by Lacey Black
“Okay,” he says casually, shrugging those broad shoulders once more. “Thought I’d offer.”
“Well, thank you…but no thank you.” My words are tight and my movements jerky. I throw my bag over my shoulder and head towards the door. There’s no need to bid him farewell, because he has already fallen in line beside me. And my chest fills with something I don’t want to dissect.
Outside, the late November air is brisk as I make my way towards my car, Brandon still keeping pace beside me. When I get to my vehicle, I dig my keys out of my bag and unlock the driver’s door. There’s this uncomfortable silence that settles between us. I want to just jump in my car and tear from the parking spot like a NASCAR driver pulling from pit road. Am I supposed to say something?
“Well, I guess I’ll see you next weekend,” he says, grabbing my door and opening it widely for me.
“Yes, thanks to you,” I bite.
He smiles down at me, one of those charming, panty-melting smiles that I long to forget. “Yes, well, I won’t apologize for that. I mean, the center is going to get a nice donation for your volunteer work.”
“Volunteer work that I was blackmailed into doing. Again, thanks to you.” I give him my best side-eyed glare as I slip into the seat and reach for the door. But it doesn’t budge. Brandon holds it firmly in his grip, keeping me from shutting him out.
“Again, I’m not sorry.” He turns and looks off to the right, as if he’s thinking of what to do or say. “Anyway, I’ll see you soon, No. Drive safe,” he adds. And with a gentle hand slap to the roof of my car, he lets go of my door and steps back.
I’m left in my car, surrounded by silence, and replaying the way my old nickname rolled off his tongue. No one has ever called me No. Only Brandon. A single tear slips from my eye, unchecked, as I start my car. A blast of cold air hits me, but that’s not what chills me to the bone. Memories of what used to be, parade through my mind. Happy memories. Until it just stopped. Those memories, the happiness, were replaced with something life-changing. A deep sadness that I would carry with me for the years that followed.
I don’t even realize that I’m still sitting there until he knocks on the window. There isn’t any time to hide the sadness, the tears, before I turn his way. But, I’m in no way prepared for the look of anguish reflected in his own eyes as he stares down at me. The pain in my chest intensifies, consumes me and drags me under the water.
Torn between hating him and still wanting him to hold me is a horrible place to be. Part of me instructs to wipe my tears and move on, while the other part pleads with me to open the door. The anger I’ve held onto mixes with confusion, and leaves me unable to breathe.
Brandon must sense that I’m two seconds away from cracking into a ball of woman-emotions, complete with ugly crying and hysterical blubbering, and gives me a small smile. It’s a sad smile that only intensifies my own misery.
Instead of saying words (words that I don’t think I want to hear), he offers me a wave. Then, he takes a step back, followed by another. Before I know it, he’s walking away, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his head hanging low. It’s an image I’ve seen before. It’s burned into my memory.
So I grab onto that memory, put my car in reverse, and head towards my place. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll forget all about that gorgeous boyish smile and those sparkling hazel eyes.
Something tells me I’m not that fortunate.
* * *
“And then…then he just wrapped his arms around my waist and practically pulled me back against his body. Like he just…could.” My breathing is labored, my tone terse, as I grip the string of lights in my hands like I’m strangling it.
When my best friend since grade school, Stephanie, doesn’t answer, I turn towards the mess on my couch and to where she’s sitting.
“What?” I ask, hands on my hips and trying to ignore the way her shocked expression makes me squirm.
“You. Why don’t you just admit you still like him?” Steph asks, a little smile playing on the corners of her lips like she has a secret.
“What? I don’t like him! At all. He’s arrogant and impossible and a jerk and just…mean.” My voice dips to almost inaudible on the last word.
“Yes, Brandon Frost is all of those things.” Just when I go to say something else, she adds, “But you still love him.”
And she sucks the wind straight out of my sails.
The Christmas lights in my hand fall to the floor, along with my eyes. The brown carpeting in my living room apartment has seen better days, but I’ve been determined to make the best out of this new place, new job, new town. So why does my path have to cross with the one person who I despise? The one person who knows how to rip my heart out and do the Cha-cha all over the mangled pieces. Well, if Brandon knew how to Cha-cha, which he probably does and does it to professional dance standards, like everything else.
“I do not still love him,” I defend, but it sounds weak, even to my own ears.
“But you don’t really hate him. There’s a fine line between love and hate, sister, and you have been skating that line for years now. I’ve seen you push away perfectly suitable guys in favor of a ghost.”
God, I hate it when she’s right. Blinking back the tears, I turn my attention her way. “I don’t want to still want him, Steph. I don’t want my stupid heart to pound in my chest and my breathing to get all choppy and breathy when he’s near. I want to remember the hurt of him walking away until my heart no longer pounds in my chest and my breathing doesn’t get all weird and remind me of an asthmatic.”
“Maybe it’s time you really let him go. Talk to him. Tell him all the things you wanted to say back then, over the years, but haven’t had the chance. Pour your heart into it, and maybe then, you’ll finally be at peace.”
