Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

From now on your troubles will be out of sight

I wake up with Will’s favorite Christmas song in my head and my hand between my legs.

Sad and horny. That’s what I am. I literally cannot remember the last time I had sex. I know it was with Will because I never cheated on him in the years we were together, but our sex life was so sporadic at the end, I can’t recall the last time we made love. I need to get drunk and I need to get laid. I’m hoping at least one of those will happen tonight at the SportsCo Christmas party, but it probably won’t be the latter. I told Decker the truth. I’d be an awful one-night stand, and if I were in the market for one, it wouldn’t be at my office Christmas party. I’ve never dated colleagues or athletes, and that’s pretty much the extent of tonight’s guest list. Will was into advertising. He could barely tell a touchdown from a homerun. I liked that he had nothing to do with sports or my career. I needed something separate from the frenetic pace of television and the crazy news cycle I’m always enslaved to.

“God, Will.” I stare up at the ceiling, fresh, hot tears rolling into my ears and soaking my hairline. “Why did you do it? How could you do it?”

I told Decker last night that Will died, but I didn’t tell him it was at his own hand.

I’ve been through grief counseling. I see my therapist every week. I’ve read about suicide and depression and know all the statistics. Seventy-five percent of suicides are men. Statistically they follow through on their attempts at higher rates. Those stats spike during the holidays. All the signs were there, but I missed them. Ignored them? Denied them? I don’t know how I lived with this man and wore his ring for two years, but never knew this morbid wish was growing inside of him, a dark bud I didn’t even know had taken root.

And every morning for the last year, I woke up with one question on my lips.

Why?

“The last year,” I repeat, my voice an early morning croak. “Oh, my God.”

He’s been gone a year today. I can’t believe it, and in many ways, I feel as lost as I did the night he died.

There’s a call I need to make. One I dread, but know I cannot avoid.

When it rings and rolls into voice mail, I hesitate. I could call back later, but I’m not sure I can handle it today, hearing the pain in his mother’s voice. I’m ashamed to feel relief that Mrs. Hattfield doesn’t answer. Even more ashamed that I take the coward’s way out and leave a message.

“Hi, Mrs. H,” I say after the beep. “It’s me, Avery.”

I pause, the right words eluding me while I squeeze the cell phone like it’s the only thing anchoring me.

“I . . . um . . . I know today is difficult for you.” I shove the words that feel so trite out of my mouth. “It’s difficult for me, too. I can’t imagine . . . I just . . .”

My voice evaporates for a moment.

“I miss him,” I whisper, biting my lips against a sob and pressing my eyes closed to hold onto the last image I have of him. The deathly peace he’d taken for himself.

And it’s true. I miss the guy I knew before; the one who went down on one knee at dinner and promised me forever. I even miss the sullen man who lived in the shadows the last part of his life. I’d take Will any way I could get him just to look in his eyes, grab his hands and beg him not to do it. For me. For his mother. For himself, to reconsider living.

“I hope you’re not alone today.” I take a second to compose myself before going on. “I know the next few weeks will be hard, Christmas will be hard without him.”

I run one hand through my hair, frustrated that I don’t have the right words and have nothing more to say.

“Okay, well, call me when you get this message,” I say into the mechanical silence. “Talk to you soon.”

Losing a child, it’s the worst thing. When a child chooses to forfeit the very life you gave him, the pain must weigh even more. I wonder if she stares up at the ceiling some mornings asking why the way I do. Do her pain and grief cohabitate with a stewing rage? Does she want to drag him from the grave and shake him and call him a coward? I hate even thinking these things, but not acknowledging them to myself and at least to my therapist was ruining me. I don’t know if these thoughts make me a bad person, but I know they make me sad. And frustrated. And helpless.

In my closet, I consider the row of beautiful dresses I could wear tonight. The last thing I want to do is go to a Christmas party, much less one Mack Decker is attending. Those moments at my door two weeks ago have been a source of torture. It wasn’t just a reminder to my body what it’s been missing, but to my emotions. That just beyond my comfort zone there may be solace for, not just my body, but for my soul.

What was I thinking? Letting him hold me? Letting him see my vulnerability? Those moments of letting go, resting against the solidity of him; being comforted by his heart beating just beyond the wall of his chest, were some of the sweetest I’ve had in a year. It was intoxicating, and I have no intention of getting drunk on him. He’d go straight to my head. Straight to my heart and between my legs, and I’m not ready for any of that.

I press my thighs together against a tide of want when I recall the moments that simmered between us. Waking up thinking about Will, and getting wet knowing I’ll see Deck in a few hours—it feels so wrong, but at least I’m feeling. I haven’t allowed myself to want a man since Will died. Maybe no one appealed to me the way Decker does, but he’s the first one to punch holes in the fence around me.

I return to my selections for the party. I’ve worn the black dress to several office functions. It’s flattering and conservative. It’s the classic “little black dress” that goes everywhere and can serve many purposes. I touch the silky material of my other option. It’s a dress made of sunsets, a glorious blend of gold and red, and it still bears the tags. I’ve never worn it. The deep V neckline is outdone by the deeper V that bares my back. The bottom is narrow and tight and will be a testament of all the squats I’ve done, though my ass is mostly genetics and years of track and field. My mother and aunts have never done squats a day in their lives, and you could bounce a quarter off their butts. As good as I know the dress will look, I’m still not sure I’ll wear it. It’s a statement dress, and knowing Decker will be there tonight, I’m not quite sure what I want to say.