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Sirens, swearing, a mild snowfall, and the charred remains of a botched attempt at deep-frying a honey-baked ham were all part of the first irregular Sands family Christmas that Twyla really remembers.
She was eight.
Her older family members contained the ever-present present swapping (or swiping), squabbling, and gambling to basements and backyards until she and her cousins were thirteen or so.
The past few years of winter holiday parties have featured brief appearances: a couple of hours of mingling, dining, ending with the usual dual-facing regrets when she leaves, part of her wanting to stay for extended festivities and mildly bad behavior, having a drink more than she should, and another piece of her wishing she'd simply stayed at home with a good book, her knitting, or a movie.
While Schitt's Creek is plenty weird, it doesn't quite offer her family's unique brand of mayhem. One that simultaneously attracts and repels her.
The cafe door opens and Mutt comes in, stomping his boots to get the snow off, and the accompanying blast of cold winter air snaps Twyla out of her own head during the usual mid-morning lull.
He shoots her a 'sup nod, and she offers a small smile in return. Things between them are closer to effortless again, like they were for most of high school.
"Since you're working right now," he comments, passing a small bag filled with freshly grown kale, broccoli, and radishes across the counter, "is it safe to say you'll be able to make it out to Chestnut Ridge later for the winter bonfire and sledding? Think most of the usual suspects will be there—Shannon, Ted, Patrick, maybe David, definitely Stevie," he lists off. "Plus we'll have the nice pavilion available."
"Sounds good," Twyla notes, collecting the bounty for her green smoothies. "And I can probably swing by for a little while."
"Okay."
Mutt's studying her with a slightly bemused, mischievous grin, one that takes her back a year or so to when they were dating.
"What?"
"Might be a later night than you think."
"Sure, Mutt," she humors him, adding, "Thanks for the veggies, and stay warm," before he turns to head back out.
She's not against having a good time; she's just more of a homebody in the winter. And, yeah, it'll be nice to see her gaggle of friends her age—the town's population of twenty and thirty somethings is woefully small—but she doubts it'll be anything like, say, the mess of a charades party that David and Alexis threw at the motel that one time, when she and Mutt were out til nearly two in the morning.
"That was absolutely ridiculous," Twyla chuckles to herself on her way to the park. All the other attendees that Mutt had mentioned are already there when she arrives: Stevie, sat next to Patrick and David, each of them clutching a cup of hot chocolate; Ted and Shannon climbing back up the hill following a shared toboggan ride; Mutt and Jake huddled over the fire pit, adding a few additional sticks for kindling.
"Hey, Twy!"
And Alexis, returning from Patrick's car with a plastic sled, dragging along an oversized bag of Skinny Pop and the makings for, "like, the best hot chocolate bar this side of Pennsylvania" (said with a full-body shimmy, of course). Still captivating as ever, even while wearing forest green snow pants and a North Face fleece.
A flame of indignation and irritation sparks its way through Twyla's bones to counter the late afternoon chill. It's been years, really, if she stops pretending that she only just noticed how she can never stop noticing Alexis in the cafe (and the Wobbly Elm) (and Rose Apothecary) (and around town during her runs) a few months ago.
"Thanks for the invitation, gents," Alexis says, pointing at Ted and Mutt in turn. "Now," she turns to survey the rest of the group, instantly creating a spotlight for herself, "who wants to join me on my inaugural ride?"
Twyla opens and closes her mouth a few times, unsure if she wants Alexis' attention or would rather it fall on someone else, when Mutt answers, "Twyla hasn't gone yet, either."
"Ooh, c'mon, babe!" Alexis urges, clapping her gloved hands together, pulling Twyla away from level ground (though doesn't she always?) and toward the hill's apex. "Let's go!"
The closeness comes on unexpectedly—they're certainly friends more than acquaintances now, but the barriers of the cafe counter, an armful of plates, and expectant customers all keep Twyla honest when Alexis is around.
"Sorry," Alexis says, stopping so suddenly that Twyla nearly bumps into her. "You ok with Mutt sort of volunteering you to join?"
"Yeah."
She's told less clean white lies before. No big deal.
Alexis beams at her response. "Good. I probably would've picked you out of everyone, anyways."
"No big deal," Twyla repeats in her head as Alexis gets herself settled in the front of the sled.
