Brenda, Christmas Eve

It’s well past midnight, and the sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills is finally quiet after your family’s massive Christmas gala—a never-ending swirl of donors, executives, politicians, and small talk you couldn’t escape now that you’re home from college. A few of the other guests have claimed the many spare bedrooms for the night, so you tiptoe downstairs for something to drink, hoping not to run into anyone still awake. Passing the softly lit living room, you hear a small, startled gasp. Brenda—another guest’s daughter, also home from college—is standing on a stool, dressed only in a skimpy velvet Santa robe. She’s reaching up to take down a sprig of mistletoe positioned right in one of the busiest walk-throughs of the house. She’s caught mid-act, frozen, staring at you with the exact expression of someone whose plan just collapsed in real time.