by Sivec, Tara
“Technically, most of those things really did happen; he just didn’t die from them.” I shrug as I dunk two dirty glasses someone sets onto the bar into the hot soapy water in the washing sink, then into the rinsing sink, followed by the sanitizing sink, before setting them next to the other glasses on the mat to dry. “He actually did get ran over a little bit by the Polar Express golf cart train people can ride around the island to see the lights. He really did fall off the roof hanging Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving. And his dick was out of commission for three days after an intense Nerf gun war with Owen, followed by the two stitches he needed in his head after sliding into the fireplace during tag and taking out all my stockings and their cast iron stocking holders. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he tries to splice the wires of broken twinkle lights while taking a bubble bath and he really does die.”
“He’s a giant man-child pothead with no redeeming qualities, but I sure do love the guy.” Birdie laughs.
A low, rumbling growl comes out of me, and Birdie quickly grabs her drink from the bar and starts backing away, much like Jan did a few minutes ago. It’s one thing for me to call my boyfriend a man-child pothead, but no one else is allowed to do it.
Yes, my boyfriend smokes a lot of weed. And eats a lot of edibles. And owns more bongs than articles of clothing, and always has his vape pen on him for emergencies. I know people look at him and think he’s ridiculous, and never takes things seriously, and will never grow up, and does nothing all day every day but smoke pot and take naps.
But I know why he is the way he is, especially after he told me about his past. I know that once he left his old life, he finally found some freedom and happiness, but he also found a debilitating case of social anxiety along with panic attacks. I know if he’s completely marijuana-free, he can’t even pick up the phone and order a pizza. He won’t leave the house. He can’t handle large crowds of people or too much noise. He doesn’t laugh easily, his smiles are forced, and he just completely shuts down and feels like he can’t function. I’d much rather he utilizes “organic” ways to get himself in the right headspace than develop a drinking problem or have to be on so much prescription medication it turns him into a zombie.
If he was nothing but a loser pothead, my cottage wouldn’t always be spotless, my laundry wouldn’t always be washed, folded, and put away, and my fridge and pantry wouldn’t always be magically stocked with food. Sure, it’s mostly because Bodhi always has the munchies and will literally have a breakdown if we’re out of Red Vines licorice or chips and guacamole, but still. If he was nothing but a loser pothead, dinner wouldn’t always be on the table when I walk in the door or brought up to me at the bar when I’m working a late shift.
And sure, I never know what kind of a new job he’ll come home with from one week to the next, but I like that about him. I like that he won’t just settle for a 9-to-5 job that makes him miserable because it’s what society says he’s supposed to do. I like that he won’t spend one penny of the giant sum of money he made all those years caddying for Palmer until he finds something important and worth spending that money on. And I’ve threatened him on more than one occasion that he is never allowed to use that money on me. He earned it before we were together, and it’s his, and it has nothing to do with me. And being the good listener that Bodhi is, right when I’m starting to panic about paying bills, he finds a swingers’ convention that needs a games moderator, or someone wanting surf lessons, and the rest of the money I need for bills is magically deposited into my bank account the next day. I might not want any of the money he earned before me, but this man lives with me now, and sleeps in my bed, and shits in my toilet, and I find his dirty socks all over the fucking house because that seems to be the one and only thing he can never clean up. Hell yes, he needs to help pay these bills. I do not house freeloaders, no matter how good they are with their penis.
He has broken more items in my cottage running around on one of his sugar highs or playing catch with Owen that I’ve finally realized I’m just not meant to have nice things. But he takes care of me, makes me laugh and not take things so seriously all the time, is a great listener, and gives great advice. Yes, he can be childish as fuck the majority of the time and can drive me up the goddamn wall some days, but not when it counts. For the first time in my life, I feel defensive over a guy I’m dating. The guy I thought would be a one-night stand six months ago who’s been sleeping on my couch ever since.
Okay, fine, so he only sleeps on my couch when I break up with him when he really annoys me, which is only like, three times a month. What the fuck ever. This is all his fault for making me have feelings and shit. He’s the first guy I’ve ever dated who lets me be me without making me feel bad about who I am. He understands I’m always right and it’s my way or the highway, and it actually turns him on when I stomp my foot and order him around.
