ChrisMischief

It starts snowing ten minutes after we leave the house. I’m thrilled to see fat, white flakes falling on Christmas Eve…especially since I already agreed to let Charlie take the wheel today. No amount of East Coast living can change the fact that I was born a California girl, and I’ve never gotten comfortable driving in weather. Charlie looks capable and confident doing pretty much everything, but as he steers us through the quiet, empty streets of Manhattan, I appreciate his innate calm more than ever. 

A few blocks from the Taconic Parkway, the car next to us takes a corner a little too fast, and its tires slip across the wet asphalt. Wincing, I glance over at Charlie to see if he’s considering changing his mind about this road trip, but he looks completely at ease. Happy, even, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he hums along with the Mariah Carey coming from the speakers. Like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than in the early stages of a brewing snowstorm, driving his new girlfriend to meet his famously prickly former bandmates. Not to mention the fact that this “new girlfriend” used to run the band’s most famous fan club.

When Charlie invited me to ChrisMischief over breakfast a month ago, I was caught off guard. In part because I didn’t even know it was a thing, and there was a period of time when I prided myself on knowing everything there was to know about the boys of Mischief. But they started this annual holiday tradition, with its tongue-in-cheek name, long after the band had dissolved. A decade ago, they staged a late-December intervention for Ramsey, and he agreed to head to rehab for the third—and, at least so far, final—time. Every year since, they’ve gathered to celebrate. Charlie says it’s the one time they’re all in the same room anymore, and I know it means more to him than he wants to admit. 

“Are you sure you want me there?” I asked when he brought it up. “It seems like it’s kind of a private thing. And with my history with the band, is it…” I trailed off. I wasn’t embarrassed that I’d been a fangirl, but I also wanted to respect how it might feel for the subjects of my teen enthrallment to meet me for the first time in such an intimate setting. 

Charlie shook his head gently first, and then harder. Sunlight caught the strands of gray in his hair, tempting me to run my fingers through it. “They’re dying to meet you. The girl I forced them to stage a reunion concert for.”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that Charlie’s just as head-over-heels as I am. But I didn’t want him to get too swept up in the moment, either. “Are you sure you want me there? This is still sort of new, and…”

I shouldn’t have worried. Charlie grew up in chaos, and one of the things it taught him was how to be steady on his feet. He rested his palm on my knee. “I’m sure about you, Maya.”

I reach for that sense of steadiness now, as the drive unspools and snow accumulates on telephone wires and road signs. I glance toward the backseat, at the boxes wrapped in kraft paper and twine. Charlie and I crossed an important milestone before this trip: our first couples’ bicker, about whether or not I was allowed to bring gifts. He insisted this was a Christmas celebration in name only—Ramsey converted to Judaism in the midst of his sobriety journey, and Devin and his family are Buddhist. I countered that these wouldn’t be holiday presents. More like hostess gifts. 

Well, except for the signed Olivia Rodrigo concert poster I bought for Devin’s daughter, Opal. But he has too much of a soft spot for her to fight me on that. 

Charlie catches my gaze in the rearview mirror, and his smile widens. “I can feel you worrying.”

“How could I not?”

“They’re going to love you. I’m more concerned about how you’ll feel about them. They’re…they can be a lot to handle.”

The Mischief guys all metabolized their early fame differently. Ramsey is living a quieter life than before, but, as Charlie always says, he’s “a lot of personality.” Chris is a movie star who’s been famous too long to function without the trappings of celebrity. And Devin speaks only when necessary, his means of dealing with their shared trauma. Intellectually, I know they’re adult men with real lives, and that they owe me nothing. But I’m also not sure how it will feel to have my imaginary visions of Mischief collide with their current reality. 

Either way, I know what really matters.

“They’re your family,” I remind Charlie. “Everyone’s family is a lot to handle.”

“I guess that’s true.”

I lean across the gearshift and press a kiss against the curve of his shoulder. Charlie smells as good as he always does, spice and sandalwood and a hint of his morning coffee. The sharp thrill I felt in my stomach during our early days has developed into a steady thrum, something I can’t believe I get to just… keep.

Charlie doesn’t say anything, but I feel how he relaxes into my touch. 

The snow gets heavier as we head north on 87. The last half hour of the drive curves along winding rural roads, making even Charlie visibly tense. But it also keeps me from getting too in my head about what’s to come. Instead, when we walk into the house, all I feel is relief to be away from the plows. 

Devin’s partner, Miranda, takes our coats and ushers us in front of the fire to warm up. The space has all the charm of a simple, rustic cabin, except it’s three or four times as big. There are thick woven rugs over the wide-planked wooden floors, and a picture window looks out onto the Catskills. The whole room smells of pine and wood smoke, cardamom and cinnamon.

The source of the spices becomes clear when Miranda reappears in front of me with a cup of mulled cider. “There isn’t any booze in it,” she says with a sly grin. “But there can be.” 

“This is perfect.” I wrap my hands around the mug and let it thaw my frozen fingers. “Thank you for this, and for having us.”