Peace. That’s something I haven’t had since that fateful Christmas Eve. Sure, I’ve been content, but I’ve been in limbo. I finished my law degree and worked a few years for a small district attorney’s office in my tiny Illinois hometown. I’ve been so focused on not remembering the past that I haven’t been living in the present. I’ve been stuck, stranded.
It’s a horrible place to be.
“You think that will help?” I ask, sitting on the floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and garland.
“It’s worth a shot. I mean, how could it not help? You’d finally get to say all of the things you’ve wanted to say to him for years. Lay it on the line, let him know how bad he hurt you, and then walk away with your head held high and the weight off your chest.”
I could do that. God knows I’ve cursed and yelled at the man almost nightly in my dreams for years. There’s so much I want to say to him, but could it really be that simple? Just let ‘er rip and walk away?
“Fine. I’ll see if he can spare a few minutes next Saturday after our shift. You know, since the bloodsucker blackmailed me into playing a part in his community service,” I say with a gentle shake of my head.
“I have to admit, that’s kinda hot,” Steph surprises me by saying.
“What? Hot?”
“Yeah, you know, the whole Santa fantasy?” she adds, her eyes as bright and shining as the garland in her hand.
“Uh, no. What Santa fantasy?” Knowing that this is going to be somewhat entertaining, I get up and finish stringing the extra lights. You know, because those pre-lit trees really don’t have quite enough.
I had started to set up my tree last night, but found it hard to concentrate. Then my plan was to do it today, and even get out my grandma’s snow village, but we know how well that went; you know, with having to play Mrs. Claus all afternoon.
“You know, the Santa fantasy. The one where Santa comes home after a long day of making toys with the elves to find Mrs. Claus in the kitchen, bent over the table. Her skirt is hiked up just enough to see a sliver of thigh, which drives the big guy insane.
“He slides his hands between her legs and finds only bare, w
et skin. Without even moving, the jolly, fat man has his cock in his hand and is sliding between her thighs. They do it hard and fast right there on the kitchen table.”
I’m stunned silent. My mouth is gaping open, my eyes wide with shock, as I stare at the coy little smile firmly positioned on my best friend’s face. “What? What kinda fantasy is that?”
“Oh, come on, Noel. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a Santa fantasy. Your name means Christmas and is the biggest symbol of the holiday season, for Virgin Mary’s sake. You decorate for the holiday almost immediately after Halloween.” I go to open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “No, don’t start. You do and you know it. The only reason you didn’t this year was because of the move.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve had a Santa fantasy,” I retort lamely.
“Even when Brandon Frost is playing Santa?” she asks, casually organizing the angel ornaments on the couch cushion.
To be honest, I’ve pictured Brandon as the lead in just about every fantasy I’ve had since I was twenty years old, and that includes the ones where I tar and feather his perfectly sculpted naked body and string him up from my daddy’s front oak tree. But that’s because we have history, right? I mean, it’s not like I have any other real relationship experience to base my fantasies on. The first guy I was with right out of high school was… well, he was “quick.” And there has only been one guy since, and he turned out to like Santa more than Mrs. Claus.
So of course Brandon Frost would be the highlight of my dreams. He’s impeccably tone, his skin was the perfect combination of smooth and rough, and the way he played my body, it was as if I was an instrument in his one-man band. One look from those hazel eyes could bring me to my knees and his kisses, well, let’s just say, at one time, I would have readily given up food, water, and air just for one more kiss.
But I hate him.
There’s no going back from the things he said and did.
Maybe Steph is right. Maybe I really need to just tell him how I feel, how bad he hurt me, and then I can walk away. I’ll be able to finally move on with my life instead of being stuck in this funky holding pattern. It’s not like I got to tell him five years ago. It would have been difficult to voice my feelings when all I got was his back quickly hurrying away.
Hating him was easier. Hate filled the void that remained when he left.
I need this. I need to unleash five years’ worth of pent-up frustration and anger, and then I can finally let go, move on.
“No Santa fantasy, Steph. Sorry.” It’s not a lie. I’ve never pictured my ex as Santa. That doesn’t mean I hadn’t enjoyed the bejesus out of the view today. And worse, I probably will have a stupid Santa fantasy now, staring none other than the man I loathe and am trying to forget.
“Too bad. I bet that would be hot,” she grumbles, straightening another string of lights.
Grabbing the last string of lights, I say, “I think you’re right. I need to get a few things off my chest so that I can move on. I’ll talk to him next Saturday, after we’re done at the community center.”
She looks at me from her perch on the couch, her pink painted lips turned in a sad smile. Steph may not have gone to the same college as me, but she knew how crazy I was about Brandon Frost.
She also knew the reason he left.
“So, are you gonna add all this garland to that tree, or what?” she asks, effectively redirecting conversation away from the minefield that is he who shall not be named. “I’m a little worried that it will become a fire hazard with all the lights.”
I give my best friend a warm smile. The silver garland shimmers under the overhead light, brightening up the room, and maybe even my mood. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there is life after Brandon. I’ll say my piece and move on. Should be as easy as it sounds.
“We are. All of it.”
Chapter Seven
Four Letter Words
Brandon
The second Saturday proves to be just as busy as the previous one.
