“Petites fours?” She knows classic French recipes? This woman is good.
“That’s the ticket! I can’t make those yet,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “Not too savvy with baking, but I did make us a chocolate cream pie! The crust is store-bought, but it looks good.” My dad is the only man in the world to be embarrassed by store-bought piecrust. “And I did champagne chicken breasts, they’re really tender, and I tried green bean casserole, since you missed it at Thanksgiving, and there are mashed potatoes with gravy of course.”
“It smells great, Dad.” He goes into the kitchen to check the chicken. I’m so proud of him, even if he’s been taken over by a harpy. Dad 5.1 is effervescent and confident. He’s no longer the defeated soul Mom left in her wake. “And your place looks awesome.” He went all out on decorations this year: tinsel on the tall (fake) Christmas tree, our old ornaments strewn about the boughs, meticulously wrapped presents in two different papers, sweet-smelling cherry blossom and pine candles, and a porcelain Christmas village I’ve never seen.
“Sandy bought the village for me. She said I needed something spectacular to fill the space where my old chair was.” That’s what’s different! His comfy puffy Lazy Boy is missing.
“She threw away your chair?”
“Oh, heavens no,” he shouts from the kitchen. “It’s at Sandy’s apartment. She wanted me to feel welcome there.”
“How nice.” I grit my teeth. Stay calm, Cassie. Don’t storm out of here and set fire to that woman’s apartment building. Retain your sanity.
“And wasn’t it nice that she let us have Christmas together? She thought it would be hard on you to share me during the holidays.”
“What a saint.”
“I’m not an idiot. You don’t like her.” I look up from my hot cocoa and he smiles down at me, a bowl of rolls in his hand. He offers me one, and I take it. They’re not homemade, but they look wonderful.
“These remind me of Grandma.”
“She loved to make bread but hated doing it at Christmas.” He grins and looks at the Christmas tree, shiny in its finery.
“’Too much to do! Too much to do! How can you expect me to make bread when there’s so much to do around this place! And your grandpa! He’s no help!’ Yeah. I remember that.” I nibble the bread and Dad tousles my hair.
“Everything will be all right. We’ll all be together next year.”
“I hope so.” I tuck my feet up under my legs. “I miss getting together with the whole family.” He sits next to me and sighs.
“It’ll be like this for a long time. Even though those times are long gone…it’s hard for me too.”
“I know. I’m glad I could be here, though. Joel’s missing out.” He hugs me to him, and my hot coca sloshes, a few drops falling on my jeans. I don’t mind.
“Yes, he is.” We sit for a moment and ponder the tree, recalling past meals and family gatherings. The first Christmas I remember features a six-year-old Joel refusing to eat dinner because he wants to open presents, a day long running of A Christmas Story on television, my mother yelling at Grandpa that dinner is ready and getting cold while he tinkers in the garage, and me getting my first writing journal. I was eight. The cover was bright purple. I wonder where that old thing went.
“Say, Dad?”
“Hmm?” He is caught in memory’s hazy embrace.
“Want to watch A Christmas Story? After dinner I mean.”
“Whatever you want.”
The timer goes off in the kitchen, but we stay seated for a while longer. I cannot recall a more peaceful Christmas. Nor a sadder one.
New Year’s Eve approaches rapidly after Christmas Day, the year anxious to begin. Lindsey wanted to have a party but decided against it in favor of one last night of debauchery before she actually starts giving up alcohol. She did well for about one week but caved after a horrible incident involving a Volvo and an eighteen-year-old claiming to be twenty-five. That was a spectacular evening.
I despise the time following Christmas. People become their old, indifferent selves. Gone is good will toward men. Away has flown the notion of caring and sharing. Even the Salvation Army’s red pails retire for another year. Christmas is the best time of year, a month when people are pleasant and jovial. It smells better, food tastes better (and not just because Starbucks releases the fabulous gingerbread latte), and bells ring loudly in the streets. Even bad eggs like Lindsey are polite. She went to Christmas mass this year! And she swore she’d never go back.
