But curiosity and loneliness make a potent cocktail when mixed, because, despite my best efforts, here I am. And, as nervous as I am—as ridiculous as this all feels—something about Jay made me want to show up.
If I hadn’t been a complete soppy mess in a cat costume when we met, I would have sworn there was an undertow of interest in the way he spoke to me. The way, despite how completely unhinged I must have looked in that bowling alley, when I was speaking, it was as if I was the only person there. Like he was hanging on to my every word. Ryan never listened to me like that, magnifying Jay’s behavior even more. Unsettled me even more.
Still, a week with my number, all I got were the instructions in a group text with Marv, leading me to believe I was very much reading into things.
Eyeing a vacant barn—a perfect place to hide a body—I pull the key from the ignition, my knee bouncing maniacally against the steering wheel of my minivan as I chew my lip.What the hell am I doing here?
Jay appears, same absurd antlered hat on his head he was wearing at the bowling alley, and my chest tightens.
This is real.
I’m meeting strange men at a strange place in the name of skipping Christmas.
Jay pulls a large door open on the barn, steps inside before emerging with two horses hitched to a wagon. He looks like one of Santa’s helpers about to head west in a live game ofOregon Trail.
Whatever this is, I can’t do it.
I shove my key back in the ignition, turn it, then remember: home will be worse. It will be empty because my kids are with Ryan. At the Christmas parade I’ve been going to for over a decade. Without me. It hollows me out.
“You can do this, Hollis,” I mutter, yanking the key backoutof the ignition and using every ounce of energy to get my body out of the van and moving toward Jay.
“Hello,” I say when I’m next to him, sounding a bit terrified as I eye the horses and him. Because I am. Because only clinically insane people do this.
“Hello,” he mimics with a slight smirk, leaning against the wagon and crossing his arms over his flannel-clad chest, amused spark in his green eyes. “Wasn’t sure if you’d show.”
“Me neither.” A laugh puffs out of me, but I don’t shy away from his gaze. “I hope it’s okay.”
His eyes bounce from the beanie on my head to the laced-up boots on my feet. “Wouldn’t have texted you if it wasn’t.”
“Oh.” What isthatsupposed to mean? “Okay.”
He adjusts the straps on the horses then does a walk-around inspection of the wagon, whistling the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as he does.
He’s got this ruggedI don’t give a damnvibe. Over his top lip, the most absurd mustache I’ve ever seen in real life and an exact match with the dark hair peeking out from the bottom of his hat. At the bowling alley, he appeared to be fit, but the thick layers of tonight reveal nothing about his body.
And yet.
Against every traditional standard of which I have ever judged appearances—even with the mustache—he’s attractive.
Despite the stupid hat, maybe even hot.
I eye the two very big horses and the connected wagon covered in red chipped paint. “I didn’t expect horses.” He makes an acknowledging sound mid-whistled tune but offers no information. “Is it safe?”
He puts a thermos and stuffed bag on the bench of the wagon.
“We aren’t going far,” he says with a smirk.
He does that—smirks—constantly. I noticed it last week. It’s like he’s in on every joke the world has ever told. There I was having a stage-five freakout about my life in a bowling alley, and he just stood there, amused. Like the cardboard cutout of Santa holding a bowling ball wasn’t shredding my cat-costumed heart into smithereens.
I glance around, letting it sink in I’m here as I try to figure out how I’m going to spin this for my weekly article.
The Holiday Club was good in theory, but it’s not who I am. I write about motherhood, and there’s not a child in sight. Plus, if I’m not celebrating the season with our traditions, I’d rather hide in bed. Crying. When I sat down at the computer after bowling, I decided I’d tweak my content from last year and reuse it for the magazine, but after years of writing my truth to women readers, I felt like a fraud. Fake. I decided to write my truth and my fingers obliged, openly confessing to the keyboard that I was going into this season broken.
The week that followed wasn’t as bleak as I expected. When I picked the kids up Monday afternoon, it was like a switch flipped and the situation became significantly less dire. Though there weren’t the usual holiday songs or decorations surrounding us, I stopped crying. I took them to school and made dinner everynight. We played board games and did homework. Ialmostforgot about Christmas.
“How was the tree lighting? And the costume contest?”I had asked over Sloppy Joes.
“They plugged the lights in like they always do,”said Ava in her seven-year-old toothless voice.
