She uses her entire hand to swipe the tears off her cheeks. “I can’t ask the town to relight the tree to a day more conducive to my ex-husband’s assholish plans.” She shakes her head. “No. Without my kids, there’s nothing. What’s the point of doing it alone? Of-of even getting a Christmas tree?” Her eyes are wide and wild. “I’m skipping it. All of Christmas. You’re right.”
I have never once suggested skipping Christmas.
She reaches for her beer and takes a long sip, a look on her face like she’s formulating a plan.
“I don’t understand why anyone would want a holiday without all the regular traditions,” she continues. “That’s the whole point. The whole entire point of Christmas is the tried-and-true traditions. It’s doing the things you’ll look back on to remind you of how loved and special you are because they happened the very same way at the very same time with the very same people every single year. It’s like morning coffee. It doesn’t work if it happens at three in the afternoon, you know?”
I consider answering but she doesn’t even give me enough time to open my mouth.
“I can skip it all this year. I will. Maybe you’re onto something. And Kat.”Kat?“I could—I don’t know—tag along with you two for the season. I could write about it. A Year Without Christmas. Something like that.” She bites her lip, eyes bouncing with her thoughts. “Too negative.”
“You know Christmas still happens without parades, right?”
She scoffs. “But is it the same? Is it—that’s it. I’ve always talked about the importance of traditions as I experience them, this year I could show what happens without them, in turnproving their necessity to the season. Show everyone how dire it makes things.” She looks at me, face filled with hopeful desperation. “You could show me what you two do, and I’ll prove it’s not real Christmas. Not really. Please.”
I swallow a hefty gulp of beer.
“Can’t you tell the magazine you want to write about something different?”
“I’ve done it every year for four years,” she says, offended. “I don’t half-ass my commitments like my ex-husband. Plus, I love my job—especially this time of year. I’ve built a community. Moms everywhere depend on me. And” —she looks at me with what I would dare call judgment—“I’m not some kind of-of-of—” Her eyes bounce all over me again. “Easy on the eyes, mustached Santa dabbler like you. I’m a professional. I can do this. I will.”
My eyebrows lift. “Easy on the eyes, eh?”
“That’s not the point.” She huffs out a frustrated breath. “The point is that I need your help.”
Marv returns from his vent quest, hands on his hips, brows hitched high on his head.
“Marv doesn’t like new members,” I tell her.
“Eh. No wire,” he says, looking from her to me. “What do I care? Jay? You good with it?”
Fuck no, I’m not good with it. She’ll change things. Write about them. Marv and I have a great thing going—these last five years have been the easiest holiday seasons of my forty years of holidaying. I invited her to bowl one game, not be part of the club.
She’s already had multiple meltdowns. Already attacked me for not being married. Already put words in my mouth I most definitely did not say.
“Please, Jay,” she begs with a bounce and her hands pressed together. “You’ll barely notice me.”
Judging by the crying and all the talking, I find this highly unlikely.
“We do things outdoors,” I tell her. “Even when it’s cold.”
“I have a coat.”
“We stay out late. End up in weird places.”
“I’ll drive myself.”
“No kids allowed.”
“Are you deaf?” She huffs. “I don’t have my kids. That’s the whole, stupid point.”
Dammit.
“Sometimes we pick up women.” This is a lie—Marv scares all women off. “That a problem?”
Her eyes bounce all over me—again. Pink splashes across her cheeks. “I can be a wingwoman.”
She’s not backing down. I either have to be an ass and point-blank tell her no—which might lead her to crying again—or just go with it. Just let her in. Risk the ruin of this good, easy thing we’ve built.
