if the invitation to Destin was Gia’s treat, and she sat in front of her T.V. in her massive king size bed with a bottle of bourbon on Christmas Eve night getting shitty.
She told herself she was fine. She was happy with the solitude and the endless repeat of “A Christmas Story.” She was good with Lo Mein leftovers for dinner when she got hungry and cookies from the deli down the street that she’d heated up and ate for breakfast that morning when her parents and brothers called from New York, with her on speaker, teasing her about how much food she was missing. Aunt Angelica only got in a small quip about her being an old maid before Gia changed the subject.
“You know, Angelica, Alfonso goes to that Episcopalian Church with his wife? He says the real priests are too long winded and the Episcopalians respect the importance of kickoff on Sundays. Can you believe that?” That one kept the old lady off her back for the rest of the conversation and her loud-mouth, Patriots-loving brother quiet while their aunt cursed at him while insisting Alfonso take her to Christmas mass.
But sometime around five on Christmas afternoon, Gia heard the sweet music of a choir echoing through the Quarter as she sat on her balcony with a glass of red wine and despite how cool the temperatures had dropped and the slight drizzle that fell around the city, Gia still threw on a scarf, one of her lighter winter jackets and walked to the Square to follow the music.
The crowd was thick, but friendly and Gia spotted a couple familiar faces as she moved through it—Mr. Blanchard, the old man from the Market out even on Christmas selling fresh hot apple cider. He placed a Styrofoam cup in Gia’s hand, sending her a wink without a word before he moved on. She also spotted a few of the street performers, most of them no more than fifteen or sixteen, standing among the singers in the choir. The small kid, Donovan she remembered from the tumbling troupe smiled at her, likely hoping she’d slip him a twenty, like always.
Gia moved back, stepping away from the crowd and up onto one of the inclined steps that looked down on the sidewalk, balancing herself on the heel of her boots and the cider in her hand. The choir was just beginning a mildly pitchy rendition of “Deck the Halls” when Gia scooted to the middle of the incline, her cider between her hands as she swayed a little to the music, happy that no one knew her, trying her best to let the music chip away the swell of loneliness that had begun to take hold of her before she left her building. The place had been too quiet, and she was a woman who craved the silence. This was better. It was nice; just the holiday infusion she needed, and it didn’t require a big party or being surrounded by people who were angry with her or who had ideas about her life they thought she should know about.
The choir started singing “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” and Gia stopped her small shimmy of a dance, finishing her cider as she watched the performance and then, the crowd. There were families all around her. Men and women, women and women, men and men, friends and lovers, classmates and co-workers, families of all sorts with their kids or adopted kids or furry kids watching the choir perform as the sky grew darker. The white Christmas lights hung from every wrought iron railing balcony and along the street lights and lamp poles around the Quarter while green garland was strung with red bows and large wreaths were fixed to shop doors with fleur de lis and Mardi Gras masks decked out in gold and bright, twinkling lights. She’d never seen the city look so beautiful. She’d never felt so alone or so gratified in it.
Gia took it all in, closing her eyes at the music and the chill in the air and the first feeling of contentment she’d truly held inside her since this lonely holiday began. And then, quicker than the snap of a football, it felt as though something cold and wet had been poured on top of her head and the chill and solitude clung to her like a second skin. In the middle of the crowd Kai stood watching the choir, a large grin spread across his face