by Ellie Wade
The past few months with Alma have been the best in my life. I never thought I would truly love someone or need someone in the way I love and need her. Perhaps our shattered pasts are to thank for us coming together. None of it makes sense, and yet it’s entirely perfect in its dysfunction.
If I were a complete cheeseball, I might say that she completes me or some shit. I haven’t fallen to that level of lameness, so I’ll leave it simply stated—I love her. As deeply as a person can love another, I love Almalee.
Today is Alma’s nineteenth birthday, and as we’re only two weeks out from Christmas, I planned a day of holiday festivities for her. Based on the sex this morning after revealing my plans, it was the best gift I could’ve given her. On the list of things her parents didn’t do, right after loving their daughter, they also didn’t celebrate holidays, so today, we’re celebrating.
I pull into the Christmas tree farm’s parking lot.
“I’m so excited.” She bounces on the passenger seat.
“This is a first for me too. My parents are all about the fake trees. The real ones would’ve been too messy for my mother.” I step out of the car and close the door.
There’s a wooden fence separating the tree farm and the parking area, and each tall wooden post has a large red felt bow attached. Strings of white Christmas lights loop across the length of the fence, creating a festive feel.
“It’s like a Hallmark Christmas movie. Everything is so pretty,” Alma exclaims as I meet her in front of the car and thread my fingers through hers.
I check in at the office, pay, and am handed an axe. We stroll out toward the lines of evergreens.
“So, are you thinking short and fat, tall and thin, or a Charlie Brown one? What’s your ideal tree?” I ask her.
“Ooh, a Charlie Brown tree sounds fun. What’s that one look like?” She wraps her free hand around my arm and leans against my side as we walk.
“You’ve never seen A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
“No.”
“Well”—I smile with a shake of my head—“a Charlie Brown tree is basically a sad little branch with a couple of smaller sad branches on it.” I search the ground and find a suitable replica from the cartoon classic. “Like this.”
“Oh.” Alma giggles. “Maybe not. That’s just pathetic. What’s the point of a tree like that?”
“That is the point. That it’s sad and pathetic.”
“I don’t get it.” She tilts her head back and looks up to me.
I lean in and kiss her temple. “And now, we’re adding A Charlie Brown Christmas to our evening agenda.”
“Oh, that sounds fun.”
“Maybe not fun but clearly needed. Every child has seen that cartoon.”
“Not every one.” She shrugs. “Oh, what about this one?” She releases my hand and skips over to a bushy evergreen.
“I like it. Are we calling it then?”
“Yes. This is the one,” she confirms, and I walk toward the tree. “Wait. Before you cut it down, let’s get a selfie.”
We stand in front of our first Christmas tree, and Alma holds her phone out, taking pics.
“Can you do it? Your arm is longer, so you can get more of the tree in the background.”
I take the cell phone from her, clicking a few pics. “Good?”
“One more.”
I hold the phone back out and smile as Alma kisses my cheek, and I snap the photo.
I return the cell phone to her. “All right, let’s do this.”
After the pine tree is cut, wrapped, and tied to the top of my car, we start back toward Ypsilanti and my house.
Prior to the Christmas tree farm, I’d taken Alma to a seasonal store to pick out holiday decor for both the interior of my house and the tree. There was much debate on what theme to go with—and by debate, I mean, Alma talking out loud to herself. Pink and silver almost won out, but since this is her first time Christmas decorating, she ultimately decided to go with traditional, hence the bags of everything green and red that the store carried piled high in the back seat and filling the trunk.
Shopping isn’t how I’d normally prefer to spend a Saturday—or any day really. Online shopping is definitely my preferred method. But Alma makes even the most mundane tasks enjoyable. She makes the former chore of simply living worth it.
She’s my reason. She’s five foot two inches of beauty, brains, and spunk, and she makes everything better.
Holiday music plays softly through the speakers as we decorate my main living area.
“Christmas is officially my favorite holiday.” Alma beams, hooking glittery red bulbs onto the tree branches. “Let’s do this every year, okay?”
“Yeah.” I grin.
Something deep within my chest aches. The thought of Alma here in my house a year from now is an incredible feeling. I never realized how much love hurts. There’s a thin line between love and pain.
“I can see why people start decorating after Halloween. It just makes me so happy.”
“Hold up. We are not going to be the people who put up our Christmas decorations on November 1. Those people are crazy.” I shake my head.
“So? I bet they’re happy.”
“Well, you can’t get a real tree if you decorate too early, or it will be dead by Christmas,” I offer some logic.
“We could put up a fake tree first, and then in December, we’ll get a second real tree. People can have two trees, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” I smile. “Whatever you want, babe.”
Truth be told, if Alma wanted to celebrate Christmas fifty-two weeks a year, I’d do it. She can have whatever the hell she wants.
“Let’s string popcorn!” she gasps. “That’s a thing, right? Making strings of popcorn and draping it around the tree. I swear I’ve seen that before.”
“Yeah, it’s a thing.”
