26 | maxine minx

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | MAXINE MINX

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After all this time, I've grown accustomed to the feeling of my world crumbling from under me, the ground cracking open beneath my feet to swallow me whole. It's a sensation I know all too well, to the point I should no longer give it an opening to leave me feeling nearly as shipwrecked as it does, but it catches me in an ah-ha! moment every single time.

I stare back at my mom, silently urging her to say something—anything—or to correct herself, to tell me she was just joking, because there's no way she'd ever tell that to Xavier. Even if she had, God forbid, Xavier was too assertive, too sure of himself to let her boss him around, especially when it came to something like that; besides, if that were true, he would've told me ages ago.

Right? Right?

As I stare at her in disbelief, as quiet as if someone had ripped my tongue out of my mouth, I find myself wondering if this is what Xavier meant when he told me I didn't know the full story. If this is it, if all of my frustration has been thanks to an order coming from my own mother, then I've been directing all those negative emotions towards the wrong place, the wrong person. Part of me still wants so desperately to believe that Xavier is stronger than that, more than capable of deciding for himself whether or not he wants to fly home for me, for Emma, for Zach, but I also know my mom.

She can be a lot of things, but she's never been a liar. She's honest to a fault, bordering on blunt, so I'm inclined to believe her, regardless of how badly it makes my heart ache. It could very well be served on a silver platter for Christmas dinner at this point.

"Why?" I ask her, my revising completely tossed aside. My voice is even weaker than before, slowly shrinking until it's no longer noticeable, no longer audible. It may be for the best. "Why did you say that to him?"

The main question I want to ask her is why she did that to me, but I'm a dirty coward and would never have the courage to say that aloud. All I can do is hope the message gets across, but I've been doing a whole lot of hoping these days only for things to not work out quite how I want them to.

She deflates, still not looking at me, and my brain is so desperate to understand that it almost tricks me into thinking I've offended her with these two small questions. I know I haven't—realistically, I know that—but it's not often that the realistic part of my mind wins over my emotional one. These emotions are brewing, boiling, and I feel like I've been skinned for the whole world to witness.

"You had already been through enough," she explains, like that's something I understand. Whatever suffering I went through, a lot of it could've at least been mitigated temporarily if Xavier had been there—I'm sure of it. She understands a lot of things, but this is something that's beyond her comprehension. "I didn't want you to stress over him coming back out of the blue only to disappear again. If he wanted to be there, then he would've had to stay there for longer, but of course he wouldn't do that."

The rational part of my brain knows I can't let my anger win this battle, hyper aware that if I do I'll end up saying something I'll regret, something that will hurt her feelings, and I've already asked far too much from her.

I wonder if this is part of the universal Final Girl experience—constantly worrying whether you're asking too much from the people around you (at least those who survived), worrying if they resent you for sacrificing so much for your sake, and pushing people away because of that and because you want to prevent it from happening. I wonder if that's my fate, like it has been for so many of them; cursed by the inability to properly trust people, including those closest to them, they isolate themselves so they won't be a burden.

"That wasn't up to you to decide," I say, still feeling like there's something clogging my throat. My voice comes out weird, so shaky it sounds like I'm on the verge of tears—which I am, but that's not a novelty—and I know it will work against me. I don't want to appeal to my mom's emotional side, as it sounds manipulative and I'm far too self-conscious to allow myself to do something like that, but I can hardly control my emotions. "You don't get to choose that in his place. You don't get to choose that in my place, for that matter. You knew I wanted him there; I've been agonizing over it for months now, not shutting up about it in therapy, and it has all been for nothing."

Her face hardens. "It hasn't been for nothing. I thought therapy was helping you."

"It only helps if I'm being honest with my therapist, which apparently I haven't been considering I've had the entire story backwards. I've been mad at Xavier this whole time, resenting my own brother and believing he resented me back, only for you to tell me you've been the mastermind this whole time."

Mom straightens her shoulders, fully entering serious Mom mode, and my first instinct is to shrink back into a child-size bite. It's far easier to live in a world when you don't take up space, when people are willing to forgive you even for the worst things you do because you're that insignificant.