Lindsey chose Brits for our get together, perhaps hoping that Pete won’t dare show his face again. He tried calling me twice, but I never answered. Yay me! She thinks if I see him, it’s all over and I’ll sleep with him. I’ve brought an insurance policy: Dan. His fake tan is fading, but he remains a bit carroty. He wears a fitted suit and colorful tie. Keeley goggles when he appears by my side at ten o’clock, and Lindsey approves.
“Linds, Keel, this is Dan. We met online.”
“We know!” says Lindsey, exasperated. “She talks about you nonstop.” I blush, because I’ve only mentioned him a few times, but he’s pleased and replies, “That’s good to know. I was hoping I made a good impression that day.” He grins at me and stoops to kiss my cheek. Even this chaste moment makes me nervous, so I raise my glass and clink it against his and change the subject.
“Lindsey was just telling us about her last date.” Her eyes narrow, and Keeley giggles. “Do you need another drink, Keeley?”
“I’ll wait for a while. This place is pretty crowded!”
“I know!” shouts Lindsey. “It’s almost like it’s New Year’s Eve or something.”
“To a New Year!” says Dan.
“And a new month?” asks Lindsey, raising an eyebrow. I feel like kicking her shin but resist. Dan might not find abusing my friends amusing.
“A new month?” asks Dan. “I suppose we can celebrate that too. But I hate January. That’s usually when I leave town and head to Florida.”
“Usually?” asks Keeley. God, these two are terrible. How did I survive so long with such horrible friends?
“Well,” he pauses and looks at me, “I might have a reason to hang out for a few months.”
“Very interesting,” chirps Lindsey. “In that case, I need another drink.” She downs her whiskey soda and threads through the crowd toward the bar.
“What are you drinking, Dan?” I ask. He holds a tumbler half-full of brown liquor.
“Scotch. Being an English pub, you’d think their selection might be limited, but they’ve got quite the shelf. This is Glenlivet. Fairly old, too.”
“I enjoy scotch but don’t drink it often,” I say. “I think the bottle I have at home is five years old. It’s Glen-something.”
“Any of the ‘glens’ are fine,” he laughs, and I feel Keeley watching our interaction with keen interest. I wonder why she doesn’t have a date tonight. If there’s one thing Keeley’s good at finding, it’s a date. “Are you flying solo tonight, Keel?” Dan asks.
“It’s Keeley, Dan. Sorry, I use their nicknames all the time.”
“That’s okay,” says Keeley. “You can call me Keel. Not everyone gets to though, so don’t go spreading it around.”
Once again, we are Alicia-less. She and her husband are going out tonight for a much-needed date. They found a babysitter and didn’t tell us their destination. I hope they have a great time. Alicia deserves a night out. I didn’t tell the girls about the pregnancy either. They should know, but Alicia wants to surprise them. Knowing her, it will be in some sweet, jarring way, and the girls will be so shocked they’ll forget to be angry. It’s okay. I can last one New Year’s without her, even if I have an incredible date, I want her to meet.
Lindsey returns from the bar, face ashen. She doesn’t have a drink.
“What’s wrong?” asks Keeley. “You look terrible! Did you do some shots at the bar?”
She shakes her head and glances at Dan and me. Oh shit. Please not tonight. She looks ov
er my shoulder and I turn, knowing exactly what I’ll see, because he needs to make some kind of romance-movie statement. I thought only teenage girls were drama queens.
Pete moves through the crowd, heading straight for us like a great white shark after blood. He looks fabulous, a bit rumpled yet sexy. I look at Dan’s coiffed good looks and see no comparison. Pete is compelled to ruin my life repeatedly.
“Hi everybody,” he says with a jubilant grin. “Lindsey left me behind at the bar.” He smirks at her and I imagine steam and other noxious substances seething through her pores. “Happy New Year!”
“Uh…” Keeley can’t find the words, and Dan looks puzzled but holds out his hand. “Happy New Year to you as well,” he says. “Are you Lindsey’s boyfriend?” She pretends to choke on her nonexistent drink and Keeley scrunches her nose in disgust.
“No,” Pete laughs and extends a hand to me. “I know Cassie from a long time ago.”
“Not long enough,” mutters Lindsey and Keeley pokes her.