The never-ending line of sugared-up kids seems to stretch as far as the eye can see. At least, as far as I can see from inside this auditorium. For every kid that sits on my lap, I swear two more appear at the end of the line.
Mrs. Claus has been right beside me the entire day, tantalizing me with her soft smile and teasing me with her scent. Of course, that smile isn’t directed towards me. Oh no, her smiles are strictly for the kids. I know this because as soon as she sees me watching her, the smile is replaced with a scowl strong enough to make a weaker person shake in their big black Santa boots.
Good thing I’m not a weak man.
And I like a challenge.
At lunch, Noel chooses to sit at a table with kids way on the other side of the cafeteria. Fine. I got this. I know it’ll take some work and a little smooth talkin’ to get her to relax and open up just a bit for me, but I know I can handle it. If anyone’s a smooth talker, it’s me. Why do you think I’m such a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom? I’m a wicked combination of finesse and piranha. I can charm the panties off anyone, usually within a few moments of meeting them. No, not something I’m necessarily proud of, but it’s a skillset I’ve learned to embrace.
But that particular skillset never worked with Noel.
Hell, that’s what attracted me the most to her in school. She had a sharp tongue, a quick-witted mind, and she didn’t fall for any of my lines. She pretty much told me to get lost the very first night I met her. But I discovered something the moment my eyes met her blue ones: Noel Winters owned me.
My heart called to her right there in the middle of the campus library. Sure, I know how much of a douche that makes me sound like, but it’s true. I couldn’t walk away from her in that moment even if I wanted to. Which made it that much more painful in the end, when I did, in fact, walk away.
It was the fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the what-ifs. Fear of myself.
Now, the very thing I ran from is sitting on the other side of the cafeteria, pretending I don’t even exist. I should be happy, right? I did walk away from her, so I should relish in the fact that she doesn’t want to be all chummy and buddy-buddy with me. Yet, a part of me wishes she’d throw me just one more of those amazing smiles, look at me just once more like I was king of the fucking world.
“Excuse me, Santa,” a little boy of about four or five says, pulling me from my thoughts. His eyes are as dark as his midnight hair, and he has a smear of jelly across his chin.
“Yeah?” I ask, completely forgetting my Santa voice.
“I have to use the bathroom,” he whispers, swaying from side-to-side and wringing his hands together.
“Oh, uh, you should definitely go then.”
“I need you to go with me.”
“Can’t little dude. That’s not really my…thing,” I say, glancing around for Sheila or another volunteer for help.
“But she said you would help me,” the boy whispers, his eyes filling with tears. “And I gotta go willy, willy bad.” His swaying because some sort of weird pee-dance that reminds me of my Uncle Ed at my cousin’s wedding.
“Who said I would help you?” I ask, looking for this kid’s mom.
“Mrs. Claus.”
My eyes connect with those hypnotic blue ones across the heads of dozens of kids. She’s fighting laughter and knows she has me by the balls, while this poor little guy is trying not to piss his pants. Awesome.
Not wanting to let her see me squirm, I say, “Let’s go, little dude.”
I’m out of the chair and heading towards the doorway before I can even think about what I’m about to do. I’m so focused on getting from point A to point B that it startles me when I feel the little hand slip inside my much bigger one. The movement makes my footing falter just a bit, but not enough to really slow me down. Yet, this little guy keeps up with me like a pro.
Inside the empty bathroom, I step over to the corner to give hi
m a little privacy. Instead of heading towards the urinal, the boy goes to the first stall. I hear him working at his pants, and just pray he doesn’t need my help.
After a few moments, it’s finally quiet.
“Santa?”
“Yeah?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“I gotta poop,” he whispers.
“Poop?” Shit.
“And I can’t go when it’s quiet. Can you sing to me?”
“Sing to you? While you poop?”
“Pwease!?” he begs, drawing out the word. “My mom sings to me when I poop.”
“Fine, little man, but you must promise to never speak of this again. I mean it, all right?”
“‘Kay!”
And so that’s why I’m singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” in the john to a five-year-old. No, not exactly a Christmas song, or whatever they’re called, but it was the first thing I could think of. And there’s something about this situation that calls for a little Queen, okay?
“You don’t sound like Santa,” he finally says as he comes out of the stall and walks over to the sink to wash his hands.
“No?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Nope. You sound like Tyler’s dad. He’s a fireman. Are you a fireman?”
“Nope,” I answer while I hand him a paper towel and head towards the door.
“Can I drive the sleigh?” he asks, drying off his hands.
“No way.”
“Do you and Mrs. Claus have kids?”
The question stops me in my tracks. I feel the cool handle against my palm, but I hear nothing but the swooshing of my own blood in my ears. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing right either, as I glance over and look down at the boy. His eyes are full of curiosity and laughter. The kind that you only see in the eyes of a child.
“No, little dude. We don’t have kids.” My throat constricts around the words, and the crazy pounding in my chest is replaced by sharp pain. It feels like a dozen knives are stabbing me, and it’s a familiar hurt. It feels exactly the same as it did five years ago.