"You were heartbroken when he first left," she reminds me, still keeping her tone steady, but there's something different about it now, something I can't quite identify. I can't tell if I like it or not, finding it hard to properly identify any signs of condescension, even though I'm usually good at picking up on those. Usually. "I'm not sure you remember the state you were in, constantly asking about Xavier, constantly trying to reach out to him, and we didn't know what to do. We didn't know how to help you, because he wouldn't talk to us, either, and we were getting a bit desperate. It was bad enough losing one child; we couldn't afford to lose you too."

I do remember this, all the sulking and moping around the house I did as I attempted to find any answers about Xavier's departure. I came up with several explanations, each of them more ridiculous than the previous one, and didn't know how to not blame myself for it—certainly it'd had something to do with me, the center of everyone's lives.

It went on for weeks, maybe months, until one day I realized it was too draining, too painful to even try to understand something that was clearly beyond my understanding, and I gave up. We stopped mentioning Xavier and anything that had anything to do with him, effectively turning my own brother into the family's one taboo topic at the time, and it became the new normal. It was easier that way, pretending he wasn't even part of the family so we wouldn't have to accept whatever responsibility we'd had.

"None of that makes any of this okay," I point out. She reaches out for me and, though I try to escape, she doesn't let me. "If he wanted to be there, you should've let him, regardless of how I was feeling years ago. All of it wouldn't have mattered anymore if I'd had someone standing next to me at the funerals, but it was just me and my dead friends."

Her eyes well up with tears, and I no longer find the energy to try and run away from her. "Wendy, what I'm trying to say is that I couldn't let you go through the same thing again. I couldn't let you have to watch him leave again after being so close to you, especially when you were in such a fragile state. I don't expect you to agree with me, or to think I know what's best for you, but you weren't in the right state of mind to make any calls. You're overestimating—"

"No, you are underestimating me. I'd just gone through the absolute worst night of my life, and then I couldn't even move on. I had to be there by myself, deliver a half assed speech that I fumbled while looking all those people in the eye—Emma's parents, Zach's parents. I saw the way they were looking at me, like they couldn't understand why I had been the one to make it out alive." She visibly shudders. "I would have given anything to have Xavier there, even if he had to leave right after. I would have given anything to hear his voice, to have him support me, but instead all I got was radio silence up until the day you showed up unannounced and made yet another decision on my behalf. Luckily, that one worked out well in the end, but what if it hadn't? How am I supposed to talk to him now? How do I fix this?"

She exhales, lowering her head. "You know, if he truly wanted to be there, he would've flown to Chicago regardless of what I said."

Fury boils in my bloodstream. She always does this—she always attempts to diffuse responsibility, to deflect the blame. "You don't get to pin this on him. You just said it was your decision."

"I'm trying to say he was putting you first when he decided not to come. If he truly thought his presence would be helpful to you in any way, he would've been there. You know your brother; when was the last time he listened to anyone but himself?" We both glance at the archway, but no one appears. I keep waiting for a figure to show up there from the corner of my eye, lurking in a dark corner. "I won't apologize for putting you first, Wendy. You can be mad at me all you want, but all I've done has always been for you."

"I didn't ask you to do that for me."

"That's the thing about being a parent. Your kids don't have to ask you to protect them." She gracefully rises from her seat, sliding her arms back inside the sleeves of her faux fur coat. "I hope one day you'll see that."

I don't lose her. Not really. I don't think she loses me, either, regardless of how unnecessarily dramatic all of that sounds.

She does, however, lose a piece of my trust, whatever it means to her. All the while, I sit there in front of everything I need to revise, wondering how in the world I'm supposed to talk to Xavier now.

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I don't ruin Christmas for my family and Roberto. I'm not nearly that childish or self-centered—and my crippling self-criticism is the MVP of this game—so I manage to keep my resentment in check, even though I'm barely speaking to my mom and still find it way too awkward to reach out to Xavier for support. Dad arriving the day before Christmas Eve makes it somewhat more bearable, but I'm certain he'll know something's up if I cling to him like a child in desperate need of the Good Parent.

