.

“Your brothers will be here soon,” she says, steering the conversation where she wants it go.

“What are we having for breakfast?” Besides booze.

“Your father requested crepes.”

“Carbs? It’s a Christmas miracle.”

She laughs, and it’s a genuine, warm sound. “And worth it to see that look on your face, my darling.”

I wink at her, and that’s when my father walks in. He kisses my mother, then goes to the mimosa bar. “What did you make, sweetheart?”

Oh, so we’re pet-naming me this morning. “The classic. OJ and champagne in equal parts.” Maybe not equal. I swallow another sip to be sure. Definitely more bubbly. Oops. “Mom says you want pancakes for breakfast.”

She tuts at me. “I said crepes.”

“I know, but I’m betting a shiny loonie that Dad asked for pancakes and crepes was your compromise.”

He laughs, and I think for a second that we’ve done it, we’ve successfully navigated the start to a lighthearted morning. Except then he crosses his arms and pins me with a glare. “Sasha, I’ve been thinking.”

I groan. “No. No thinking. It’s Christmas morning. We’re doing pancakes—”

“Crepes,” my mother interjects.

“And presents, and then I’m flying back to Ottawa.”

His mouth tightens. “To be with the hockey player?”

You could hear a pin drop in my parents’ kitchen right now. I’m staring at my father, my mother is staring at me, and the skin around his mouth has turned white.

What the ever-loving hell? “Excuse me?”

I rise from the table, glass in hand, because I might need more booze for this conversation, but before my dad can answer, the house is filled with the noisy arrival of my brothers, who probably stayed out late partying with their friends, but manage to look pulled together enough that my mother will take a formal family picture of us in front of the fireplace and post it on—

Instagram.

My mother loves Instagram.

Fucking hell.

I give her a wide-eyed, jaw-clenched glare, and she waves her hand. “Oh, Sasha.”

“Don’t Oh, Sasha me, Mom! What did you tell him?” I turn back to my father, ignoring the greetings from my brothers. “Who I spend time with is none of your business. I am a grown-up.”

“Who is using my private plane to fly around the province. We’ve been through this once. I won’t do it again.”

“This is—” My cheeks are on fire. This isn’t anything like my past. Tate isn’t anything like Brian. But more importantly, this is so not how I wanted my parents to find out about…whatever it is I’m doing with Tate. If I ever wanted them to find out, which is probably no, not ever. “I’m sorry that I asked, then. I should have bought a ticket. I bet I still can. Did you know that Christmas Day is not a very busy travel day? Christmas Eve and Boxing Day have it beat. So yeah, I’ll just—”

“Sit down, young lady.”

Wow, from sweetheart to young lady in four sentences. That has to be a record, and I haven’t even broken any laws.

To my immense shame, I sit down.

Way to be a fucking grown-up, Sasha.

“Boys, go help your mother with the pancakes.”

“Crepes,” my mother and I say at the same time.

My father doesn’t blink.

They head around the island, and my dad moves to sit across from me, but he stops just as he pulls out the chair. “Come with me. We’ll talk in my study.”

I roll my eyes, but I follow him. That, right there, is my relationship with my father in a nutshell.

He sits in an armchair in front of his fireplace, so I flop out on the couch.

He steeples his hands together.

I wait.

This is his circus, he gets to direct it. I’m already composing an apology text to Tate in my head, because I’m going to have to hitchhike back to Ottawa.

“Last night,” my father finally says slowly, as if he’s picking and choosing his words carefully. “You made it clear to me that you will not be returning to Toronto any time soon.”

Ever, but I maybe wasn’t crystal clear on that point. “That’s correct.”

“And I was under the mistaken impression that it was because of your academic studies.”

“It is.”

“But your mother has since informed me that you are once again tangled up with an…athlete.”

He says it like other fathers might say drug dealer or homeless man. I’m not sure my father would object to me dating a drug dealer if he was wildly successful. And assuming the homeless guy wouldn’t have a significant social media following or any reason to be in the news, he’d probably be fine with that, too.

