Because it doesn’t matter what asshole bullshit I say to Johnnie Walker—he’s heard it all before.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TORI
Christmas in Grand Riverdoesn’t feel like Christmas.
The streets are quiet, shops closed, half-hearted strings of lights clinging to telephone poles. It’s the opposite of the Christmases I grew up with, when silence was a sin and noise meant you were doing it right.
Back then, the house was full every year—people from church, neighbors with nowhere else to go, my parents insisting Christmas wasn’t Christmas unless it was bursting at the seams with bodies and voices and casseroles lined up on the counter. Mom would crank carols from the old CD player until the speakers crackled, Dad would launch into Luke 2 like the living embodiment of a Christmas Eve pageant, and as the only kid in the house, I was the built-in entertainment.
“Play us something on the piano, Tori.”
“Tell us your favorite Bible verse.”
“Show us what Santa brought you.”
There was never any hiding. No excuse strong enough to keep me from the center of it all. Every eye on me. Every voice pushing me into the spotlight whether I wanted it or not.
And then came Chase.
For someone who claimed to hate Christmas, he had a way of thriving in it. All that attention I used to drown under? He soaked it up like he’d been starving for it—and maybe he had. The boy who spent so many years in foster care, who never really had a family Christmas after his parents died, suddenly became the shining star of mine.
He slipped into those loud nights like he’d been rehearsing his whole life. He laughed at the right moments, teased my uncles about football, let my mom fuss over his plate until it was stacked high. He and my dad got along famously, which still feels strange to remember.
My dad never gave his approval easily, but with Chase, it wasn’t just approval—it was admiration. They’d sit shoulder to shoulder at the table, trading stories like they’d known each other for decades, my dad laughing so hard his face turned red while Chase played the role of charming prodigal son.
And the strangest part was how much I liked it. For the first time in my life, people weren’t doting on me or asking me to play carols on the piano. The spotlight shifted, and I was grateful. Chase fit into my family’s holiday chaos so easily, it almost made me forget he’d sworn up and down that he hated the holiday.
Maybe that was the irony of him—he hated Christmas until someone handed him the microphone, and then he loved it.
Looking back, I see it for what it was. He wasn’t faking it, not really. He was hungry. Starved for attention, for belonging, for a seat at a table where people actually cared what you had to say. He took up the space because no one had ever given it to him before.
And I let him, relieved to fade into the background for once.
But now, sitting in this little apartment in Grand River, with the streets outside silent and my own living room still, I realize this is the first Christmas I’ve ever spent without noise. Without the performance. Without my parents, without Chase, without anyone.
It feels… right.
No casserole dishes. No CD player skipping onO Holy Night. No awkward piano solos.
Just the hum of the fridge, Betty Boop ticking away on the wall, and the faint whistle of wind against the windows.
Dexter, Alis, and Skye packed up yesterday morning, heading to Moraine to spend the holiday with their families.
Skye argued, of course. She hated leaving me, hated the thought of me being here alone. It took everything I had to push her out the door, to look her in the eye and say,I’ll be fine.
Because I will be. I want this—needthis.
There’s no pressure to perform happiness for my parents. No arguments with Chase about where we’re going and what time. No pretending everything is picture-perfect when my whole body is unraveling under the surface.
I want the quiet.
I spend most of the day cleaning the apartment. Wiping down counters, vacuuming under furniture that hasn’t seen daylight in months, finally tackling the sweaters stuffed in that plastic bin under my bed. I pull them out one by one, shaking out any folding lines embedded from months gone by, and hang each sweater in the closet. A neat row of color-coordinated warmth right next to my jeans.
Organization sparks so much joy in my heart.
One box waits in the corner of the closet, half forgotten. The one I shoved full of random clothes from my old closet when I left Moraine. I never sorted it—just dragged it here like baggage I wasn’t ready to unpack.