He doesn’t puff out his chest and try to act like just because he has a penis he needs to make all the rules. He doesn’t have a giant ego that can’t handle being with a strong, independent woman, and when I ask him to pick up tampons at the store, his only reply is “What’s the flow situation today on a scale of light to this looks like a crime scene, and do we also need chocolate?” And if I even think about how excellent he is at giving orgasms, I’ll probably black out. I know I’m a bitch. I know I’m prickly and mouthy and generally hate people and I’m not the easiest woman to get along with, but for some reason, Bodhi likes that about me. And that scares the shit out of me, because it actually makes me think I want disgusting things with him like weddings and babies.
My eyes well up with tears when I suddenly have the same vision I’ve been having way too much lately of Bodhi slipping a hemp ring on my finger—because what else would Bodhi slip on my finger?—which just makes me growl again and add in a foot stomp for good measure until the tears subside.
“Is this actually you having a freakish mood swing right in front of me, or are you going to blame it on a brain tumor again?” Birdie asks with a quirk of one eyebrow.
“Tiny Tim the Tumor is the only reason I’ve been so off lately,” I remind her. “I’ve had fevers, a sinus infection, blurred vision, dizziness, and I keep daydreaming about weddings and babies. I am broken, and the only plausible explanation for my brokenness is that I’m dying of a brain tumor, and it all started the night of the damn blowjob proposal. Bodhi gave me a tumor.”
“Be serious.” Birdie laughs and takes another sip of her ball juice. My friends don’t seem to want to board the tumor train with me just yet and refuse to take me seriously, but it’s fine. They’ll be punching their tickets soon enough. “Well, you’ll be happy to know I have officially passed the torch to Bodhi and sent him a text explaining what is required of him, and now he has the big boy responsibility of being the one the doctor calls with your test results instead of me. You are literally going to play the worst game of High Telephone ever. I can definitely see the doctor telling Bodhi you have heart burn, then he’ll smoke some weed and wind up telling you that you need a triple bypass.”
I roll my eyes when Birdie calls it a big boy responsibility, even though that’s exactly what I called it when I got home from the doctor the other day, pissed he wouldn’t do a full body scan to find Tiny Tim the Tumor and only wanted to take eleventy billion vials of blood. Which resulted in me snapping at Bodhi and telling him he wasn’t coming near me with a hemp ring unless he took on the big boy job of getting my test results for me instead of Birdie to see how responsible he can be when he has to tell me I’m dying. Yes, I have a freakish case of anxiety when it comes to doctors and getting test results. Birdie has always been the one who gets the call from the doctor first so she can break whatever it is to me gently, ever since that time I thought I was dying from bladder cancer and refused to answer the phone, and it just turned out I had a UTI.
And since I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about all my wedding and baby nightmares, the hemp ring comment re
ally confused Bodhi. I’m pretty sure he only agreed to my demands to get me to stop screaming and throwing his socks in the fireplace.
I just want to disappear somewhere and have a quiet Christmas while Bodhi gives me multiple orgasms until my death sentence arrives. Is that too much to ask?
“Well, good luck with that. I’m sure Bodhi will be very responsible when the doctor calls, and he has to officially inform you that you’re batshit crazy,” Birdie declares with a smile while I reach for the long-stem lighter I used to light the candles in all the holly-and-pine centerpieces. “So, anyway, don’t forget we’re having a Christmas craft night at Wren and Shepherd’s tomorrow night because he needs our help with all those last-minute holiday shirt orders. Sunday is Sundaes with Santa at the Dip and Twist. Then we’ve got the ornament exchange party with our book club, the ornament exchange party with the ladies from high school, the ornament exchange party with the SIG employees, the ornament….”
Birdie trails off when I repeatedly click the ignite button on the lighter so the flame blinks in and out of existence while I glare at her.
“You know what? I’ll just text you the list of all the fun Christmas stuff we still have left to do.”