A man with no fixed address would be preferable to Tate.

That’s the Brewster way.

I would have agreed with him a few months ago, but things have changed.

“I wouldn’t say I’m tangled up with anyone,” I counter. “I have a friend. His name is Tate. We have mutual friends, and once—once—I appeared on his Instagram page with him. It’s a silly, simple story. I am not going to be publicly dating him or anything like that.”

A pang pulls tight in my chest as I say that. That’s not fair to Tate, but it’s the reality of my life.

“We sorted all of that out once. It will be hard to do that again, and salvage your reputation.” He frowns at me, as if I don’t already know that.

“That was a long time ago,” I say softly, trying not to get emotional. “And I was active in my own career rehabilitation, if you’ll recall. I have no desire to be in the public eye.”

“It’s not good for your long term aspirations.”

I don’t know about that. Do people care if university professors or private investors have hockey player boyfriends? I know the shareholders of Brewster Industries don’t like it, but—

Right.

I’ve been putting this off for too long.

“Dad,” I say, standing up. I resist the urge to take a big swig of wine, lest he think I’m only saying this because I’m tipsy. “I don’t ever want to be the CEO of Brewster Industries. I don’t want to move back here, not in the near future, and not ever. I am grateful for every opportunity you and Mom have ever given me, but my future is my own.”

He laughs.

I lay my heart out there, and he laughs.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you think you are, young—”

“No. I’m twenty-seven years old. I am not a young lady. I’m not even a lady. I’m screwing a hockey player.” I wave my glass in the air. Damn, I might be a little tipsy. “And you know what? It’s a secret. It’s going to stay a secret, and that’s kind of stupid, really, because there’s no reason for it, except for the repressed, socially restrictive rules you’ve taught me. So… there. I’m serious, and we’re done here. It’s Christmas morning and we need to go pretend crepes are pancakes, so let’s pretend this just didn’t happen. You can call me tomorrow and tell me then how wrong I am.”

He doesn’t follow me, so instead of going straight to the kitchen, I detour upstairs to call Tate. He answers on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Can you talk right now?”

“For sure. Give me two secs—Okay, I’m alone now. What’s wrong?”

My face crumples, but I don’t cry. Not necessary. I twist my expression until it’s more of a grimace, and I sigh. “I had another go with my father. I may have told him I’m screwing you.”

“Wow. That’s a level of sharing I didn’t think happened in the Brewster house.”

“It’s not.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.” I wince. “I may have crossed the line into total bitch.”

“He probably deserved it.”

“He definitely did. But I still regret how I handled it.”

“Bitches get shit done and have healthy boundaries.”

I close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. “Right. I know that.”

“But you aren’t a bitch, Sash. You’re tough. You’re strong. And you’re amazing. I know you know that.”

I laugh under my breath. “We all know there’s nothing wrong with my ego.”

“But all egos have soft spots.”

And my father knows exactly where to poke. “Mm-hmm. So, anyway, I don’t know if I’ll have the plane to come home.”

He laughs gently. “That’s okay. Do you want me to come get you?”

“It’s a four-hour drive, and it’s snowing out.”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

I rub my chest. “I know. No, I’ll try to book a commercial flight, it’s fine. I have to go and choke down crepes now.”

“Update me as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

I take a few deep breaths, check my makeup in the mirror, and head back downstairs.

My father is waiting in the hallway for me. I give him a guarded look.

“That was quite the outburst,” he says, rushing to continue before I can say anything snippy in response. “But I hear you. All except for the bit about the hockey player. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Okay.”

“We only want what’s best for you, Sasha.”

And having me drunkenly flashing the media with my bright orange panties is not it. Having a famous boyfriend cop a feel at the same time was the icing on the inappropriate cake. “We have different ideas of what that is. But I think we agree on what isn’t best for me.”

He gives me a grim smile. Great. Now we’re both remembering my orange panties. This is the worst Christmas ever.