Emily

CHARLIE IS GONE WHEN I wake up.

I knew, as I fell asleep, that he would go.

My heart aches unpleasantly, but he gave me so much more than he took.

He is scared. I understand. He took a lot on in this past week. Going from a loner to the thick of a large family Christmas. The drama of my parents. The drama of my insecurities. It was enough to overload anyone, and he also has his own big changes to think about.

But a note would have been nice.

I want to be pragmatic about it. Many women have one-night stands or short-term relationships. You don’t have to be in love or in a committed relationship to have sex. Good sex. Fantastic sex. But I’m not pragmatic. And my heart was already in the game. And while I wouldn’t trade this last week with him for anything in the world, I still wish he would have stayed. Had wanted to stay.

Even though I told him differently.

I knock on Sheila’s door way too early, but I can’t wait any longer.

Sheila answers, blurry eyed but holding a cup of coffee so at least I didn’t wake her. “What’s up? Merry—” Then she really looks. “Oh honey. What’s wrong? Is it your mom? Come in, come in.”

Sheila pushes me gently onto the couch, covers me in a blanket, and walks across the room to the kitchen to pour more coffee. She comes back with the mug half full and a bottle of Irish cream, with which she liberally tops off both our mugs.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch next to me, Sheila listens to my whole story. Showing surprise only when I get to the part about showing him the DVD.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Why do people get on airplanes to get over their fear of flying?” I pour more “creamer” into my cup. “I needed to see how he would react. How I would react. It was only scary until I did it.”

“And you guys had sex and it was great and then he ran away?”

I nod. “But here’s the crazy part. I think he’ll be back.”

There. I said it out loud. I don’t want a temporary lover like I babbled about last night. I want Charlie. I want a real relationship. And my heart, the wretched thing, is convinced deep down inside that he wants that with me too.

Sheila frowns. Contemplates her empty cup. Frowns some more. “Some guys just aren’t the sticking kind, sweetie. I mean, I hope you’re right, but maybe you should prepare yourself for that not working out the way you hope.” No longer satisfied with an empty mug, she gets up, grabs my cup, and brings them both to the kitchen for a refill. “You know that saying about how people come into your life for a reason or a season? Or something? Maybe his entire purpose was to bone you and get you back on the horse.”

“Sheila!”

“What?” She hands me the coffee. “Honey, it was time.”

Well, okay. She isn’t wrong.

“Besides,” Sheila goes on. “You could not have picked a better guy to get you over the hump.”

“I never noticed how many clichés you use before you’ve had enough coffee.”

“Ha ha. But seriously. He’s older and has more experience than you. He’s way hot. And he’s a nice guy. Even if he isn’t the sticking around kind—he’s a nice guy. He’s a war hero. He spent oodles of money at my brother’s shop which means I better get a good Christmas gift with all Jason’s extra money. Thus, he was perfect for re-wetting your whistle.”

“Seriously, Sheila. Either drink your coffee faster or stop adding the booze. I’m going to make you give me a quarter for every cliché from now on.” I take a deep breath. “But thank you. I feel better. You’ll be at dinner tonight, right?”

“Of course. You said you mom is okay, but are you sure she’s up for the big dinner?”

“Yeah, about that.” I haven’t even had a chance to really process everything yet. “You know how my mom told us the other day she was going through early menopause and we kind of changed the subject because she tends to overshare when she starts talking about medical stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“The very esteemed Dr. Jones completely misdiagnosed herself. She is not going through the change—well, not that one. And she does not have a touch of the flu. She’s pregnant.”

“Oh my God. Your mom is going to have a baby?”

I nod. It feels so weird to say it.

“Your mom is going to have a baby before we do.”

“Sheila, we don’t even have boyfriends. I think we’re doomed.”

Sheila sits back. “Frankly, I think your mom is doomed. I’m pretty sure having a baby at fifty is a lot harder than having one in your twenties.”

“Do you want babies?”

She takes a little too long to answer. “Yeah. I think so. Maybe. Someday. But I’ve already decided next year is the Year of Sheila. No boys. I’m just going to concentrate on myself.”

Probably a good thing. Sheila’s ex is only marginally better than Alan the weasel.

