Krystal
“Bitch, you’re bitter,” Raegan’s voice trills as I slide the zipper of my carry-on closed.
“Yeah, well…that’s what happens when what you thought was sweet turns out to be sour. I have a right to feel the way I do, Rae,” I sigh, staring blankly at the suitcase.
“Of course you do, but,” she pauses, exhaling for an uncomfortable minute. Resigned, she swallows what she wanted to say to protect my feelings. “I’m just worried about you, sis.”
More than anything else, I hate the person I become around this time of year. What used to be my favorite holiday is now an ironic reminder of the day my man of nearly ten years left me for another woman. This year marks the two-year anniversary of that occasion.
Christmas, specifically, wasourholiday. We were the couple to know during this time of year. Ugly Christmas Sweater parties,Friendsmas,and Secret Santa dinners were all hosted by us. We kept the spirit of the season alive when most of our friends had grown out of the childlike wonder only inspired by this time of year. What I miss the most was the toy drive we began five years in. With no children of our own, we wanted to give back to the ones in the neighborhood. I miss the way theyused to smile up at us, teeth too big for their childish mouths filling them from corner to corner. Warmth used to bloom in my chest when they’d call usMr. and Mrs., despite the missing ring on my finger.
I stare out the small bedroom window of my Harlem apartment. Christmas in New York is not the way it’s portrayed in the movies. The cold grey skies mirror the drab concrete and old roads. For most people in this economy, every day is just like the last. Christmas is just the name of the day, nothing more, nothing less. Without a family to keep the flavor of the season alive, it dies. I’d rather it remain that way — dead, that is.
“Krys, you still there?” Rae’s voice brings me back to the present, back to the brochure nestled between my fingertips.
I sigh. “I don’t know Rae. This feels like a bad idea.” I flip the brochure open, taking in the picturesque cottage, nestled in Virginian hills and covered with snow that glistens under the sharp rays of the sun.
The Crescent Bay Christmas Countdown. Hosted by Emerson Bed & Breakfast.
My eyes drift over the itinerary for the twelve-day retreat, glazing over when I get to the end. Despite everything, I miss having someone to share my favorite holiday with. Each of these activities is right up my alley, but I can’t help the nagging feeling that I’d rather do them with someone else.
“You need this,” Rae stresses.
My stomach twists with guilt as I consider how thoughtful a gift this was. God knows how much this cost her, and with a family of her own to plan for, and because I insist on spending the time isolated from everyone I know and love, she’s making sure that if I’m alone, I’m alone in the most quintessential, Christmas, Whoville-ass town.
“I need my crazy Christmas bitch back,” she adds.
I smile.
Just then, my phone vibrates with a notification instructing me to leave now if I want to catch my flight. An unexpected rush of excitement hits me as I breeze over the brochure one last time before sticking it in the pocket of my coat and grabbing the handle of my suitcase.
“Okay,” I chuckle, “I gotta get going.”
“Let me know when you get there. Take pictures ofeverything.I’m living vicariously through you.” She says, determination lining her voice.
“Yes ma’am. Love you, bye.”
“Love you, bye.”
I wheel the small luggage out the door, hoisting my purse over my shoulder as I lock it behind me. A tiny drop of hope ripples through my heart. Maybe this is the first step in getting Christmas back. All I needed was someone to hook me up with a hot wire, to remind me that Christmas is whatImake of it, and no one — not even a trifling ass man — can take it from me.
???
There’s a small crowd of people hovering next to a shuttle with the Emerson Bed and Breakfast logo plastered on the side. I walk over to the strapping man, tall and dark with a smile that’s disarming but distant.
“Name?” He says.
The lack of a greeting stuns me. I was expecting a warmer welcome. “Krystal Evergreen,” I say when he lifts an expectant eyebrow at me.
“Don’t mind him.”
I turn to face a gorgeous woman, maybe an inch shorter than my five-foot-eight, with wine colored hair and skin that seems to be sun-kissed, even in Crescent Bay’s fifty-degree weather. “I’m Gayle Emerson, this is Jiraiya. We operate the bed and breakfast. I think you’re the last person that we were waiting for. Krystal, right?” She smiles and, in an instant, I feel at home.
“The one and only,” I smile back.
Her face warms, her eyes crinkling at the sides as her smile grows wider. She climbs into the open doorway of the shuttle, clearing her voice before projecting it over the crowd. “Attention, everyone,” she says, commanding the group’s attention with impressive ease. Ilikeher. All my nervous energy slips away on the icy wind, faith that this is going to be the best Christmas in years taking its place.
“First, thank you all for being here. This is our first multi-day event, and we have a schedule that’s jam-packed with activities we’re sure you’ll love. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner will be catered each day by yours truly,” she adds a flair, the crowd giggles, and I feel the first embers of Christmas spirit coming to life inside my chest.
