it’s one of those traditions that were taken for granted in another lifetime – once upon a time, warm los angeles winters meant jen had to clean her room from top to bottom and make space to share with her little cousin. she’d be shaking dust from a rug on the front porch when the banners arrived, and she and bruce would chase each other around the house for at least three days before the new year while the grown-ups cooked. then, on the first day of the year, a huge dinner according to her grandparents’ specifications; the ridge family would come over from next door, the kids would play games and compare their otoshidama. it shifted and faded over the years, like so many traditions: bruce would come with only his mother, then with aunt susan, and when jen's mother was lost, everything seemed to fall apart.
it was only seven or eight years ago, during one of bruce’s rare good times, that they had the idea to get together for new year again. it’s like she blinked, and suddenly a big family has become nothing more than the two of them, more distant now, and almost as old as their parents were.
but really, that’s not true. jen hangs back in her kitchen, listening to betty’s laugh in the dining room and lyra’s confused response, and a soft smile lightens her features. they’ve lost a lot, but they’re far from alone. she slips past ben and steps out into the living room in search of one particular guest, a glass of wine in one hand and a small envelope in the other; it’s hard to think about loss without thinking about amadeus. she can’t say she knows the whole story, but what she knows is enough to make her check on him when holidays come around.
when she finds him, her smile widens and she sits down next to him, giving him a playful shove. “ hey there, chulkie, ” she teases. can’t help but try to embarrass him a little. “ how’s it going? did you get enough to eat? ”