Bess
AJ and I fell into a routine that meshed with my usual steady, less-than-exciting life—early evenings spent by the fire, then dark and sweaty nights rolling together between the sheets before parting ways in the early hours of the morning. The air grew colder outside, snow falling daily on my little side of the mountain, but our passion burned bright inside my cabin. A few days turned into two weeks, and all of a sudden we were a couple.
He cooked for me, took me back to his house—the one he built with his own hands—and showed me all the rooms designed to hold a big family someday. I smiled and murmured my praise of his handiwork, but it all seemed presumptuous on his part.
We went to AA meetings and sat separately, hurrying home to reconnect physically as soon as they were over. It was a relationship based in convenience, but didn’t feel exactly that way when we were in the moment.
It felt passionate when we were together, but truthfully, who else wanted me?
Lane invited me to Florida. No, he didn’t. Not really. He was just being polite.
Was I settling? Was I confusing the first display of any physical attention in close to half a decade with passion and heat?
And what really gnawed at me was that I imagined somewhere deep down inside AJ, he felt guilt or some responsibility to see this through with me. He was my sponsor first and my lover second.
But it had been so long since I’d experienced affection of any kind. It was truly the first time my body responded so vibrantly to a man’s touch, I couldn’t stop whatever crazy train we were riding.
Our newly formed relationship met head-on with its first obstacle today, Christmas Day, December twenty-fifth. It was a day for family, friends, lovers, prayers, wishes and peace, and I was driving my usual route to work as dusk colored the sky pale pink and gray in anything but peace.
My warm breath created a smoky fog when it hit the cold air in the car, my gloved yet still-cold fingers fanned out over the wheel, my stomach tied in knots over my choice, but I had to do what I felt I had to do.
I was working. AJ wasn’t.
He wanted me to go to the dinner he was hosting for friends at his home. I wanted to work.
It was an argument that began in the middle of the night last week. AJ slid out of me, taking care to wrap me tight in the blanket as he went to dispose of the condom, and came back with a warm cloth to clean me up. Always the caring, thoughtful one, he turned to me and tucked a stray hair behind my ear as he whispered, “Christmas is just a few days away, Bess.”
“Really?” I said, somewhat teasing and a tiny bit sarcastic.
“Yeah, babe,” he said, his voice cracking with something I didn’t quite recognize.
I decided to try to lighten the odd tension I sensed building between us. “I got you a little gift!” I said while batting my eyelashes.
AJ threw his leg over mine, careful to not lay all his weight on me, and gripped my hip firmly, letting me know he wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Got you something too, but that’s not the point. I want you to come to my place for dinner. A bunch of us from the meetings, we all get together every year to avoid big boozing-up type parties. We cook and relax by the fire, and I need you there.”
“I’m working,” I whispered as I tucked my head under his chin, then placed a small kiss on his chest.
“Get out of it,” he murmured as he kissed the top of my head.
“I can’t, AJ. I work every year. You deal with the holidays your way, and I deal with them in mine.” I felt his body stiffen, and didn’t have the strength to look up and meet his eyes.
“Bess, that’s not fair. We’re together. I’m there for you, and I want you to be there for me. I want us to be together for the holiday, under the mistletoe.” He tucked his finger under my chin and brought my face up to meet his.
I shook my head. “I can’t, AJ. Please don’t push, but I need to work. It’s how I deal. I’m sorry, I know I’m letting you down, but I just can’t be with you on Christmas Day. I can come over for a little while when I finish up work, though.”
At this, he moved to get out of bed and slipped back into his jeans and flannel shirt. “Well, that sucks and I can’t accept that, Bess. You’re not my booty call. I have feelings for you beyond you stopping by at night.”
And then he left, just like that. The odd thing is, I didn’t even get up to watch him pull away.
Yet as I drove to work this morning, images of his truck pulling away kept blending with memories of my mom walking down the stairs and never glancing back.
It made me wonder—did he turn around and look behind him as he drove away?
Lucky for both my drab mood and myself, my shift started as soon as I changed at the WildFlower. The line for Christmas brunch snaked down the hallway from the restaurant. We were full with reservations, but there was no way we would turn away the families who showed up at the last minute—we would just hustle even harder.
Better for me. My mind will stay occupied.
The crisp white tablecloths were dusted with glittery fake snow, and candles glowed inside the poinsettia centerpieces. The room smelled like fresh pine thanks to the dozen or so fresh trees lining the perimeter of the dining room, decorated with shiny baubles and wide gauzy ribbon shot through with gold thread, and every so often I caught a whiff of eggnog from the special French toast on the buffet.