It's not like garnering Alexis' favor is usually her favorite part of exhausting shifts at the cafe.
"Got enough space for your legs?" she asks, looking back. "Actually, wait a sec," she instructs, and she's slip-sliding her way off the sled before Twyla can say anything. "You can go in the front and I'll be in the back."
"Okay," she agrees after a moment.
She's not quite sure how it happens, but suddenly, Alexis' legs are bracketing her torso, her hands are encircling her waist, and her head's nestled quite comfortably against her shoulder.
"Ready, Twy?"
Twyla nods mutely, refusing to contemplate other contexts where Alexis could whisper in her ear with her body pressed up against her back.
"Let's do it."
Her tone's hushed, playful, challenging, but also the faintest bit familiar, in a strange way, and Twyla delays their ride for a few seconds longer, trying to remember where she heard it.
"How long does it take two grown, sober women to use a sled?" Stevie heckles them from her spot by the fire pit.
Her voice triggers Twyla's memory of watching the YouTube video on the motel's slow as molasses computer with Stevie and Patrick after being told "you have to see this," then avoiding Alexis as much as she could for the next day so she wouldn't dissolve into a fit of giggles—of course.
"I'm a Lamborghini, I'm a Hollywood star," Twyla recites, laughing at the feel of Alexis' jaw dropping as she points the nose of the sled down the hill and leans forward. "I'm a little bit tipsy when I drive my car—"
And they're off, picking up speed on their descent, both the song lyrics and Twyla's breath lost to the wind and Alexis tightening her grip around her midsection when they hit a mini hill some kids had made earlier out of compacted snow and ice.
They both grunt at the impact following the jump, and the sled clearly wasn't made for BMX-type tricks, as it shudders precariously on the landing and tips to the side near the bottom of the hill, depositing both of them in the snow.
"Didn't know you knew that song," Alexis comments as she clambers to her feet, using the now overturned sled for leverage. "Full of surprises, you are."
"Yeah?" Twyla dares to ask, gazing up at Alexis despite the strengthening snowfall.
"Sure. You're a yoga instructor extraordinaire, former theater kid, an incredible singer, and I know there's a little bit of a party girl in there. Remember David's 'charades' game night?"
She squats into something like a bounce on the air quote until her face is almost level with Twyla's.
"Yeah," Twyla laughs, her breath nearly crystallizing in front of her—at least she can blame it catching on the cold and not the bevy of compliments and characterizations. "Most of it. I was thinking about it earlier, actually. Mutt mentioned something about me being out late tonight."
"Oh, did he?"
They really should be walking toward the side path to start the trek back up the hill, but Alexis is leaning forward, wearing her classic "eager to gossip" face, and her interest keeps Twyla rooted to the spot.
"Yeah—oh, look out!"
Twyla jumps back at the incoming mass of pre-teens on wild sled rides, reaches forward, and instinctively yanks Alexis with her.
Which is a great save the day, thinking on her feet moment until she loses her footing, falling backward into what is, mercifully, a soft, mostly forgiving snowbank, with Alexis following suit.
"Is melting into the ground until spring an option?" Twyla wonders. It's been a while since she'd been truly and properly mortified—her dad flirting with Cristine, whom he'd termed his favorite prison guard, was probably the most recent incident.
"You good?" Alexis asks, sounding fully nonplussed by the whole mess, and it makes sense, doesn't it, for a woman who's been on both sides of hostage negotiations more than a few times in her life.
"Aside from the cold and embarrassment, yep. You?"
"Mmhmm."
Her hum comes out serious, almost an evaluation of whether or not she's ok instead of a confirmation.
"You sure?" Twyla's not trying to doubt Alexis' bravery, nor her cavalier spirit, but she's shifted a bit closer to her instead of sitting up.
"I'd be better," Alexis murmurs, batting her eyelashes, "if you did me a really big favor, Twy."
"What—" she starts to answer, and then—
Oh.
Oh.
Maybe Alexis had a point when she offered her pointers on flirting that one time at the cafe.
Maybe she's a bit slow on the uptake.
Maybe she'll need an hour or two to thaw out because her winter coat has seen better days.
Maybe none of that matters because she's kissing Alexis Rose like they're eighteen, like they're on a beach in L.A., like they've got all kinds of time.