"Santana?"

I watched Brittany climb the stairs to her room before turning back to her mother, who was stirring heavy, rich mushroom soup on the stove. "Hm?"

"Does Brittany still believe in Santa?"

"What?"

"I mean, we don't think she does, but every once in a while she'll say something and we can't tell if she's being serious or not."

"I…" I trailed off. She was right. "I'm not sure."

"Annabelle's getting too old for the charade, but I don't want to completely ruin Brittany's Christmas if she's still innocent about it all."

I smirked. I didn't think "innocent" and "Brittany" really went together. Sure, she could be naïve at times, but that girl was no innocent. "Um, Betty, I know it's not usually a problem, but I just wanted to check… it's cool if I spend tonight with you guys, right?"

She smiled. "Of course. We love having you here on Christmas Eve." She looked like she had more to say, but she didn't open her mouth again.

Brittany bounded back down the stairs and grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. "Hi!"

I smiled. "Hi, mi estrellita," I said softly, loving that her mom only understood the most basic Sesame-Street Spanish.

"Let's go sit by the tree," Brittany said. "It's so pretty."

"Don't forget your eggnog," Brittany's mother pulled a carton out of the fridge. "Santana, can you watch the soup for a minute? I have to run to the bathroom."

I took the spoon. Brittany wrinkled her nose at the eggnog but grabbed two glass mugs out of the cabinet. They had tiny Christmas trees and presents on them, most of the color gone from multiple dishwasher cycles. I laughed. "Britt, you don't have to drink it if you hate it."

"It's tradition," she said.

"We could…" I started, but she was already bent over by the liquor cabinet. "Great minds," I grinned when she pulled out the Bacardi.

"I only have one mind, San," she said as she poured a hefty amount into each glass and topped it off with a disproportionate amount of eggnog.

"It's a saying, B. 'Great minds think alike.' Like, I was thinking the same thing."

"Why not just say so."

I shook my head. "Cheers," I lifted my glass and we each downed a bit. I coughed a little. "Shit, Captain Morgan. You put enough in there?"

"You want more?"

"No. Well, yes—but no. Your mom will definitely notice."

When Mrs. P took over the soup again, Britt pulled me to the living room with our glasses. The warm lights of the Christmas tree glowed beautifully on her face. She rested her head on my shoulder and sipped her drink. I kissed the top of her head and looked out the window into the dark back yard. "You think it's snowing tonight?" I asked.

"Can't tell," she said. "San."

"Yeah?"

"Sing me a song."

I chuckled. "No way."

"Sing me a Christmas song."

"I'm not going to sing you a song, B. That's gay."

She snorted. "Yeah, okay."

Annabelle burst in the front door, followed closely by Mr. Pierce carrying his daughter's figure skates. She twirled around the island in the kitchen. "That smells gross," she said of her mother's soup.

"You love it," Mrs. Pierce said. "You say that every year, but you love it."

"Why aren't you playing Christmas music?" Mr. Pierce said, immediately turning on the stereo. His Christmas mixes, which were the only things allowed to occupy the CD player from Black Friday through December 25th, were pretty decent for the most part. I grinned at the opening bars of my favorite song from Elf. I glanced at Brittany, who was smiling knowingly at me.

"No."

"I know you're going to."

"Nope."

"You can't resist Zooey Deschanel," Britt giggled over the top of her glass.

I narrowed my eyes playfully at her. "Fine. But only because it's Christmas Eve," I mumbled. "The neighbors might think—"

"Baby, it's bad out there," B sang.

"Say, what's in this drink?"

"No cabs to be had out there."

"I wish I knew how—"

"Your eyes are like starlight."

"—to break the spell."

"I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell."

"I ought to say no, no, no, sir."

"Mind if I move closer?"

"At least I'm gonna say that I tried."

"What's the sense in hurting my pride?"

"I really can't stay."

"Baby don't hold out."

"Ahh, but it's cold outside," we finished together, laughing and clinking our mugs before downing a mouthful each.

