He closes his eyes. “A, uh, Christmas Cookie Exchange. Everyone gets a random recipe emailed to them and they have to—”
“Move!” I yell, but he refuses to free up the pathway to the stairs.
“—bake that cookie and bring one for everyone. Your grandparents judge them anonymously. We host it here, um, and you…you, uh…”
“Let…me…leave.” I’m pleading now.
He blinks fast, holding back his own tears because he knows this is it. The end. “Is that really what you want?”
“Yes,” I say on an exhale, seething. “Yes, yes, yes. That’sreallywhat I want.”
After a beat, resigned, he says, “Okay.” And steps aside. No more fight. No more fake event. Nothing. He turns away so he doesn’t have to watch me go.
His cold stance only reiterates the fact that the only person I can trust is myself. My pompous rich boy act kept people on the other side of the moat, and that’s the way it has to be. Otherwise, I end up impossibly broken, over and over.
I grab the side handle of my suitcase and run up as fast as my long legs will allow me. I know he’s not chasing me, but I can’t risk slowing down or my thoughts might catch up to me. I might realize that what I’m doing is stupid, what I said is a lie, and I won’t allow those things to be true.
Encumbered by the physical bag in my hand, and the new emotional ones strapped to my back, I load up the trunk, slide into the back seat, and wave Maxim on. Grandma and Gramps’s house disappears through the back window and I realize, again, I was right from the start. I never belonged here.
They say Manhattan chews you up and spits you out, but at least there you can Instagram filter your existence. Thereal youcan live behind a pane of glass. You become a living window display to be gawked at, sometimes in admiration and sometimes in condemnation, but there’s still that layer of protection.
Here? Everyone knows you. Everyone will bother you. Everyone wants or needs something from you. You must give everyone little bits of you or you don’t belong.
I sit in the back seat, taking inventory of those little bits, making sure I packed up as many of them as I possibly could. At least enough to rebuild myself.
I need a bath, a stiff drink, and the old me back.
Chapter 35
Nothing beats waking up swaddled in Egyptian cotton sheets upon my memory-foam king bed done up in blues and golds. My soft, sheer canopy greets me, along with the extra hardwood square footage and large window with its remote-controlled blinds. I can sit up without fear of a concussion because there are no boards and no mattress above me, so why does my head still throb?
Oh, because there’s no guy above me either.
The guy whose snores I memorized. The guy whose lips tasted like Burt’s Bees and peppermint and happiness. The guy who taught me about hard work, and then sold me out so easily, sending me back here before I was ready.
I guessreadyis another of those nebulous words. One can never be ready for emotional upheaval. Especially not around the holidays.
There’s a rumbling dread in my chest when I remember what day it is. Christmas Eve. Since I’ve returned, I’m faced with another year of going through the tepid motions of togetherness. A half-ass parade of platitudes and last-minute presents and going our separate ways.
I think about lying in bed a while longer, letting everyone think I’m still asleep because an anxiety hangover is almost as hard to push through as an anxiety attack is, but then the scent of baking cinnamon buns comes in through my partly open door, and I remember what Mom said about doing Christmas right. Resurrecting old traditions. If my nostrils aren’t deceiving me, there’s a freshly baked breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen, so instead of ruminating over the car crash wrapped around the telephone pole of my heart, I vault myself out of bed.
Avoidance is going to have to be okay for today. Even if my sluggish gait tells a different story.
I realize that I’m back to my real life and I must accept that. Hell, I should even celebrate that. I slide inside my walk-in closet. Stuffed like a secret behind a rack of old accessories, I find some tacky Yuletide pieces I couldn’t part with for memory’s sake. The Santa slippers from my youth won’t even slide over my toes, and the elf hat is too snug for my head. However, there’s an ironic red sweater that reads UGLY CHRISTMAS in white, blocked embroidery that calls to me. It was an irreverent gift from an old flame, and because I’m trying to extinguish a current one, I slip it on and snuggle into it, even if it smells stale.
I’m manifesting jolly with my gayest apparel, and nobody can stop me.
When I come into the kitchen, it’s clear I wasn’t the only one thinking this. Mom is wearing a matching Christmas pajama set from eons ago. I remember we all had our own pair for a Christmas-card photo shoot, back when those were still a thing, so mine don’t fit any longer.
Dad is there too. No pajamas for him, but he is wearing a festive tie which I’m certain his assistant bought for him this morning because there are remnants of a tag still tacked on it. There’s no briefcase to be seen, so that means he’s off duty for the day.
For some reason, he always insists on icing Oksana’s cinnamon buns, so he runs a knife across the now-cooled tops, making the gooey confections even more pleasing.
I pause before making my presence known. I’m wondering if I should tread lightly. Island Gate is the reason I was sent away, and now that it’s out, it’s only logical that I’ll be lectured over the importance of staying mum when told to do so.
I’m surprised the wicked witch herself, Sarah Pearson, hasn’t flown in on her broomstick yet, landing only to frantically sweep my indiscretion under the expensive rug.
Wow, what a waste of time. I served most of my punishment, and we still ended up in the place we least wanted to be. Or the placetheyleast wanted to be.