“Thank you for coming. And Charlie!” She wraps her arms around him from the side and leans her head on his shoulder. “Opal is so excited to show you—”

“Look who made it!” someone calls from above. Then there’s the sound of footsteps, and three men come clattering down the stairs. Just like that, there they are. Mischief: Middle-Aged Edition.

They’re all dressed down, in sweatpants and flannels and thick wool socks. Ramsey’s angles are less sharp than they once were, and he looks good—still fiendishly handsome in a way that would make Kate swoon if she were here. Behind him, Devin’s face is sun-darkened and starting to crease with wrinkles. The stubble on his chin is pure silver. Chris looks…honestly, not that different. Movie-star perfect, as ever. Whoever is doing his Botox deserves a raise.

“Blake, you motherfucker,” Ramsey says, striding across the room. He squeezes Charlie’s shoulder and slaps him on the back. “You look happy.” He turns and locks eyes with me. “And this must be Maya.”

“Hi.” I stick out my hand for him to shake. It’s a completely absurd moment. I know so much about this man—or I did, at one point. And from the look on his face, he’s heard a story or two about me, too. “It’s nice to meet you. All of you.”

“Well, yeah, we all thought we were going to get to meet you after the fundraiser. That boss of yours sounds like a piece of work, eh?” 

“Teresa and I parted on good terms,” I reply, my tone deliberately mild. Not taking the bait. Not yet, anyway.

Chris chuckles at my nonresponse. “See, that’s how you answer a question, Ramsey,” he says. “This is what media training looks like.”

I can see Ramsey gearing up a rant, but before he has a chance, Devin clears his throat. He’s fifteen years removed from his year of silence, but it’s still enough of an event when he talks that everyone else shuts up. I can almost physically feel the attention in the room shifting his way. “Ramsey was right,” he says. “You do look happy, Charlie.”

“I am happy,” Charlie says simply.

Devin smiles. He crosses the space between them and pulls Charlie into a hug. Then Ramsey and Chris join in, too, the four of them wrapping their arms around each other like they’re the only people in the world. Seeing them like this, it’s easy for me to imagine what Charlie must feel: awe not only that they found each other back then but also that they still have each other now.

We settle onto the couches around the fire, but it’s not long before Miranda and Devin’s daughter, Opal, appears. She’s learned a new song on the guitar, and she wants Charlie to listen to her play it, so he follows her upstairs. Then Chris’s twin toddlers wake up from their nap and require their parents’ attention—and that of the nanny they brought along, too, of course. When Miranda and Devin realize it’s time to start prepping for dinner, I try to help, but they shoo me away, so I take the opportunity to get outside while there’s still a little daylight left. I put on the heavy coat I brought with me, slip on my snow boots, and head out for a walk.

The world is endlessly white. My breath comes out in cloudy puffs. Snow in the city is one thing—briefly beautiful, then a sullied mess. This is something else entirely. I feel like I’ve been transported to another planet. The silence is so big it seems to go on forever. 

How did I end up here? 

This time last year, I was freshly divorced and drowning in scandal. Now I’m surrounded by endless miles of calm. I’ve always been ambitious, my fingers itching for the next project, the next challenge. I still have professional goals, of course, but I don’t think anything or anyone has ever made me feel the way I do now. Settled. Like I’m truly happy exactly where I am. I can almost feel Charlie back inside the cabin, the tug of his gravity anchoring me. 

When my fingertips start going numb in my coat pockets, I know it’s time to turn back. The lights are on inside, and the house is glowing against the dim all around it. I’m looking forward to sitting by the fire and having another cider—this time, with rum— when I see a pinprick of light on the side porch. I recognize Ramsey’s silhouette as he takes a long drag on a cigarette.

I avert my gaze, but he steps out from under the porch’s overhang, his feet sinking into the powdery snow. He’s not wearing a hat, and his cheeks are pink with cold. He takes a drag as he steps into my path.

“Hey,” he says as he exhales.

The smoke drifts toward me and I wince. “Hey.”

“Taking a walk?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

Ramsey exhales another cloud of smoke, and this time, I do a pointed sidestep and crinkle my nose. “You mind?”

A flash of something crosses his face, like he doesn’t expect pushback. For a half second, I think he’s going to do it again, just to test me. But he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and drops it into the snow, where it hisses once before going out.

“Oh, you didn’t have to–”

He shrugs. “I’m supposed to be cutting back anyway.”   

“I hear they’re not good for you.”

Ramsey laughs, nods. The tension between us eases. “Most things I like aren’t, it turns out.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, how’s your first ChrisMischief treating you?”

“You guys really call it that, huh?”

“Yeah …at this point, I forget how stupid it sounds.”

“I mean, it’s kind of sweet.”

Ramsey rolls his eyes. He’s in his early forties and a semi-reformed bad boy. I’m sure he doesn’t think of himself as sweet.

I shrug. “Sorry, but it is.”

“No, I know. It is. And I’m sorry if I– earlier–” He sighs. “I just got off the phone with my sponsor. Being here is good, but it brings back a lot of memories. And sometimes, bad habits.” 

I pull my coat tighter. Charlie’s told me this about Ramsey, too: that he’s hard to stay mad at for long. “The holidays are hard. It’s a lot of pressure. And I’m sure it’s weird having someone new here.”