“A week ago, I didn’t think I would say yes to someday. I didn’t think I ever wanted to let another man close enough to get in my head, you know? But now—now I can see it. Someday. Maybe.”

So he gave me that at least. He gave me “maybe someday” back.

***

CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER without Mom at the helm is different, but we all work together, taking turns keeping Mom in the recliner when she tried to help.

Carter said absolutely zero about Charlie all day. I hope that I didn’t make their friendship weird. Charlie doesn’t have a lot of friends. I don’t want him to lose Carter.

In fact, nobody said anything at all about Charlie. It was as if he was never here. But he was. I ache for him, wishing I knew where he is. Then getting mad at myself about it.

I didn’t figure him to be the kind to leave without saying goodbye. Not after everything we shared. Which is why I am getting sadder as the evening goes on. I really thought he’d come back.

I am getting figgy with it in the kitchen, pulling out the fig pudding for the carolers, when Sheila’s sister Megan comes in to see if I need help.

“Nah, I don’t want you to hurt your new engagement ring. Were you expecting a proposal tonight? You looked pretty surprised.” The entire room hushed when he got down on one knee in front of the decorated tree.

Megan blushes prettily. Megan does everything prettily. “Brad and I have talked about getting married, but I wasn’t expecting this tonight.” She holds the ring up to the light. “He really surprised me.”

“Well, it was sweet.”

“That’s my Brad.”

I consider the pudding cups carefully, though my mind is not on pudding. “How do you know when it’s love? When it’s real? I thought I knew, three years ago, but I was so wrong.”

Megan puts her hand over mine. “I’m sure Sheila would tell you differently, but for me, Brad was right on paper before he was right in my heart. I know she’s all about grand love and heart racing—but for me it was a slower fall. I dated Brad because Brad was the kind of man I wanted to marry someday. I was very logical about it.”

“But you did fall?”

“I’m still falling. Brad is wonderful. I’m no help, am I? I don’t know how you know. You just do. Sometimes the one that looks good on paper is the one—sometimes not.”

Alan and I had been a good match on paper. Until the match struck and burned the paper to a crisp.

Gah. Why is love so complicated?

I wish Charlie was here tonight, but what would I say to him if he were? It is too soon for I love you. It is even too soon for Stay.

And now it is too late for anything at all.

My dad pops his head into the kitchen. “Ah, pumpkin? There’s someone here to see you. We tried to send him away, but he insists he just wants to apologize, so ...”

I brush past my dad and run into the great room. I knew it. He couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Maybe he couldn’t leave at all. If he wants to—

I stop as if a door slammed in front of me.

“Alan?”

Surrounded by every male in my family, Alan looks to be several inches shorter than I remember him being. He wears the same ugly Christmas sweater he’s had since college. At the time, it was cute because to Alan, it wasn’t ugly. He likes the green with white trees and antlers. He wears it in the spirit his grandmother knit it for him. Now that shade of green makes me see red.

He holds his hands out to the side in a plea. “Can we talk?”

Sheila puts her arm around me. “I don’t think so, preacher boy.”

I watch his face. Daring him to say something. I might be ready to be angry now. And I am not a slut. I’m not a whore. It is time I face him without the shame. His usual sneer is missing. He wouldn’t have come this far up the mountain to insult me. Something else is going on.

I didn’t think my family knew how to be this quiet as the only sound in the room comes from the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down the seconds until I answer him. “Sure. Join me in the kitchen.”

Sheila doesn’t let go. “Not a good idea, babe. He’s toxic.”

I shrug. “It’s Christmas.” And I am immune to his poison now. At least, I hope I am. Mostly immune, at least, right?

My dad stops me halfway, allowing Alan to go in ahead of me. “I’d feel better if you brought someone in there with you.”

I hug him. Kiss his cheek. “I’m fine, Daddy.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about him.” At my quizzical expression, he adds, “There are lots of sharp things in the kitchen, pumpkin. Keep in mind that I’m a lawyer, but I’m not a miracle worker. There are too many witnesses in here to make a self-defense case.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, counselor.”

I pause to hug him one more time. Not once has my dad ever let me down. He’s never had a sharp word for me about the stupid DVD, the failed wedding that he and my mom spent so much on, or for my inability to grab my life back after the humiliation I brought to my entire family. He just stood in my corner, waiting for me to need him. My dad, my family, is really amazing. “I love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, pumpkin.”