“Sweet. We can do that and watch that Charlie Brown show you were telling me about.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Just then, the sounds of voices ring outside the front door, and I watch Alma’s face as she figures out what’s happening.
“Carolers?” she shrieks, and her reaction is exactly as I pictured it when I set it up with Quinn earlier.
I follow Alma to the door, and she opens it, a giant smile plastered to her face. She leans back into my chest and listens as Amos, Quinn, and a dozen of Quinn’s sorority sisters serenade us with Christmas tunes.
After they’ve finished a few songs, they come inside for cocoa and cookies. Yep, I bought hot chocolate and cookies for this occasion. I’m a regular-ass Martha Stewart.
“Thank you so much. That was awesome,” Alma tells Amos and Quinn.
“It was Leo’s idea,” Quinn says.
“Well, thank you. I loved it.”
“Happy birthday, Mutt.” Amos hands her a small gift bag and pulls her into a hug.
“Thank you,” she says to Amos, and the genuine joy on her face is everything I wanted for her today.
Alma’s soul is so pure and good. She deserves nothing but happiness.
The carolers stay for an hour but then head out for some big sorority social event they have planned with another fraternity. As Quinn’s date to the event, Amos leaves as well.
It’s been a long, busy day, and with most of the decorating complete, I stream A Charlie Brown Christmas. Alma snuggles up against me under a fleece throw on the couch.
“I love you,” I tell her and kiss the top of her head.
She sits up to look at me. “I love you. Thank you for the best day.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“I loved it, truly loved it.” She holds a hand to her chest, her bold brown eyes filling with tears. “It was one of the best days of my life.”
I swipe a lock of hair away from her face. “The way I love you makes me think I can be different.”
“What do you mean, different? You’re perfect just the way you are. I love you for you.”
; I hold her face in my hands and bring her lips to mine. Fact is, Alma doesn’t know me. Pretending to be someone I’m not is exhausting, but if it means I get to keep Alma, I’ll do it forever.
She reaches between us and undoes the button to my jeans. I quirk up a brow.
“I guess we could make the day a little better,” she teases.
“There’s always room for improvement.” I snag a condom from my jeans pocket before kicking them off.
Alma yanks off her leggings and tosses them on the floor. She straddles me, my fingers dig into her hips, and when she slides her heat over me, a hiss escapes my lips. As I enter her, she circles her hips again and again, tormenting me.
“Baby …” I take her nipple into my mouth and suck hard.
She fists my hair and starts to ride me.
“I love you,” she groans into the lust-filled space.
“I fucking love you,” I tell her as she picks up speed.
I will love you forever.
TWENTY-FIVE
Alma
The waves of restless energy radiating from Leo are so palpable that the tiny hairs on my own arms buzz with nerves. He white-knuckles the steering wheel. The melancholy music drifts from the car speakers, a creepy soundtrack to this solemn ride.
Leo’s childhood is still very much a mystery. He keeps the lock good and tight on those memories, never sharing them with me. And I’ve never felt that I should request that he does. Maybe it’s not my place to ask. The regular night terrors and screams that steal his sleep tell me enough.
I’ve shared everything with Leo. He knows all about my past—the good and the ugly. I’m not embarrassed of where I come from. Had I been able to choose, I might’ve chosen different parents, but I can’t regret them. Their choices and their actions, or lack thereof, made me who I am. I fought damn hard to get here, and I’m proud. I’m living proof that one can rise above their circumstances to be better.
Yet I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to walk in Leo’s shoes. Trauma isn’t universal, and no one will experience it or navigate through it the same way.
Leo is taking us to his parents’ mansion, a thirty-minute drive from school. He says that Christmas is the one day a year he’s obligated to spend with his family, but if it makes him this unhappy, then why? Why go through this? We should be at home, starting a Christmas Day tradition of our own. He offered me an out, but I want to be with him, today especially.
“We don’t have to go.” I reach my hand out and rest it atop Leo’s thigh.
Christmas morning has never been a cause for celebration in my life, as my parents deemed it a commercial holiday, as useless as the rest of them. A fat, jolly man in a red suit, a bunny with a basket, love notes, or even green shamrocks weren’t a thing in my house. Sure, each holiday came with a special tradition that existed solely between Amos and me, but all the rest was just noise.
Now that I’m out on my own, I want to start new holiday traditions. Leo has been so wonderful these past couple of weeks, making sure that I get to experience everything that this holiday has to offer. It’s been truly magical for the first time in my life. I finally understand the commotion around Christmas, and now that I’m an adult, I will never not go all out for it again.
I think back over the past two weeks—the decorations, the movies, the lights, making and frosting Christmas cookies, all of it—and there’s no way I could be disappointed in the slightest. However, I’d be lying if I said I hoped for more today.
“Can I ask you a few questions and not have you get mad at me?” My request is idiotic, but so is Leo’s palpable anger. Better safe than sorry.
He forces out a sigh. “I’m sorry. You know this has nothing to do with you or us. I just really hate going home.”
“Because of your family?”
“Yeah.”
