Buttheydon’t seem all that peeved.Theyeach notice me and sport a big, kind of unsettling smile.
“Good afternoon, Matthew,” Mom says breezily. I didn’t realize it was twelve already. In my defense, we didn’t get home until well after 2:00 a.m. and even after settling back in, I don’t think I fell asleep until at least four. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Hector. I deleted them all, unread, and then I blocked his number. Easier to sever the connection than keep the temptation where my itching thumbs can get to it.
“Matthew, bud, I’m happy you’re home,” Dad says, licking his fingers before coming to give me the hug equivalent of a handshake, fast and formal.
I’m happy to see one of my Pennsylvania-imported trees, trimmed with expert precision, presents wrapped and laid out beneath it. Dad’s old Christmas CDs, the ones I’d assumed were chucked out ages ago, are playing from an old stereo dug up from who knows where. Springsteen croons and I cringe, thinking of Hector, the pharmacy, and the snore strips.
Hector.Just the thought of his name makes my muscles seize.
The hurtful things I said to him jumble together into a menacing word cloud in my head. I was tipped into such a dark, protective place, and the way I spoke to him frightened even me.
I try to focus on the present. I won’t bring up the Berkshires, and I won’t bring up the island. I can’t tell what’s happening here, but it’s as if I’ve been flung through a time warp, some sort of hole in the universe, and I don’t hate it. This is the cozy little Christmas complete with lit seasonal candles that I refused to let myself admit I’d been craving for so long. I’m not about to bring up a sore topic and ruin the vibes.
Instantly, my grinchiness minimizes. I let the kid inside me take over because that’s what’s convenient. That boy with the bowl cut comes out full-force as Dad produces a surprise from his back pocket. “Got your old favorite seats.” He slides a triplet of tickets to theRadio City Christmas Spectacularacross our marble island. I take a seat in the high chair and inspect them. Row JJ, center section. Not too close, not too far.
Overwhelming levity zings through me. This is a tried-and-true tradition reborn. That show was everything to me when I was a child. I’d count down the days all year until I was reunited with the Rockettes, a collection of high-kicking women that were the epitome of class and holiday cheer.
For the first time ever, I clock the price tag. Never once have I fretted over an amount, since we’ve always been able to cover any purchase, but being cut off like I was for those few weeks, it almost seems like our senseless splurging could be put to better use.
Dad’s grin falters when I don’t speak right away, so I thank him a million times over because he’s making up for lost time with this—I think—and I appreciate that.
“I’ll serve the cinnamon buns in the living room,” Oksana says. She jingles as she goes, wearing a necklace of shiny bells. They remind me of something Noelle might wear. It hits me that I didn’t even say goodbye to her.
I erase that oversight from my brain.
Mom, Dad, and I saunter over to the white Italian leather sofa. I sit between them like I used to, and even if time and experience have changed us, somehow nostalgia gets the better of me. Mom passes me the navy-blue Dior throw blanket to warm up under. The French press gets passed from Dad down the line until we’re all graced with tiny, steaming cups of espresso, which we clink together.
The coffee is velvety, fragrant, and leaps and bounds better than anything Moon Beans could’ve crafted. Even if I do miss the homespun atmosphere and Noelle’s entertaining gossip. I wonder if she ever perfected her foam art. If she everwill. I suppose I’ll never know.
It’s not like I can continue that line of communication when I’ve cast off that whole town for filth.
“How about a movie?” Mom asks, oozing cheeriness, before I can consider all I left behind in Wind River too long.
Dad and I agree. Mom starts up Mickey’s version ofA Christmas Carol, recalling it as my favorite from yesteryear, but then considers a second option:The Muppets. I nearly drop my remaining espresso in my lap before forcing the flash of pain away. This—family time around the Christmas tree—is all I’ve wanted for years. I need to stop thinking about a miniscule town and the selfish guy I left behind there.
Screw Hector. Screw Wind River. I’m back, baby.
“Could we doScrooged?” I ask. “I could use a good laugh.”
While it’s true, it’s also the fact that I need some distance from that story for a while.Scroogedis enough of a retelling that I can watch without having to feel the immense depths of my own despair. I know that sounds dramatic, but Krampus has a brutal way of reminding me of everything in my rearview mirrors.
“I prefer Bill Murray anyway,” Dad says with a slight nudge.
“Whatever you want! It’s Christmas!” Mom says.
I smile at them as the three of us snuggle in. Well, Mom and I snuggle in. Dad remains ramrod straight, feet planted on the floor, back with perfect posture. Relaxation looks different on him.
With the movie cued up and the Christmas tree looming over us, all is well for once in the Prince household.
Even if my shattered heart says otherwise.
When the film ends, I stand and announce that I’m going to run a bath. I brush the crumbs off my sweatshirt. “Is that okay?”
“Of course that’s okay,” Mom says. “Be ready by five. Maxim will pick us up for dinner.”
Oksana, having anticipated my needs, swiftly gifts me a tiny plate of cucumber slices. She knows I need a quiet moment to myself.
“Is it that obvious?” I whisper to her with a light, self-deprecating laugh.