“I see,” says Dan, uncertain how to respond. “Old college friend?”
“You could say that,” answers Pete. “We had a lot of English classes together.” He pauses and gives Dan the once-over. “Trouble with the tanning bed, man?”
I don’t know what to do. Dan flushes through his fake tan and grips his glass tight, he could fracture it. Lindsey and Keeley stare, unable to repel Pete from the circle. I feel like a lawn ornament, useless and still. I’m a bird hypnotized by a venomous cobra, merely waiting for the strike. I have to say something. I’m standing in this dense crowd with my date, my old fiancé, and two friends who are no help. The air seems filled with smoke, though they banned cigarettes long ago. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Is this what love is supposed to be like? A strangler’s grip on your throat? A shock waiting to sting when you least expect it? Is this the only man I’m destined to feel this strongly for? It can’t be. I need to stop this right now. He can’t be the only one for me.
“I need to talk to you for a second,” I say and point to a dark corner. He follows, practically prancing behind me. If he thinks he’s in for a New Year’s kiss he’s out of his fucking mind. Who does he think he is, attacking a stranger? Making fun of him just because he’s with me? What makes him think he can treat me like this? Oh, that’s right: because I let him walk all over my rigid corpse for all those years.
We reach the corner; I spin and almost smack him across the cheek. I fight the urge and say, “That was totally inappropriate. I’m here with Dan tonight.” I’m dimly aware that it’s almost midnight and hope I can be rid of Pete before the countdown begins. “You need to leave me alone.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Cass,” he whines, trying to touch my arm. I push his hand away, and he looks crushed. “We were always supposed to be together. Why do you think I tried so hard to get a hold of you since Halloween? I need you.”
“It’s always about you, Pete. Our entire relationship was about what you wanted and when you wanted to do things. You said you only proposed to me because you thought I might leave.” He ruffles his hair and flashes an apologetic frown. This face worked on me years ago when he wanted me to do something he knew I’d hate.
“I was wrong to leave you. I’ve been miserable for three years.”
“That floozy you ran off with didn’t stick?”
“She was just a distraction.”
“And there’s your problem. So easily distracted by the next pretty thing that walks by, or in her case, drunkenly staggered by.” I hear the bartender yell that we only have thirty seconds until midnight and ignore Pete and search for Dan in the crowd. I want to kiss him at midnight. I’ve been planning all week! One of the worst things in a single person’s life is having no one to kiss on New Year’s Eve. “I have to go.” I look once more at Pete, and he looks astonished, perplexed that I rejected him. “Go home.” As I try to leave, he grabs my arm and twists.
“Why are you doing this? I’m trying to apologize!”
“Let go! You’re hurting my arm!” I pull free and he gapes. Everyone in the bar is yelling, but I can’t make out the words.
“You’ll never change, Cassie. Still the same pitch perfect bitch.” The bar patrons’ words become clearer, “Five!”
“I don’t care what you think. I moved on, and so should you.”
“Four!”
“No one leaves me! Why don’t you understand that I can’t live without you?”
“Three!”
“I need you like I need fucking cancer!”
“Two!”
“You’re a horrible person!” I scream over the crowd. “And I never needed you!”
“One!”
He reaches for me and pulls me in, his lips scraping against mine like sand rubbed in a wound. His kiss is cold and calculated, but full of rage, and I can’t break his grip. He holds the back of my head in place and tries to part my lips with his tongue. I hit his back with ineffectual fists and attempt to bite him. Luckily, Lindsey reaches her cracking point.
She knocks Pete in the head with a beer bottle, saloon-fight style, and he releases me and curses. Blood seeps from a cut on his scalp, and he pushes me away into Lindsey. We fall as I crash into her, and Pete disappears.
People gather around us, including Keeley. They whisper and peer down like they’re watching Wild Kingdom. Keeley takes my hand and pulls me up, then we grasp Lindsey’s arms and get her back on her feet. We picked a bad night to wear heels.
“Are you okay?” asks a drunken guy in a red polo. I blink and recall Pete kissing me then falling backward. “That was righteous! You totally took that guy out! I bet my friends that you’re lesbians! Was that guy in your territory?”