I'm not petty to the point of following him around the house like a puppy on the morning of Christmas Eve just to prove a point to my mom, but I also don't have anywhere else to turn. Even when Xavier lets me know Clara and Betty will be having dinner with us, thanks to their parents getting stranded in Maine thanks to a blizzard, I still have a hard time relaxing and enjoying the festivities.

"At least pretend you're having fun," he tells me, stuffing a Santa Claus hat with white braids down my head. It's large, easily sliding down to cover my eyes. "I don't know why you've been so moody all month, but knock it down a peg just for tonight. Finals season is over, it's snowing outside—"

"—it's always snowing outside," I point out.

"—and both Mom and Dad are here. Today's not the right day for drama."

It's never the right day for drama, but the fact that I'm having to bite my tongue about why I'm upset is very telling. I don't have it in me to risk ruining Christmas for him as well, especially when it's about a development in the argument we've been having ever since I first came to Alaska, but I don't know how much more time I can spend holding it in.

The heartbreaking thing about betrayal is that it always comes from someone you trust—or used to trust, at least. It might be dramatic of me to be so worried about this, so heartbroken over something my mom failed to disclose when she should, but I can't shake off the thought that she did it simply because she didn't trust me to be able to handle it. After surviving Camp Comet, I expected people to not underestimate me, to believe I'm stronger than I look, but my own mom refused to do it. If she doesn't believe in me, why should anyone else? Why should I?

"I'm sorry," I tell him, pulling up the Santa hat. "It's been rough."

"I know. Want to help out in the kitchen?"

"Really? This is something you're trusting me with?"

"Wendy, it's Christmas dinner. It's not dinner with the President."

I'd much rather be having dinner with the President, but he doesn't need to know that.

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We're hosting a Christmas buffet, presenting the guests with an unbelievable variety in dishes to ensure everyone will have something they like at their disposal, which also involves a lot more work in the kitchen. I'm not the best cook, even with all his guidance, and the thought of messing anything up today, out of all days, sends shivers down my spine.

Xavier has me work on the hummus bowl as a starting point, to assess just what I'm comfortable with in the kitchen.

Hummus doesn't take much effort, but it's easy to ruin its taste and texture, so he measures the ingredients beforehand—something I don't trust my tastebuds with—and all I have to do is use the food processor, maybe add some water if it's too thick. I succeed, pride spreading across my chest in warm waves, and even mentally pat myself on the back for not screwing up such a simple task as I cover the bowl with plastic wrap and store it in the fridge. I won't have to fry the remaining chickpeas until later, when it's close to serving time, but I'm afraid there won't be space for the pan when the time comes; after all, there are much more important dishes.

"I can do it now, but they'll be cold by serving time," I point out, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.

"It should only take five minutes, tops, so you can do it then," Xavier replies, keeping his back turned to me as he works on the Roquefort and spinach tart. "If it's right before serving time, you'll have room. That's the thing about buffets; everything has to be served by the time people start eating."

"Shouldn't we have gotten started on everything earlier, then?"

He sighs. "No."

I release my bottom lip from my teeth's grip once it starts aching and swelling up like a balloon. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." He finally turns around, stepping away from the early stages of the tart, and checks the list he keeps glued to the kitchen cabinet next to him. "Why don't you start working on the filo straws since we're both working with cheese? You'll need to make the spicy yogurt dip yourself, though; I'm in the weeds over here."

I frown, having convinced myself I'm more of a nuisance than proper help in the kitchen—and he should definitely have asked Clara for help instead of me—but still make my way towards the fridge. "Which cheese should I get for the filling? Feta?"

"And soft cheese, please. That's one of Clara's favorite entrées from the menu."

I stop right in my tracks, already holding the feta and the soft cheese container. "Shouldn't you be the one handling these, then? I'm really scared I'll mess them up."

"You won't. That's why I asked you to make them. Now go." He ushers me to move out of his way, squeezing past me to check on the oven, where the salmon gratin has been baking for the past thirty minutes. "We still have a lot of work to do. No distractions, remember?"

I inhale sharply, straightening my shoulders. "No distractions."

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merry crimmas