You’ve only known her a few weeks. You’ll handle it.
But it felt longer. Probably because I saw her literally everywhere. I had spent more time with her in the last few weeks than I had spent with Hensley the last few months of our relationship.
It was scary how used I had grown to having Merrie around. The thought of not being with her was quickly becoming unacceptable to me.
Just as a reminder, this was how you got into the last failed relationship with Hensley.
But Merrie was different. Hensley had been slick and conniving. Merrie was wholesome and earnest and wore her heart on her sleeve.
You’re going to get hurt!the rational part of me howled.
But what if I didn’t? What if she was exactly what I needed? What if it was meant to be?
Really? If it was meant to be, then why was she talking to Brody? And why were his hands on her?
45
Merrie
“Hi, Jingleball!”
My mom wrapped me in a big hug. “Look at you in your cute Christmas outfit.” She grabbed a handful of my hair. “Your hair is dry. You need some vitamin D.”
“I’m fine,”
“You look thin. Are you eating enough? Sandra,” she called to another middle-aged woman, “do you think Merrie is eating enough?”
“Have some squash casserole,” Sandra told me.
“Let’s get you something tasty, Jingleball.” My mom led me through her cramped house to the dining-room table that groaned under the weight of the potluck dishes the other partygoers had brought.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” my mom admonished as I set a plate of cookies on the table next to the Snickers salad, rice pudding, and other desserts.
“Any excuse to bake!”
“I know your dad didn’t have as good a spread as this,” my mom said proudly as she grabbed a plate and loaded it up with piles of casseroles for me.
“He served a lot of salads,” I admitted, bracing myself.
“Of course it is,” my mother scoffed. “Your dad has made my life miserable since the day I met him. And now he’s parading that little girl he calls his wife around. And a new baby. At his age! Let me see the pictures of his house. Sandra, you have to come see these pictures. Look at that,” my mother remarked, flipping through the photos. “All that house for three people. And that kitchen. You know Tatiana doesn’t even cook.”
I sighed and took a bite of the sweet potato soufflé covered by a pillow of melted toasted marshmallows and candied pecans. My mom’s house was nothing like my dad’s house. A humble one-story bungalow, Mom’s place was packed with people. The same handmade decorations that had been on display when I was a child looked a little shabbier but were still familiar.
My mom was a member of the feral cat committee in Harrogate, and a number of those animals jumped from the bookshelf to the Christmas tree and over to the TV.
Maybe this is my future.
Honestly, we should be so lucky. At least Mom owns a house.
My mom handed me the phone back.
“And how did he seem?” Mom asked me.
“Who?”
“Your dad, Jingleball!” She swatted me. “Did he seem unhappy? Is their marriage on the brinks?”
“He seemed…” I shrugged and ate another bite of the comfort food. “Dad seemed happy.”
