DOMINIC
Time passes slowly in December. It’s like this every year. I shouldn’t be surprised by it anymore. After Mamaw passed, the Christmas season stopped being fun. She was the one who went all out for the holidays, and without her, it became an annual reminder of everything I’d lost.
This year, December is annoying for a new reason: it keeps getting in the way of my time with Lindsay. The days are shorter, and it seems like her workdays are longer than ever.
“It’s the end of the year, so I have a million different decks to prepare for the board,” she told me. She went on to explain why this is the case, and I only understood half the words.
When she does have free time, she’s distracted by the holiday shopping she has to do for her family, various holiday functions she’s invited to by coworkers or Jules’s school. She’s exhausted at the end of each day, limiting our nightly FaceTimes, andfuck, I miss her so much. The sweet vanilla scent of her hair. Those deliciously thick thighs.
We keep trying to nail down her next visit, but things pop up left and right. I hate it. I feel like I finally have a person tocelebrate this holiday with, someone I want to do all the stupid Hallmark Christmas movie things with, and I can’t.
It’s not just Lindsay, either. I want to spend time with Jules, too. She’s such a fun, interesting kid. Lindsay’s told me how much she loves Christmas, and I want to watch her eyes widen in that wholesome way while looking at Christmas lights.
Instead, I’m maintaining the Fast Glass Tavern tradition of boycotting the holiday altogether. It’s not an anti-religious crusade or anything, and we don’t diss the holiday or those who choose to celebrate.
Christmas is an overwhelming celebration that lasts over a month; for some people, it begins on the first of November, and is next to impossible to opt out of. Even if you don’t listen to the music, watch the movies, or decorate your house, everywhere else you go will be shoving it in your face. Grief is heightened this time of year for a large percentage of people, and being surrounded by the happy faces of those who still have their loved ones to celebrate with is difficult to endure. It’s a staunch reminder of the people and material things we lack, dressed in red and green.
From November first to the first of January, Fast Glass Tavern remains a Christmas-free zone. If there are any decorations at all, it’s snowflakes in the windows, which is a nod to the season, not the holiday.
The first year I did this, I thought there would be backlash from the locals. I expected demands for holiday playlists on the jukebox, and gingerbread-flavored cocktails. Amazingly, the opposite happened. Those grieving flocked to the bar, and it didn’t matter what stage they were in, either. People appreciated having a neutral space to escape to when the holiday cheer became too much, and it’s grown over time.
The bar is packed tonight, a random Tuesday in the middle of December, and the entire staff is here working their asses off.
Vlad is sucking down blood pints faster than we can pour them. Tilda is cackling with an empty wineglass in hand as she plays Connect Four with Dead Fang Debbie in a booth along the back wall. Camilla, Morty, and their kids are enjoying our new menu items, splitting two flatbreads with Brussels sprouts and the antipasto salad. Even Mayor Crane and her chief of staff, Ezra, are here, nibbling on jalapeño poppers while in deep discussion about some town council matter.
It feels like the entire town is here, and I can’t even fully enjoy it. My mind is with Lindsay, wishing she could see this too.
Lindsay
It’s on the seventeenth of December that I get three back-to-back calls from Jules’s school during a marketing meeting. I don’t hear my phone buzz on the first call. When it rings a second time, I assume they’ll leave me a voicemail, and I can deal with whatever it is once my meeting ends. The third call comes and goes faster than I can step out of the conference room without being disruptive.
When I call back, the vice principal tells me that Jules has been in a physical altercation with another student, and that I need to come down immediately. I race out of the office like a bat out of hell, my mind a blur of horrifying images of Jules with a bloody lip and a black eye. When I reach the front office of the school, I find Jules in a chair on one side, and Sadie and her mom seated on the other.
The only thing keeping me from pouncing on the two of them is the fact that Sadie’s face is scratched up, covered in bandages,and Jules only has an ice pack pressed against her nose. It looks like Jules won the fight––as long as her nose isn’t broken––and I’m flooded with as much pride as shame the moment the thought pops into my head.
“Jules, what happened?” I drop to my knees in front of her and slowly remove the ice pack.
“I’m okay,” she says with a sniffle. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, like she’s been crying. There’s dried blood crusted in one of her nostrils, but her nose looks intact. The ice pack is covering a red bump on her cheek, just below her eye, which I’m guessing will turn into a nasty bruise in a few days.
“Come on in, everyone,” Principal Torres says, waving us to follow him into his office.
Sadie and Jules take the two chairs in front of the principal’s desk, and me and her mom stand behind them. Her mom, I think her name is Bianca, keeps trying to catch my eye. I ignore her.
“So how did this start, Manny?” I ask Principal Torres. He and I grew up on the same street. My sister introduced him to his husband, and if there ever was a time to milk my connections, it’s right fucking now.
“Principal Torres,” he corrects with a stern glance that I know is just for show. “It started just outside the cafeteria after lunch. Several teachers witnessed an argument between Sadie and Jules that turned physical with Jules shoving Sadie to the ground.”
“She pushed me first!” Jules protests. “I was defending myself.”
“That’snotwhat happened,” Sadie insists with a sour expression.
I sigh, growing impatient. “Then what did happen?”
Jules speaks up first. “Sadie was snapping my bra straps at lunch, and I followed her after to tell her never to do that again.”
“What bra?” Sadie crosses her arms over her chest and gives Jules the stink eye. Or more like, the my-shit-don’t-stink eye. “That’s a tank top that you cut yourself.”
Though I’m loathe to disagree with this tween menace, I know that Jules doesn’t own any bras. None that I’ve purchased for her anyway. Not that it matters, since Sadie clearly can’t keep her hands to herself. “This sounds like textbook sexual harassment, Principal Torres.”