“I’m so overcome with joy I can’t handle it,” I deadpan.
Birdie waves me off and finally turns and disappears into the crowd of happy partiers to go find Palmer. Setting the lighter down, I distractedly pull the bar towel off my shoulder and start wiping down the shiny wooden bar top as I stare around the room, wishing I could go back to the way it was when I was normal. I’ve been feeling like shit mentally and physically for the last two months. Ever since Bodhi blurted out a marriage proposal when I had his dick in my mouth. Which is mostly the cause of my orneriness whenever anyone asks me about our future. Who does he think he is, throwing something like that out into the universe when he knows damn well neither one of us are the settling down forever type, and that’s exactly why we work? I finished that damn BJ like a champ after telling him to fuck off, but that’s definitely the night everything started to decline. My health and my mental state.
Fucking Bodhi and his stupid fucking marriage proposal…
“Hey, Tess! So, when are you—”
“Fuck off. Bodhi and I are never getting married, and I’m never squeezing demons out of my Christmas cookie, because frankly, Amber, I’d rather have a fully functioning vagina instead of a cavernous sinkhole,” I cut off Amber Ellenburg, the owner of Summersweet Island Realty. “Can I refill your spiked eggnog? Light your Christmas sweater on fire?”
Amber doesn’t slowly back away from the bar like Jan and Birdie. She full-on turns and flees from the room, shoving people out of the way as she goes until she disappears into the pro-shop just off the bar, where they’ve set up pictures with Santa. I immediately feel guilty about what I said, then get pissed off at myself for feeling guilty. Tess Powell doesn’t feel guilty about jack shit.
At least I didn’t until that stupid blowjob proposal.
Birdie and Palmer are busy making wedding plans for next summer, and Palmer won’t shut his face about knocking her up as soon as Birdie says I do. Shepherd is planning on proposing to Wren in the middle of a baseball field when they take Owen on a trip to a college in California after the first of the year. And I’m sure it won’t be long until she pops out a sibling for Owen. And Emily… well, Emily’s love life is a goddamn shitshow right now, but it’s only a matter of time before she has wedding bells on the brain. I’ve been to two baby showers in the last month, and I’ve gotten four wedding invitations in the mail in the last week. I’m surrounded by weddings and baby fever on this island, and for the first time in my life, I want to get the hell away from Summersweet. It’s this place that’s wreaking havoc on me and making me feel all mushy and pukey; I just know it. Well, this place and good old Tiny Tim.
When people start filing out of the bar to head to the golf course restaurant, Tee Time, for the white elephant gift exchange and it quiets down a bit, I hear my phone chime with an incoming text, and I grab it out from under the bar where I stowed it next to my purse. I smile when I see the text, and butterflies flap around in my stomach. Then I immediately get annoyed that a stupid text from a stupid boy makes me feel all giddy. I don’t do giddy.
Bodhi: How’s it going, my little firestarter? Have you killed anyone yet?
Me: Fuck off.
Bodhi: That’s the spirit! I miss you too. How are you feeling? Is your fever still gone?
Me: My fever is gone, but I’m still dying from a brain tumor. I’ve named him Tiny Tim. See? I can be festive AF.
Bodhi: You are not dying from a brain tumor. Serious question though. Can we get a pet and name him Tiny Tim the Tumor? Maybe something in the turtle family.
Me: We’re not getting a turtle. There is no other explanation for me crying while watching a Hallmark Christmas movie with you yesterday, aside from the fact that I’m dying from some incurable disease with only months left to live. I haven’t cried since that one time on a Tuesday in 1998 when I stubbed my toe.
Bodhi: You cried because that movie was about a widower who moved to a small town to run the local inn and never thought he’d love again, while also winning the town’s baking competition and fake-dating Santa’s daughter so Santa would stop pressuring her to get married. It was poignant and beautiful and deserved our tears, Tess. You didn’t cry because you’re dying.
Me: Whatever. Something is wrong with me. You’ll see. And I already gave my doctor your cell phone number, and he is under strict instructions to call you and only you. You should probably start practicing how you’re going to tell me I’m dying. You can laugh, but only for three to five seconds, and then you have to get serious.