Ramsey doesn’t deny the point. Instead, he says, “You’d think I’d have enough practice not screwing things up by now, but—” He sighs. “I don’t. I guess if you and Charlie stay together, you’ll get to see for yourself.”

I level my gaze at him. “I guess I will.” 

“Good.” Ramsey holds the eye contact. “Charlie is a loyal bastard.”

The air settles between us. It feels like the beginning of a mutual recognition. Maybe even respect. 

A shiver ripples over me, and I nod toward the house. “Want to go inside?”

“You go,” Ramsey responds. “I just need another minute.”

By the time I’ve taken off my boots and coat, Charlie has a glass of wine ready for me. He kisses my hair and frowns, probably smelling the smoke in it. “Were you out talking to Ramsey?”

I nod and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I’m sorry for abandoning you. Once Opal got going…”

“It’s fine. Technically, I owe her our entire relationship.” It was Opal who got Charlie to start writing music again. And it was Charlie’s new music that led him to me.

“Well, we thought we’d show you what we were working on.” Charlie trails his fingers down my arm before taking his place on the couch next to Opal, who’s holding her guitar. Ramsey slides past me into the room and settles in an armchair. The others are on the floor, playing with Chris’s kids. As Opal starts to tune up, Miranda comes in from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she says. “Only one song, okay?”

“Only one,” Opal agrees.

She glances at Charlie, and they nod at each other. She starts picking her fingertips at the strings, and I recognize the ripple of notes almost immediately. My mom is a big Dylan fan, and this was always one of my favorites. Opal takes the first couple verses of “Buckets of Rain” in a high, clear soprano that rings out reverently into the quiet room.

Charlie watches her while she sings, but when it’s his turn, he looks at me, his gaze warm and steady. His voice wraps around every word. 

Watching him direct the lyrics toward me in front of these people who know him so well—I feel exposed in a way I usually try to avoid. But I remind myself that it’s okay here. I’m safe here. 

Not only that, this is a room full of people who’ve chosen to let me into their carefully guarded lives. I want to give them the same courtesy. So I allow the blush to overtake me.  

When we climb up to our attic bedroom at the end of the night, Charlie ignores the overhead light and turns on the bedside lamps. The roof over our heads slopes enough that he can only stand up straight in the middle of the room.

“Is this where you usually stay?” I strip off my sweater, then my bra. I was planning on putting on the group trip–appropriate pajamas I packed, but when I see the look on Charlie’s face, I pause. I slip into the flannel bedding in just my underwear instead.

“It is,” he says. “It’s always felt…I don’t know, special to me. Cozy. And it’s farther away from everyone’s noise.” He bends down and kisses my neck, and then my collarbone.

I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close. He nudges his nose against my cheek. “I love visiting Devin’s family, but sometimes it’s felt a little sad. Wondering if I’d ever have that, too.”

His words catch me off guard, and I let him go. Charlie sits up. He stands and goes over to the dresser, where he removes his belt. 

Charlie has always seemed so self-sufficient, like if I hadn’t come along, he would have been fine going through life on his own. I hate the idea of him being lonely, but I love the way he keeps opening himself up to me. So I sit up in bed, letting the sheets pool around my hips. My nipples prick into the cold air, and I feel bare in the best way. 

Charlie turns around. 

“There’s something I keep wanting to say to you. And it felt weird being here together, and not having told you.”

Charlie comes back to sit on the edge of the bed. He takes my hands in his. 

“I love you,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve shared that out loud, but it doesn’t feel scary at all. It feels exactly right. 

“Maya.” Charlie presses his lips to my forehead before my name is out of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

Warmth spreads through me. I tilt my face up, and Charlie kisses me, tender but hungry. We’re quiet, like we don’t want to break the spell of the words we’ve just shared. We pull apart just long enough for him to strip off his sweater, his jeans. Then he climbs under the covers with me, pulling the comforter over both our heads. Just like that, we’re all alone in the world.

He puts a hand on my hip, hot and possessive. The other reaches between my legs. He slides my underwear down my hips and rolls his thumb against my clit in slow circles. It’s luxurious to arc up toward him, to ask for more of this, and to get it. But he never pushes inside of me. He makes me wait, and wait, and wait. 

I’m aching with emptiness by the time he reaches down to stroke himself. We stopped using condoms a few weeks ago, and it’s still a shock to feel him, bare and thick, sliding into me. Even with all this new sensation, I just want more of this, more of him, to ride each thrust, each wave of pleasure. When it starts to build, I reach down between us to touch myself, but Charlie nudges my fingers away and replaces them with his own.

I’m so keyed up that those familiar guitar calluses are more than enough to send me over. I come, muscles twitching, each nerve in my body buzzing. My release triggers his, and I wrap my arms around his back and grip his shoulders to pull him as tight to me as I can as we lose ourselves in each other.

As the weight of him presses against me, I kiss the sharp corner of his jaw and taste the sweat on his skin. He brings his hand to my chin and cups it, turning my face so I am forced to meet his intense gaze. “I love you, Maya. Almost as much as I love being loved by you.”