“But aren’t you getting your business degree, so you can work with your dad and brother? How is that going to work if one meal gets you this worked up?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I’ll be mainly working with Stephen. Dad doesn’t do much with the businesses anymore.”
“So, you’re cool with your brother?”
“No, he’s an ass.”
Leo takes a corner a little too fast, and I hold on to the door for support.
“So, why are you going to work with him? Why not do something else with your life? Something that will make you happy.”
“I don’t know what makes me happy—besides you, that is. I don’t have hobbies or interests or passions. I don’t fucking care about life in general—or at least, I didn’t. But I have to do something. I can’t just sit in my house, playing video games and living off of my trust fund. It’s always just been expected that I follow this path, and I didn’t care enough to argue. Now, I don’t know.”
“Life’s too short to be unhappy, Leo. You deserve to do something that brings you joy.”
“Doing you brings me joy,” he deadpans.
“Well, I’m not going to pay you for your services. That’s illegal,” I say, attempting a joke. “So, you should probably think about another career.” I reach my hand over the center console and place it on his thigh. “You’re lucky in a way because you can do whatever you want even if it doesn’t pay well. You don’t have to choose a career based on income, like so many others do.”
“Real lucky,” Leo drawls out.
“You know what I mean,” I say softly.
“Yeah, I do. And you’re right; maybe I should think about another career.”
“I think you should.”
He places his hand atop mine. “Let’s just get through today. Thank you for coming with me. My mom is excited to meet you, by the way.”
“I’m always here for you. You know that. And really? What does she know about me?” I’m suddenly nervous, realizing that I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents. I mean, obviously, I knew that coming into today, but that’s big.
“That you’re perfect.”
“Well, great. Then, she’s sure to be disappointed,” I kid.
“No one could ever be disappointed in you, babe.”
The Hardings’ estate is exactly how I pictured a millionaire ex-actor turned business mogul’s property to be. The brick house is more expansive than my entire dorm. The landscaping alone probably cost more than most people have in their retirement account. Even with the snow covering the ground, the trees, stone fountain, and ornate statues are impressive. Why do rich people always have some sort of statue in their yard?
“Who is that statue of?” I ask Leo.
He huffs out a laugh. “I have never cared enough to ask.”
He pulls around the circular drive and parks the car in front of the grand entrance, a wooden door with beautiful glass work.
He grabs the gifts and then extends his hand toward mine. I take it.
“Help me get through dinner, and then we’ll get out of here.” He squeezes my hand.
“Of course.” I stop along the stone walkway. “Look at me,” I tell Leo.
He turns toward me, and I cup his cheek with my free hand.
“It’s going to be fine.” I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
“Okay,” he utters as we continue up the steps.
Leo opens the door and steps inside. I force my expression to remain calm even though I want to squeal at how beautiful this home is. There’s a Christmas tree in the foyer that’s probably taller than my parents’ house, and every branch is decorated with an opaque white ornament and white lights. It’s stunning, right out of a magazine.
Past the foyer and into one of the living areas, there’s another magnificent Christmas tree, decorated in rose and gold accents.
A gorgeous woman who looks like the female version of Leo greets us with a large grin. She’s wearing a cream pencil skirt, a loose white blouse, and heels that match her skirt.
“Leo, honey. So good to see you.” She kisses his cheek.
“Mom,” he replies coo
lly.
“You must be the beautiful Alma who Leo’s been hiding from us. He’s not a big sharer, my boy, but I knew you must be special if he was bringing you home for Christmas. Welcome. We’re so glad to have you here.” She pulls me into a hug.
I nervously look to Leo because I want to hug her back, but I don’t want to release his hand. When I thought about Leo’s mother, I pictured someone different, someone colder.
“Thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful. The Christmas trees are just stunning,” I tell her.
“Oh, thank you. Yes, I love Christmas decorations. We have seventeen Christmas trees up. I’ll give you a tour later, so you can see them all. The designer did a fantastic job this year. Come. Everyone is this way.” She starts across the foyer, and Leo and I follow.
Seventeen? I mouth to Leo.
Leo just rolls his eyes, not impressed.
Mrs. Harding leads us to the room with the rose-and-gold decorated tree. A man, who I know must be Mr. Harding, sits in a big leather chair, drinking amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. He doesn’t get up from his chair but nods in our direction, a scowl on his face. Another much younger man who resembles Leo’s father walks toward us with a supermodel on his arm.
“Leo,” he says coldly.
“Stephen,” Leo responds with a bite.
Man, this family dynamic makes me and my parents seem somewhat normal. We know how to talk to each other—when they’re sober at least.
“Hello, I’m Alma.” I extend my hand, and Stephen shakes it.
“Hi, I’m Caterina, Stephen’s wife. You can call me Cat.” She smiles warmly, and I’m relieved that the women under this roof seem kind.
“Come sit.” Mrs. Harding motions toward the white sofas.
I take a seat, and Leo leaves me to fill a drink from the decanter that sits atop a metal table. Leo fills his almost to the top before taking a long swig. Fear fills my belly, and I wipe my palms against my dress.