Once in the kitchen, I force myself to keep my eyes on Alan’s face and not my shoes. I am done with looking at my shoes.

He puts on his pastor smile. “Thank you for seeing me.”

I don’t smile back. “Why are you here?”

This time, he looks at his own shoes. “I want to apologize. I know it’s too little too late, but I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Oh, the look on his face is worth letting him in the house for. Did he think this was going to be easy? That I would let this be easy for him? “For the things I’ve said,” he answers matter of factly.

“I see.” I go back to my figgy pudding, knowing of course nobody will eat it. The carolers will take it, but they won’t eat it. “You’re sorry for the things you said. The things you said last week at Beans Crosby? Or the things at your bachelor party? Maybe you mean the months after? Are you sorry for not offering to pay my parents back for half the money they spent on deposits for the wedding you canceled? Are you sorry for telling me you loved me, but treating me like a piece of trash the next day?”

I loved him once. That’s what hurts the most. He stands in front of me now and I remember what it was like to be in love with him. And I remember what it was like to be betrayed by him.

“I’m sorry that I called you names. I’m sorry for the way I treated you then and recently. The money part hadn’t occurred to me until you said it just now—but yes, of course, I should pay my half.”

I slam the wooden spoon down. “Why are you here? Why now? Just in the last week you called me a whore in front of my brother.”

“This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

I cross my arms over my chest. Does he think I am going to fawn all over him? I glance at the butcher block where the knives are. Alan takes a step back.

“Are you here for my forgiveness?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down. But I’m here for myself.” He walks to the window—whether to get further away from the knives or just to think, I don’t know. “I told a friend of mine that I saw you the other day. I was up on my high horse, thinking how much better I was than you, when she told me that the anger I felt was at myself, not you.” He turns back to me. “I thought she was nuts until I realized she was right. Not right away. First, I was mad at her for being right. That’s how I do things. I get mad at other people instead of myself. I blamed you that night because I was angry at myself for owning that movie. I blamed you when we went too far on prom night. I blamed you for a long time that my life was off plan—that you took me off my trajectory, when I was the one who did that.”

I plop onto a stool. Ugh. He is making sense. It’s hard to hold on to the bad feelings when he is making sense. “You were mad at me because you were human, you mean?”

“Because I’m a hypocrite.”

The word hangs in the room, heavy and full.

“I’m just a man. Not always a good one, despite the fact that I think I am always right. And I’m sorry. So, I’m here tonight, laying my ego down because I want to be the man God wants me to be. I’m still a jerk a lot of the time, but I’m trying to get better. My faith is important to me, Emily.”

I don’t want to, but I believe him. He really does have faith. He really does want to be a pastor, a good one. And it took guts to admit he hurt me because he is selfish.

He is human. And humans make mistakes. I made some too—but not the ones I’ve been self-flagellating myself about the last few years. And it is time to come clean there as well. “Well, I’m sorry too, I guess. I never wanted to be a preacher’s wife. I would have made a horrible one. I was always trying to act the part, but I was only showing you what I wanted you to see.”

I was playing a role. It is so much better for us both that we broke up before the wedding. I’m not even religious. What was I thinking?

He nods. Accepting my apology in a way that makes me think he might even be a good pastor someday. Maybe he grew up, too. “Whenever I think about that night, I get angry. And that is always going to be a problem I need to work on. But I’m also very angry that I’ve said terrible things to you. I’ll have to live with that.” His fingers trace the pattern in the granite counter top. “I know we won’t ever be friends again. And I know I’m always going to fight with this ego I have. But I wanted to tell you I’m sorry and I hope that offers you some kind of comfort.” He straightens. “With that I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas.”

I nod and another chain loosens.

I wish I could tell Charlie.

“Merry Christmas.” We won’t ever be friends again. That much is true. But letting go of the hurt will have to be enough.

Movement outside the French doors catches my eye. The carolers have arrived. I cross the room to open the doors.

“Silent night...”

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

Startled, Alan and I turn to the other door and the very upset Santa Claus standing inside of it.

“Holy night...”

Wait. Santa?

“Santa?” Alan echoes my thoughts.