As Christmas carols piped through the speakers, I worked my tables with a smile and a red bow pinned to my vest. From a distance, I watched other families celebrating, sharing and experiencing a special day together. I tucked the notion in the back of my mind that this was how families were supposed to be—spending time together, tossing back champagne and clinking their glasses, then tossing back some more. Little boys and girls clanked mugs of hot cocoa filled with marshmallows, high on their own drug—sugar.
Festivity cloaked the room like a heavy winter parka; there was no escaping it. Although the alcohol-infused orange juice in the room didn’t bother me, I was rattled by the sentimentality of it all. I couldn’t escape the pinch of pain in my chest while bearing witness to something I’d never had nor probably ever would. The occasional children’s laughter that rang out was the only salve to my pain. After all, how could anyone deny a child the experience of Christmas Day?
After cleaning up and resetting the room from brunch, I was able to take a short break. I hid in the kitchen, having a bite to eat before dinner service began. Ernesto went home after the last pan of French toast made its way out. Before he left, he kissed me on the cheek and wished me a merry Christmas. It was one of the nicest gestures I’d ever experienced.
It wasn’t like we didn’t celebrate as I was growing up; we did. After mom left, Dad would send his current secretary out to buy me a few “girl things” for Christmas. There were nameless Barbies, cardigans with tiny crystals sewn on the collars, and vanity sets. After Christmas, I would throw them all in the corner. I didn’t really know what to do with any of that junk since I didn’t have a mom. But I always pretended to be excited and sought comfort in my dad’s hug following my attempt at a heartfelt reaction. After all, it was my one chance at affection all year long.
Dad didn’t cook, so we always were invited over to that secretary’s house for dinner. Every year it was someone different; he’d go through a few of them from one holiday to the next. We would eat, and then I would watch my dad and his secretary celebrate under the mistletoe.
At some point in my mid-teens, I opted to work holidays for time-and-a-half at the local drugstore, which ironically, was how I funded my first bad habit—booze—a much better way to forget my lack of a mother than work. And an easy way to lure a fumbling yet warm teenage boy into my arms to give me the affection I craved.
Caffeinated and nourished, I made my way out to the restaurant for the dinner service. The buffet had been taken away and the elaborately set tables arranged for us to serve a five-course holiday meal. More families dressed in their Christmas outfits filed in, different from the ones we’d served breakfast to. But like the breakfast crowd, they oohed and aahed at the festive decor and ambience.
After wishing each and every table a happy holiday and taking beverage orders, I went to collect drinks from the bar. This was the reason why I tried not to work too many dinners. The back and forth to the bar, the anxiety over the smells and seduction of the many burgundy and amber-hued liquids, and the guilt of being an innocent participant in someone else’s problem, all of it meant I normally stuck to serving breakfast and lunch. But I made an exception for a holiday.
Sidling up to the bar where the drinks for the restaurant came out, I pulled out my tablet to take a quick peek at the menu. Without looking up, I said, “Hey, Robbie. What’s up?” The bar area was quiet; after all, who opted to spend Christmas alone other than me?
I heard, “Happy holidays, Bess. Not much. Nice to see you on a dinner shift,” over the clinking of glasses.
Yeah, I guess.
Then I had the strangest feeling as an indescribable warmth coated me. It started in the center of my chest, radiating its way outward until I was fully covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
And then I heard it.
“Hi, Bess. Merry Christmas.”
The heat source had come closer. It was now sitting on the end stool, its breath so close, I could feel it on my skin, singeing me. But it wasn’t an it. It was a he.
I looked up and my eyes met his. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wrigley.”
“Lane,” he quickly corrected me.
“Merry Christmas, Lane. What are you doing here?” I asked rudely with no regard for his feelings, or the fact that I was at work and he did business with my employer.
“Well, that’s a bit complicated,” he said right before Robbie interrupted him, shoving a large tray of drinks my way.
God bless Robbie.
“Oh well, happy holidays again,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” Averting my eyes, I picked up my tray and walked away as his heated gaze burned my back. I didn’t dare turn and look, but with every step, I felt like I was running away from home.
And then the smell of whiskey raced up my nose, chasing any warm and fuzzy feelings I might have away. Desperate to get away from the temptation—of both kinds—I hurried to deliver the beverages.