Big Man for Christmas - Penny Wylder Page 0,8

eat, all I feel is relief.

For a few minutes at least, everything feels a little bit normal. The classic chaos of the Christmas season and good food. Mom even gives me a smile when I make a funny comment.

But inside I still feel like I’m dying. Scraped raw. All those of years of memories that I loved are now tainted. Everything that I thought was true and good was a lie. I don’t know how to handle that. How do you put yourself together after something like this? I don’t know anyone who’s had this happen.

Or at least I don’t know anyone who will admit it.

Breakfast settles, and we clean it up. The kids run into the living room to play video games, Dad heads out to do some stuff around the property, and Mom and Jessica disappear out the door with a thin excuse about going to the store.

They don’t invite me to come along, which means the whole trip is probably going to be spent rehashing what a failure I am.

The only people here are Rhett and the boys, and the boys are screaming. Over what game to play and who gets to play what, and their father doesn’t seem to think that the noise is a problem, but I can barely hear myself think. And I feel the beginnings of a headache building behind my eyes.

So I dig out my old boots and coveralls and head out for a walk. I need to be alone with my thoughts for a bit.

I’m not sure why I don’t wear these in Chicago. It gets so cold that fleece-lined clothes should be more popular than they are, but at the same time, I can’t imagine wearing fleece coveralls and walking down a Chicago street. I probably wouldn’t get that many strange looks, but I’d feel weird.

Just thinking about being in Chicago feels a little strange right now. Now that Tyler and I aren’t together, it doesn’t feel like home. We moved there for him and his career, and we made a home there. But everything about my life there is wrapped up in him. Friends, home, everything. Where does that leave me now?

The watery winter sun is almost warm, though the air is still cold enough for me to see my breath in puffs. The world here feels pristine. Fields of untouched white snow that shimmer too brightly. In Chicago, all the snow ends up slush—watery and filled with dirt that pools in the street corners and lingers until spring.

Even though it’s already starting to melt in patches here, it’s still beautiful, and I still have that deliciously satisfying crunch under my boots. I didn’t even realize that that sound was something that I missed.

I reach the end of the drive that leads to the road, and I’m still restless. Going back to the house right now isn’t an option, and the distance between here and there wouldn’t be enough for me to take the edge off what I’m feeling right now.

So I keep going, just turning onto the road to the north and walking. This is a safe area, and everyone already knows me from when I was younger. If I run into anyone it will hardly be a problem.

Passing the edge of our property, I realize that I’m now walking alongside the Bowman farm. Casey Bowman is a name that hasn’t crossed my mind in years. But those are happy memories, and ones I could sink into without feeling like broken glass is dragging along my skin.

The last time I saw him was high school graduation. He came up to me after the ceremony when everyone had been cheering and dancing and overwhelmed with the idea that we’d done it. I remember thinking that it was strange that Casey was the only person who wasn’t smiling. For all the world, it looked like he was going to say something to me. But he never did. He shook his head, pulled me into a hug that was so tight I couldn’t breathe, and then walked away before I could ask why.

I lost him in the crowd after that. And I was mobbed with other friends and couldn’t go after him. I haven’t seen him since. Not even in the times that I’ve come back to visit.

Of course, I have other memories of Casey. A time that was far more worth remembering. That same year on the night of the fireworks. We’d stumbled into the woods together, flushed and desperate.