“Beat it jack hole or you’ll get my other bottle!” threatens Lindsey, and Keeley grimaces. Another man fleeing in the face of Lindsey’s wrath. “Drunk mother fuckers. I’m so glad I quit drinking.”
“What were you thinking?” Keeley asks Lindsay, brushing the dust off my dress. I didn’t notice I was dirty. I check my butt. Nothing there. Oh yeah. I fell on Lindsey. “He could have kicked your ass.”
“No way! That guy’s always been a giant pussy.”
“I don’t feel well,” I mumble. Then I remember Dan. “Where’s Dan? What happened?”
They exchange worried glances and clear their throats.
“He left,” says Keeley. “He saw you two kissing and booked it.”
“Faster than the Roadrunner, babe,” interjects Lindsey, rubbing her butt. “You don’t look it, but you’re really heavy.”
“Shut up! Why did you let him leave? It’s not like I invited Pete to lip-rape me!”
“I couldn’t stop him,” says Keeley, ashamed. “And Lindsey was already running over to help you. She said there was no way that dirt bag would get away with what he did.”
“Repayment for all those times I had to listen to her bitch about him,” she says.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit!” I stomp my foot and feel tears forming. He ruins everything! Absolutely everything!
“Let’s get you another drink,” Lindsey suggests.
“Okay,” I mumble, and pass through the dissipating crowd to reach the bar. If I can’t have Dan for New Year’s, I can get good and wasted.
The cab pulls over and I forget to pay. The cabbie jumps out after me, and I apologize, giving him a huge tip. Though his fists are full of money, the driver eyes me with suspicion as he gets back in. He pulls away quickly, and I can’t find my apartment building. Where did that idiot take me? My shoes droop in my left hand, my clutch purse in my right. Do I even have my keys?
It’s not my street. But I recognize it. Did I give the wrong address? Then I notice the graffitied telephone booth on the corner. I’m at Justin’s apartment! How did that happen? There’s no way I can get another cab on New Year’s Eve. Shit and hell and dammit! And I’m so sloshed I can barely walk two feet ahead of me. Maybe Justin’s home. What time is it? I search my bag for my phon
e. It’s a little after three in the morning. It’s January. Happy New Year to me.
I search my contact list. Please be home, Justin. Please be sober enough to drive me to my place, or at least have some pajamas and a comfortable couch. He answers after a few rings, “Hello?” he sounds tired, but not slurred. Great! He’s not drunk!
“It’s Cassie.”
“Your name comes up when you call.”
“Oh. Well, I really need your help.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”
“Um,” I bite my lip and hope he’ll let me in. He doesn’t live too far from my apartment, but it’s freezing, and my feet can’t handle these shoes for one more second. It’s odd that my feet aren’t cold on his steps. “I’m kind of outside your place.”
“What?”
“I took a cab from the bar, but I must have said the wrong address, because he dropped me off here. There’s no way another cab will come by.”
“No kidding. It’s after three.” He sounds exasperated, a bit annoyed. I would be too if someone drunkenly called me at three in the morning outside my door. “I’ll buzz you in and I can take you home.”
“Thank you so much! I owe you big time!”
“You owe me enormous time,” he grumbles and hangs up. When the door buzzes I rush inside and take two flights of stairs up to his apartment. I’ve been here a few times, usually hanging out or for small work parties. It’s weird to be here alone, though.
“Hi,” I say when I turn the corner. He’s at his door, rubbing his eyes. His adorable flannel pajama pants sag on his hips, and he wears an old t-shirt with Led Zepplin splayed across the front. His feet are bare like mine.
“Hi,” he sighs. “Come on in. I need to wake up a bit first.”
“That’s okay.” I walk in and sit on his couch. I like his Spartan apartment. His furniture is simple and classic, not what you might expect from a man in his late twenties. The paintings hanging on the walls are modern; a nice contrast to the furniture, and soft light plays in the corners from architectural lamps. It reminds me of something a writer would want in his apartment. So silly of me, Justin is a writer. A few poetry books scatter the coffee table: Shakespeare, