“I’m not a math problem for you to solve.”
“True.” He patted my bottom with affection and ambled out the door. “Dealing with you is more like quantum mechanics.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I called after him.
He only laughed.
~ 19 ~
Ice fell asleep in her corner of the couch by nine thirty, curled up in a ball under her colorful silk quilt, her mantle of hair covering the rest.
I clicked off the end credits of the classic Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which we’d switched to after A Charlie Brown Christmas, which made Ice cry. It made me cry, too—way too close to some of my actual Christmases, without the miraculously better tree and happy forgiveness at the end—but I’d managed to hide it. Ice never cared who saw her cry, but I was pretty good at sucking back the tears before they fell. The trick is not to touch your face, not even pretending to scratch your nose or something. It only draws people’s attention and then they have you.
At least snarking with Ice about the archaic male-gaze shit in Rudolf, with Jon ruefully in agreement, made me feel more myself. We riffed on making Clarice, the Feminist Reindeer, who ditched Santa’s patriarchy, recruited Mrs. Claus and the other long-lashed nameless reindeer, to rid the world of ice monsters and bullies. And dentists. Until Ice dropped off practically mid-sentence.
“She went out quick,” Jon observed.
“Yeah. She’s been burning the candle at both ends. A belly full of food and some booze—I’m not surprised she’s down for the count. The question is: leave her here or wake her up to go to bed?”
Jon cocked his head, considering. He had his arm around my shoulders, and I’d given up trying to keep space between us, now leaning against him. Our legs were both stretched out and propped on the coffee table, ankles crossed, sock-covered feet—his a cringeworthy tomato—leaning toward each other. It felt homey and companionable, like all those times we’d binged shows together, back in the day. And, for some reason, not something I’d ever done with Brad, I realized. We were always out on the town, hitting the scene, not hanging at home. I’d liked that. I’d wanted it.
Weird that this had felt so good. Part of my recovery, probably.
“She looks too adorable to disturb,” Jon decided, squeezing my shoulder. “Our baby girl can sleep on the couch tonight. It’s Christmas, after all.”
I half-heartedly popped him on the chest for that, and he took advantage of my momentum by pulling me in, rolling toward me, and kissing me thoroughly. “Want to play some reindeer games?” he murmured.
A dim roar from the street had me levering him away. “A moot point—both for games and not waking Ice. That’s Damien’s motorcycle, which means he and Marcia are about to walk in.”
“A motorcycle, huh? What kind?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “I didn’t retain the details. All I remember is that I was corrected that it’s not a Harley. Something about custom.”
“Did he do the work himself?”
“I have no idea. I can’t believe you’re interested.”
“Hey, I might be a nerd, but I’m still a guy.” He kissed me to prove the point and I had to scramble out from under him, lest they catch us. Which they pretty much did.
Marcia came in, fuzzy white earmuffs framing her pink-cheeked face, Damien holding the door for her, and halted, rocking back on her heels. “Oops,” she said. “We could—”
“No way.” With no such qualms, Damien cut her off, putting his hands on her and pushing her farther in. “Hello, all. It’s fucking freezing out there. I’m not leaving.”
“It’s fine,” I told them, getting up and gathering Thai food cartons. “We were just winding up. Ice crashed.”
“So I see.” Marcia eyed her. “But she’s okay?”
I shrugged and we exchanged a look. Maybe a few days off with some decent rest would set Ice to rights. Otherwise we might have to stage an intervention.
“I’m Damien.” Damien shook Jon’s hand.
“Oh, sorry—Damien and Marcia, Jon; Jon, Damien and Marcia.”
“I hear you have a custom bike,” Jon asked leadingly.
Damien grinned, the hoop in his lower lip glinting. “Sure do. Want to see it?”
“Sure do!” Jon grinned back, sitting up and putting on his shoes.
“I thought it was fucking freezing out there,” I reminded them.
They both gave me that withering look that guys do when they think women are being deliberately dense.
“We’re not riding it,” Damien explained. “Just looking. While you ladies warm up the leftover Thai I smell,” he added hopefully.
“Oh, right.” Marcia folded her arms. “Like I live to make with the pots and pans.”
“Hey—you ate dinner already. I haven’t gotten to yet.”
“We could make more hot buttered rum,” I put in. “And there’s Julie’s sugar cookies.”
The guys both looked so hopeful that we laughed and headed to the kitchen. Ice never stirred.
“How drunk did you get her?” Marcia asked. In the other room, the guys chatted about the bike while Jon put on his coat.
“Three hot buttered rums is all. She’s exhausted.”
The front door shut and Marcia whirled on me, grabbing me by the arms. “Omigod, he’s so cute!”
I laughed, extracting myself to put on the tea kettle. “No surprise that you think so—he’s exactly your type.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Marcia pulled out the Tupperware container of buttered rum batter from the freezer. “Or rather, was my type, until I met Damien. Goes to show how little ‘type’ matters when you meet the right one.”
“Hmm.” I got out my pretty Sicily serving platter and arranged the cookies on it, while Marcia retrieved the leftovers from our living room feast. Jon had gone overboard and there would be more than enough to feed one hungry actor. “Did Daniel stay for the second show?”
“Yes. Do you know he sees almost every one of Charley’s shows? That’s true love.” Marcia shook her head. “I’m glad Damien is only in one show a night—and doesn’t seem to expect me to sit through every performance. It would make me crazy.”
“I’m not sure it’s fair to call that true love.” I glanced out the kitchen window at the two guys, shoulders hunched against the cold under the shine of the streetlight and general glow of Christmas lights on the houses up and down the narrow street. Jon still had on the Santa hat, the fuzzy pompon bobbing as he nodded at something Damien said. “Daniel went to all the shows before they got together. It’s his thing. Maybe what you’re calling true love is really just finding the person your things match up with.”
“And here I thought you were the queen of making anything match. Your superpower.”
I frowned a little. I had said that, many times. “That’s true, but… I don’t know. Maybe some things are easier to match than others.”
“And how are your things matching up?” Marcia asked, giving me her version of a salacious look, which on her angelic face came out more owlish than anything. “What’s his point score—5.0? Higher?”
“Jon is just a friend,” I replied. I should put a sign around his neck.
“With benefits, apparently, as you were looking pretty cozy there.”
I shrugged for that, getting out more mugs.
“Ice said you know him from Wildwood.”
I paused in scooping the buttered rum batter into the mugs. “When did she tell you that?”
“She texted all of us,” Marcia answered, as if it were no big thing. She bit into a pink-iced angel. “Tasty gossip, dontcha know.”
Annoyance stabbed at me, as if I’d come home to find one of them had been rummaging in my room and left things out of place. “So glad you all are titillated,” I ground out. The kettle whistled, startling me, and I grabbed it, pouring hot water into the mugs.
“Hey.” Marcia touched my arm, there and gone, keeping a bit more distance now, distress in her warm brow
n eyes. “We’re happy for you is all. After the Brad debacle and now that there’s someone from—” She stopped, catching herself. Or reading something in my face.
“From Wildwood? It’s not some big mystery. I don’t know why you all think it is.” I added the shots of rum, being generous. I needed it, at least.
“Because you never talk about it.” Marcia sounded impatient, turning back to stirring. “It’s like this black hole in your past, and when anyone asks, you get all angry, like now.”
“I’m not angry,” I bit out. Realizing I needed to modulate, I took a drink of hot buttered rum and scalded my tongue. “Dammit—this is too hot.” I slammed the mug down, slopping it on the counter. I grabbed a cloth and swiped at the spill furiously. “This is what comes of not checking the fucking temperature of the water.”
“Ho-kayyy,” Marcia said to the pot on the stove. “Why would anyone think she’s pissed off? I don’t know.”
The front door banged open and the guys came in, talking loudly and then shushing themselves. They entered the kitchen, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, like kids coming in from making a snowman, all happy jubilance.
Jon took one look at me and his smile faded. He considered me with that analytical expression, and I felt like the killjoy Ice had called me. “Something up?” he asked.
“I’m exhausted,” I announced, then looked at the kitchen clock. “It’s after ten, and I have work in the morning, so I’ll say my goodnights. Jon, if you don’t want to drive home, you can sleep on the other couch. There’s blankets in the linen closet.”
Damien exchanged a look with Marcia, then slid into the breakfast nook bench. No one said anything, which made me feel like an idiot, so I walked out.
Jon, of course, immediately caught up with me, catching me by the hips at the foot of the stairs. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
I refused to turn around. “Nothing. Can’t I be tired?”
“Amy.” Jon eased around me, putting himself between me and the first riser. “Talk to me. Did I do something wrong?”
“You know, Jon, maybe it’s not all about you.” Maybe I’m just a stone-cold bitch after all.
“No, but something made you angry in the ten minutes I was outside, so I thought I’d start there and eliminate variables,” he replied with gentle reason and a half smile.
“I’m not angry,” I insisted. “I’m just…” I trailed off, unable to summon the words.
“Tired,” he finished for me. “How about I tuck you into bed? You go up and I’ll bring the hot buttered rum and cookies. Then, if you still want me to, I’ll leave you alone.”
I eyed him, feeling helpless against the tide of conflicting emotion. Did nothing put him off?
“You know you want a sugar cookie,” he coaxed. “They bring sweet dreams.”
Despite myself, I smiled, which felt all wobbly, so I stopped. “They bring hyperactivity and lousy sleep.”
“That’s what the rum is for.” He gave me a quick kiss. “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be right up.”
~ 20 ~
I didn’t do as instructed. Oh, I went to my room, but I sat cross-legged on the made-up bed. I didn’t want to brush my teeth before eating cookies and I sure didn’t want to wash my face and deal with Jon without my makeup on. Instead I waited, feeling stupider by the moment for my behavior. What the hell was wrong with me lately? I was always the happy one.
Perky Amy, that was me. Not cranky, moody Amy.
My body twitched with restlessness. Sure enough, my Fitbit showed my heart rate at cardio levels. Too much sugar, most likely. If it were summer, I’d go running. I did sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, jogging down the uneven sidewalks under the rustling canopy of moonlit leaves, finding a peacefulness in that, emptying myself of all the nervous energy.
A knock on the door. “Come in,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice. I’d eat a cookie, drink the hot buttered rum I didn’t want anymore, and send Jon packing.
“Hands are full,” he called.
With a sigh, I abandoned my strategic position and got up to open the door. Jon stood there in his silly Santa hat with my Sicily tray, a plate of cookies and two steaming mugs on it. “Ho ho ho,” he said softly, with a sweet smile. As if I hadn’t pitched a fit.
“Why, Santa.” I held the door open. “Come in. Though I should warn you that I haven’t been a good girl at all.” I’d meant it to be a flirtatious makeup for my earlier behavior, but I ended up sounding a little broken.
Jon set the tray on my bedside table, shut the door, and slipped his hands around my waist, kissing my nose. “I’ll let you in on a secret: Santa has a special yen for the naughty girls.”
I laughed, then actually sniffled. Jesus. Maybe I needed to be medicated. Jon pulled me into a hug, just holding me, warm and strong. I clung to him, wanting to burrow into that. “The Charlie Brown Christmas got me, too,” he whispered into my ear. “That fucking pathetic tree…”
Leaning back, I looked into his face, willing my eyes to be dry. “I didn’t cry over that.”
“It’s okay. Ice did, too.”
“Yeah, but she cries at everything, and I…” I didn’t want to finish that thought.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting. “See it as a weakness. I get that.”
A weakness. Yeah. My brothers would keep at me until they got me to cry, then they’d say I was faking to get them in trouble. At school, well, you learn early that the key to stopping the teasing is to appear unaffected. Tears are a lethal betrayal that they got to you.
“Hmm,” was all I said aloud.
Jon had been watching my face, as if trying to read the thoughts behind it. “Talk to me. What happened in the kitchen? Marcia was all weepy, too.”
“Oh, shit.” I tore away from him, almost glad of the excuse, though not the reason for it. “I should go apologize.”
