Lane
For the first time in five years, I went home for the holidays. Not really home, but to the five-star William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh. Why the hell did I leave the sun and sand to make a trek back to the ice and snow? I knew damn well why, but I wasn’t about to admit it aloud.
I needed to be saved from myself. I needed redemption.
With one more small lie, my life had turned sour. I carried the guilt of that dinner with Bess around with me, and it weighed me down like a trunk full of bricks. Our shared breakfast the morning after was my additional carry-on, a briefcase of evidence that I couldn’t do anything right. That baggage piled up with other suitcases full of indiscretions on my back, staying with me whether I was eating sushi with Randi, going for a punishing run, or conducting business meetings. They were with me always, weighing me down like a European traveler on a six-month tour.
My life was beginning to look like an empty movie set, and I had to save myself from becoming a poor excuse of a person like Jake.
Mostly, I obsessed over fixing things with Bess. Problem was, there were no things. It was a great big nothing built up in my head, so there was nothing to fix.
The halfhearted greeting I got from my brother should have been my first clue to the lunacy of my plan. I’d landed at dinnertime in Pittsburgh on December twenty-third, and had decided to give my brother a ring before I rented a car.
After selecting Jake’s contact info from my phone’s screen, I’d stuck in my earbud so I didn’t have to hold the phone to my ear while walking to the rental counter. He answered right before it went to voice mail, and by his tone, he’d apparently debated answering at all.
“What?” he barked into the phone.
“Hey, Jake! Merry Christmas to you too,” I said, laying it on thick.
“Merry fucking Christmas to you, Lane.”
I paced the waiting area in front of the rental counter. “I’m here. In Pittsburgh. Thought I’d see you in person for the holiday.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. You around?”
“I am now, but getting out of Dodge tomorrow. Got a sweet little honey I’m taking to the mountains. Sorry, my man, you shoulda called me sooner.”
“Now that you say it, I guess so. Well, I’m here, so you want to grab a beer tonight?”
“Sure. Where you staying? Oh, never mind. I know where. Only the best for Mr. Hotel Software.”
“Drop it, Jake,” I grumbled.
“Take it easy, dude. So, the Tap Room? Eight?”
“Fine. See you then.”
I disconnected and got my car, thinking I should have taken a flight back to Florida.
Later that night, over drinks with Jake and his “honey” named Courtney, I learned they were heading up to the mountains to ski. As luck would have it, they were staying at the WildFlower. Like a fool with a winning lottery ticket, I’d exclaimed, “Cool! They’re my client, so I should have no problem getting a room. I could come up and have dinner with you two!”
Jake looked at me like I’d completely lost it, but Courtney got me. She was ecstatic to meet her beau’s brother, and even more excited at the prospect of spending Christmas with his family.
It was decided. I would drive up the next day and have Christmas Eve dinner with Jake and “Court” before they spent Christmas Day skiing. Then I would drive back to the airport and get on a first-class flight back to Florida.
I was counting the minutes.
At least, I told myself so.
But I didn’t get on a flight. I spent Christmas morning pacing the carpet in my suite—the one management had on hold in case a VIP like me wanted to stay at the last minute—debating what to do.
Was Bess downstairs? How could I tell her the truth? Did she take the holiday off?
After wasting the day worrying over it, I threw on a suit and went down to the bar for a drink and something to eat.
Spending Christmas alone was nothing new for me. I was used to it, so I settled into the cushy bar stool and ordered a Lagavulin straight up. After throwing back the scotch, experiencing the slow burn that came with it, I opened the menu to see what I would be eating for my holiday dinner when I felt the tingle.
Yes, an actual tingle ran up my spine, and before I could consider what the fuck was happening and when exactly I’d turned into a giant wuss, I heard Bess’s voice.
Sneaking a quick glance, I saw she was preoccupied and talking with her head stuck in her notebook, so I hurried up and made my way over to her. The tingle ramped up into a full-blown electric shock with every inch closer I got to the source.
When I said hello, she asked what I was doing there. I wanted to come clean, I really did, but before I could, she brushed me off and went on her way to do her job. Like an idiot, I thought there would be another chance, so I waited.
It finally dawned on me she wasn’t coming back when she sent runners to get her drinks. So I ordered a steak and moved back to my original seat, where I had a better view of the restaurant floor. I always planned better on a full stomach.
No way was I leaving now.
AJ
I paced my kitchen until the oven timer rang, signaling the turkey was done.
Thank fucking God. Now these asses can eat and go.
My Christmas was sucking big-time. I wanted Bess to be with me, but she wasn’t.
I kept picturing her bursting through my door, all bundled up for the cold and apologizing for being late, but there was nothing. No random noises or car lights outside. Just my recovery gang and me shooting the breeze around the fire, avoiding bellying up to the bar, and killing time until December twenty-sixth when this miserable holiday was officially over.
“That smells fucking great,” my buddy Pete yelled from the other room.
I’d rather smell pussy; Bess’s tight one, to be exact. Once I got a taste of that sweet cunt-sugar, I didn’t want any other. And I wanted her now. By my side.
My mind was in overdrive, unable to slow or halt the continual loop of Bess. Somewhere, the rational side of me knew it was my addictive personality. The addict in me didn’t care. I wanted my next hit. Now.
“Damn right! I know what to do with a bird,” I shouted back to my room full of guests, sliding my poker face on. I’d perfected that shit when I was using, and refined it more when I got sober and started giving construction estimates.
I was a master of disguise. Thank fuck because no one outside this kitchen could know what drug I’d traded up for—a brown-haired one with legs that went on for miles.
Slapping the turkey onto a platter, I called out, “I’m gonna grab a quick smoke outside and then I’ll serve dinner.” But I couldn’t even think about eating.