He laughed, and I hoped that would be the end of it, that he could talk to me like normal, without the pity. But then he said, “Sorry. My brother seems to think everyone’s depressed this time of year.”
“That’s probably true, though I doubt they’d want you to point it out. Wait, were you talking to your brother about me?”
“That’s not what I said.” The guilt laced through his words told me otherwise.
He’d told his brother I hated Christmas. I liked talking to Doug, but the thought of him rehashing our strange relationship with someone else was like a douse of cold water on an already hard day. What else had they talked about? I thought back to everything I’d admitted about my family and regretted ever saying anything. My privacy was everything to me. “Well, don’t worry about me anymore. I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will. I’ll see you after New Year’s. Merry Christmas.” He sounded tense, but as usual, when attacked, he’d chosen the high road.
“Merry Christmas.” I hung up and came as close to crying as I had in a long time. A few throat clears and I was fine. Tired, but fine.
I leaned forward until my forehead was touching the sleeping dog. She smelled. I found the travel-sized dog shampoo in the gift basket Mom had included with the kennel carrier, and gave her a bath. Wallowing was for suckers.
