talk.”
“Not. Now.”
“Fine. Meet me in the kitchen.”
I don’t hear the rest of their conversation because I’m rushing back to my room. There, sitting on the edge of my bed, is my sister with her arms crossed.
Great. Just fucking great.
“I hope you’re happy” is the first thing she says to me.
If Jolie and James were our parents, we’d be grounded. The gist of the very long talk I have to endure is that she’s very disappointed in the decisions I made last night and she expects better of me and wants me to realize that my actions reflect back on her.
OH GOOD GRIEF. Just get out of my room so I can get dressed and get some coffee and process the fact that Aiden asked me to move to freaking New York City with him.
I tune into her long diatribe again when she says, “I’d like you to call the restaurant today and apologize.”
Jolie, I’d like you to exit stage left, but we can’t always get what we want.
I placate her with lots of nodding and deferential hums of agreement before she finally exhausts herself and leaves me alone.
I have my first real moment to process how I feel and…I have no clue. None whatsoever. My stomach is tight with anxiety, but I can’t forget that little painting Aiden gifted me a moment ago. It’s Christmas morning and I woke up next to Aiden. Santa really delivered this year.
I pull out red gingham pajamas from my suitcase and some cozy socks. There’s a knock from the bathroom door, and I turn to see Aiden standing in the doorframe, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“We’re in trouble,” he teases.
I feign worry. “We’re definitely getting coal in our stockings this year.”
“Worse, probably. James is ‘deeply disappointed in me’.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah, I bet they didn’t even leave us any breakfast.”
“We can make our own.”
“Let’s finish our talk later, okay?”
I nod in agreement, glad he’s not pushing the subject right now.
The day isn’t all that bad. Sure, Jolie and James are a little standoffish in the morning, but I wear them down with lots and lots of baked goods.
“Has anyone seen the sugar?!”
“You just had it,” my sister says from the couch. It’s early evening and everyone is piled in the living room watching Christmas movies. I’m in the kitchen and I have no plans to leave. I’ve got a gingerbread house cooking in the oven. On the cooling rack, there are two dozen cranberry and white chocolate cookies. I’ve got a cake going in the mixer and some eggnog heating up on the stove. The house smells like the aftermath of a candle factory explosion.
“How am I supposed to make sugar cookies without sugar?!”
“Do we need sugar cookies?” my sister asks gently.
I pop up from where I’ve been rooting through the bottom cupboards and shoot her an annoyed glare.
“It’s Christmas, Jolie.”
The sentiment is clear: Stop being a Grinch!
Baking has mostly kept my mind off of Aiden’s invitation. When he joins me in the kitchen every now and then, he doesn’t try to bring it up again, but it still sits heavy in my mind.
Move to New York City for Aiden?
Could I really do that?
I hate how fast the day goes, and it’s made all the faster because of Aiden’s early morning flight out of Denver. He has to get up at 4:30 AM so he can make the drive from Vail and get to the airport on time. That night, I expect him to turn in early, but he stays on the couch, cuddled up beside me under the blanket as we finish watching It’s a Wonderful Life.
The lights are low in the kitchen. James and Jolie already went to sleep a while ago, so it’s just us, alone on the couch as snow falls outside.
I’ve been so happy up until this moment, full of Christmas spirit as we spent the day building snowmen and eating, watching movies and eating, and constructing a gingerbread house then eating that too.
But now, there’s no escaping what will happen tomorrow.
Aiden’s leaving, and I don’t know what’s going to happen after that.
The credits roll on the movie, and I don’t move a muscle. I want to turn back time and relive the day together. I don’t want him to move from his spot beside me.
I glance over and see him staring down at where our hands are linked.
“Aren’t you tired?” I ask.
“Not really.”
His voice sounds far away.
“You’ll be tired in the morning.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s wrong?”
He lets his head fall