Inside, there was a comfortable chair—since one finished hour of narration was usually two to three hours of actual recording—a cozy blanket, a tiny table with my laptop and mic setup, and an even smaller table for me to keep my tea and water.
Closing the door, I felt some of the anxiety of the past day slipping away as I opened up my laptop and found where I left off the day before.
I was almost done with this book, and my deadline was looming fast, with Christmas not far off. I was hoping to do the last two hours of it before the night was over. Then I could master it and get it back to the author in time for her release date.
With only Andy and Sammy to buy presents for this year, I figured I could sink a big chunk of the money from this book into the charity. It would hardly touch the bottom line we wereworking with, but, hey, every twenty-five bucks was another child with a present on Christmas morning. It made a difference.
Sometime around midnight, I finished the book just in time for me to stumble out of the studio, drop down on the couch in the living room, and sob.
I’d always loved the holidays. My mother made sure of it once she got us on our feet and in our own apartment.
This year, though, there was a loneliness that had crept in to permeate every aspect of the season.
It was the loss of my only family, of course. And while Andy and Sammy had offered—if not outright insisted—that I come with them to their many holiday events, it just didn’t feel right.
Not for the first time, I longed for what I saw in most of my favorite Christmas movies: tons of people, drama, traditions, and love. My mother often told me it was what she hoped for too. But she’d never found a partner to have more kids with, or one with kids of their own for us to make a family with.
As for me, well, I’d never been lucky in the whole love department. Lord knew I tried hard in my teens and twenties too. It was only in the past five years or so when I started to think that I was going to follow in my mother’s footsteps and never marry.
It didn’t have to be depressing.
Plenty of people were blissfully happy single forever.
And, hey, if I wanted children, I could always adopt. I could be bursting at the seams with holiday traditions that I created.
Just not this year.
This year, I had to chug along.
Try to ignore the empty feeling in my chest.
Fake it.
Until, hopefully, I started to feel the spirit.
“Okay,” I said, wiping my cheeks when I heard the radio flick onto my mom’s old favorite Christmas song:The LittleDrummer Boy.“That’s enough of that.” I slapped my hands on my thighs and set to putting the Christmas blankets, towels, and pillows all around my apartment before dragging myself down the hallway toward my room.
Christmas was all over in there too. I’d framed my windows in twinkle lights, so people passing on the streets below would see them.
I remembered one Christmas when the shelter was full, my mom and I needed to brave a freezing holiday huddled on the street. So we picked a spot across the street from a beautiful lights display. I stayed up until dawn just watching the lights.
You never knew who needed the pick-me-up. So I left them on even as I turned all my other lights on to climb into bed.
I turned to look out the window, watching fat, lazy snowflakes falling.
And for just a moment as I drifted off to sleep, the loneliness seemed to slip away, replaced with that floating sensation of wonder.
CHAPTER THREE
Venezio
The warehouse loomed like any other—steel bones, concrete skin, windows smudged with years of grime.
It looked more like a place where cars were stripped for parts. I double-checked my address for a second time, sure this couldn’t be the location of some do-gooder charity.
But even as I looked down to do so, I caught sight of the small sign attached to the door.
Berry Merry Giftmas.