Annabelle poked her head over the back of the couch between us. "You guys are so…" I watched all the words flying behind her eyes as they darted between Britt's face and mine. She finally settled on, "Weird." She sniffed and pulled a face. "What are you drinking? Your breath smells funny."

"Eggnog," we both said, maybe a little too quickly. Damnit. How old were we?

Mrs. Pierce eyed us suspiciously and I saw her glance at the liquor cabinet. I bit my lip and focused intently on an ornament that was a cartoonish German Shepherd puppy poking his head out of an envelope addressed to Santa.

Santa.

"Hey B," I mumbled, blinking twice to force the alcohol out of the corners of my vision.

"Mm?"

"You wanna stay up tonight?"

"We can't tonight, S. Santa won't come."

Annabelle climbed up on a stool in the kitchen. "When's Gramma coming?" she whined. "She brings the good food."

"Marshmallow salad?" her mother asked skeptically.

"And my favorite bread and pickles."

The Pierces had the most unconventional, mismatched Christmas Eve dinner every year. Mushroom soup, oatmeal bread, cranberry-coconut-and-marshmallow salad, homemade pickles from Gramma D's neighbor, and petit fours at the end of the night (when we were all too stuffed to move). The petit fours would be fine if there was one box… but Gramma D seemed to think we'd each want to open a box, so we always ended up with five boxes of the tiny desserts that sat in the freezer until we found them again in August and finally threw them out because the thought of eating them any night aside from Christmas Eve was repulsive.

"Maybe you'll get a visit from Santana Claus tonight," I whispered into B's hair.

She shivered, but looked up at me frantically. "We can't tonight or he might not come," she said with deadly serious eyes.

Shit.

"B… come on…."

"Just one night, San. Please. It's important."

I finished my drink. "I'll be right back," I said, trying to stand as steadily as I could. I hadn't eaten anything yet and that was a lot of rum. "Oh shit," I mumbled.

"You okay?" she looked up at me from the couch.

"Mhm."

"Lightweight," she smirked.

"Shut it." I composed myself and walked into the kitchen in a very steady manner, considering.

"What is wrong with you?" Annabelle eyed me like a crazy person.

"What's wrong with you?" I shot back.

Mrs. Pierce shook her head, slightly disapproving, but I think she'd resigned herself to our behavior a year ago. As long as we only did it on occasion (and for all she knew, we did).

"She still believes," I said quietly.

Brittany's mom nodded. "Will you help?"

"I'll keep her occupied upstairs." Immediately my face started to burn—a combination of the alcohol and the way Mrs. P was looking at me. I thought about trying to fix it, but knew I'd only make it worse. Better to feign innocence.

The doorbell rang and Annabelle jumped up to open it for her grandma. Brittany rolled off the couch to give her an overly happy (even for Britt) hug. Gramma D took one look at the both of us and dumped her food on the counter. "Annabelle, go get the presents out of my car. It's freezing and I'm not going back out there. Elizabeth, these two are fuckfaced. Don't you keep a lock on your liquor cabinet?"

We giggled, and Betty glanced at the ceiling and muttered something. Gramma D didn't notice.

Britt wrapped her arms around my waist and kissed my shoulder. I smiled smugly. She always was a loving drunk.

"So." Gramma D eased herself into one of the stools at the counter. "What have you two lesbians been up to."

I tensed, but B gripped me tighter. "She's old. Ever since the stroke she doesn't have a filter anymore," she said. "San's my best friend, Gramma," she corrected. "You know that."

It was supposed to relax me, but for some reason it made me feel even worse. I shrugged out of Brittany's arms and stalked down the hallway.

"Really, Mom?" I heard Mrs. P say. "Of all nights, you have to do this tonight?"

"What's the big deal?"

I leaned my forehead against the glass door at the end of the dark hallway and turned on the spotlight, watching light flurries outside. A hand on my arm—B's. I tried to pull away but she tightened her grasp.

"Please don't do this tonight," she said.

"I didn't do anything,"

"You know what I mean."

"It was your gramma, B. Not me. Why does she have to say shit like that, anyway? I'm not gay," I said.

"I know," she said simply, taking my face in her hands and pulling me in for a lingering kiss. "I know you're not."