“I think Damien has it handled.” Jon sat on my bed, toed off his shoes, and pulled off his socks. “He seemed to be enjoying cheering her up and if I read the situation right, you’d just be interrupting now. You can tell her tomorrow. Stay with me and tell me what’s eating you.”
“Nothing.” I threw up my hands. “Everything. I make no sense to myself.”
“Okay.” He sat back with one knee drawn up, plumping my decorative pillows behind him. Again, that memory of him in my dorm room, exactly like that. Picking up one of the mugs of hot buttered rum, he tossed the Santa hat on the floor and raked a hand through his hair. “Go on.”
I put my hands on my hips. Couldn’t stand still, so I started pacing. “There’s nothing to say. I got mad at her for no reason.”
“Totally out of the blue?”
“Well, no. She was teasing me about you, and saying how I never talk about Wildwood—which I do, so that’s stupid—and I don’t know what all.”
“Ah.” He nibbled on a cookie. “This is maybe the best sugar cookie I’ve ever had. So is the hot buttered rum, for that matter.”
“Both Julie. She’s magic in the kitchen. And she’s perfectly rational. Really, you should hook up with her.”
“You’re perfectly rational. And I like you.”
“How can you say that?” I waved my hands in the air. “So what if they texted each other, all titillated that I’ve unearthed someone from Wildwood? Why should I care? Jesus! It was fucking high school. Nobody has friends from back then.”
“I think most people do,” he said, in that quiet, reasonable tone. “Especially at our age. Most people aren’t us, though.”
I glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He cocked his head a little, gauging me. “Earlier this evening, you said you were always forgetting stuff from back then, but you haven’t. It’s all over your walls. And all of that’s in you, whether you want it to be or not. Maybe it’s more that the remembering is painful, so you try not to. But part of you needs to, or you wouldn’t have it where you look at it every day. Come and sit.”
“I need to move.” I started pacing again, to prove it. “Just spit it out. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that people notice when you have a big hole in you.” He sounded exasperated now. “It’s not a bad thing. Your friends love you and they can guess that Wildwood hurt you, which it did. Isn’t that why you ghosted me?”
I stopped. Stared at him. “I’m amazed you know that term, since it’s a social media thing.”
He snorted. “One of the other grad students explained it. I can be taught.”
“The same one who enabled your emoji keyboard,” I guessed.
“The very same. Had to be able to keep up with you.”
Picking up my mug of hot buttered rum, I sat on the edge of the bed, sipping from its sugary, creamy, alcoholic goodness. I sometimes think Christmas is so much about all that kind of food because we need those crutches to get through it. “So, I’m imagining the conversation like this. You’re texting with me. I mention emojis. You ask him—”
“Her,” he corrected. “Chinese gal named Xiao. You’d like her.”
“Her.” Oh, great. Hi, stab of jealousy. Kill me now. “And you tell her our history and she says the correct term for what I did to you, to our friendship, is ghosting.”
He’d sobered, gaze sharp on me. “That’s more or less how it went. Though, it was a longer conversation than that. We had a tedious afternoon of running some setups.”
“And did she advise you to steer clear of me?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
He shook his head. “Honest truth. She said I seemed really happy and she hopes it works out.”
Because you’re happy. Sure sign. I needed to find my stride, catch my breath, so I went back to the beginning. “Why do you say Wildwood hurt me?”
“I oversimplified. This is what I think.” He set his empty mug aside, drew up his knees to sit cross-legged, braced his elbows on his knees and steepled his index fingers against his mouth. “We came from shitty families.”
“I know that part.”
“Bear with me. So, though we knew that from way back, when we got to Wildwood it put all of that vast, horrible, intolerable shittiness into sharp relief. It was like, we didn’t know what a pitiful, spindly twig our Christmas tree was, sagging under the weight of the one shiny red ball we scrounged to hang on it, until we walked into that place and saw the twenty-foot-tall wonder. Full of lights and expensive ornaments.” He traced it in the air, evoking the image. “Sugarplums, whatever the fuck those are.”
Missed Connections Box Set Page 37