Bodhi: I know what you need.
Me: If you say your dick, I will shank you with a candy cane.
Bodhi: I wasn’t gonna say my dick.
Bodhi: I was gonna say come sit on my North Pole. Anyhoo, I think you need a few days away to recharge. Get away from the Christmas craziness and the two new shipments of glitter Shepherd just got from Amazon today for those holiday shirts we’re supposed to help make.
Me: I can still taste the glitter from those fucking Thanksgiving shirts we had to help with.
Me: And as lovely as a getaway sounds, I don’t have time to plan a getaway the week before Christmas. Oh, look at that. Birdie just sent me a text with our social calendar for the next week. Looks like I’m going to be busy dying before I ACTUALLY die.
Bodhi: Don’t you worry about a thing. Bodhi’s got it handled and will take care of everything.
Me: Like the time you “handled” making the stuffing for our first Thanksgiving together and forgot the container you labeled parsley wasn’t actually parsley? You’re lucky I refuse to eat soggy bread that’s been cooked in a bird carcass.
Bodhi: Right, so maybe handled a little bit better than that. But everyone was in a GREAT mood for the rest of the day, and they literally ate everything, and we didn’t have a weeks-worth of leftovers. Plus, Murphy giggled! Highlight of my life so far.
Me: Are you forgetting he tried to strangle you after he sobered up?
Bodhi: He wasn’t trying to strangle me. It was just a very firm hug with his hands, while he was straddling me on the ground. And I will handle this like a responsible adult who will make an excellent husband shall you decide to take one in the near future.
Me: Eat. Shit.
Bodhi: Love you too, sweetie. See you when you get home. I’ll be the one naked by the tree, wearing just a pair of pointy elf ears.
Bodhi: FYI, it’s for our Christmas card next year.
CHAPTER 2
“Sleigh my name, sleigh my name.”
(310) 867-5309: Hey, Millie! Sorry it’s been so long, but I need your help with something pretty important.
Millie: OMG, I told you that you are not allowed to text me.
(310) 867-5309: Seriously, Millie? Wait… did you check into rehab again just because
you like the coffee? You know they take your phone away every time, and you always get in trouble for sneaking it out of lock-up.
Millie: First of all, I didn’t check into rehab those three times. I was there visiting Ben Affleck, and he was just so sad and lonely that I decided to stay for a few weeks. And they really do have the best coffee. Anyway, why are you texting me? It was one night. You have GOT to get over me already.
(310) 867-5309: Well, this is certainly fun! Who exactly do you think this is?
Millie: The guy I fucked in Mykonos?
(310) 867-5309: Um, definitely not.
Millie: The guy I fucked in Palm Springs?
(310) 867-5309: Negative, Ghost Rider.
Millie: The guy I fucked in the Prada dressing room on Rodeo Drive?
(310) 867-5309: We’re gonna be here a while, aren’t we? Man, you go six months without talking to someone you’ve been friends with FOREVER, and they forget who you are. How about a hint? You were with me the first time I did mushrooms, and I threw up on your Louboutins.
Millie: Frankie Muniz? Michael Bublé? Steve Guttenberg? Either of the Olsen twins? Honestly, that’s the worst hint EVER.
(310) 867-5309: Okay, how about… I just got in some new strains you might enjoy—Rudolph the Red-Eyed Reindeer, Merry Kushmas, It’s a Weederful Life, and Winter Bowlstice.
Millie: BODHI!!! My sweet, wonderful friend! Sorry for all the confusion. I just got a new cell phone due to a tiny stalker sitch and lost all my contacts.
Bodhi: Stalker?! Are you okay?
Millie: It’s totally cool. It’s like, the third one this month. I’m so bored with their lack of imagination and follow-through. I get it. You want me to die. And yet, where are you? Certainly not outside my house where I left you a lovely charcuterie that went to waste. Anyway, where have you been?! You fell off the face of the earth after that football player you worked for threw his soccer ball in the water.
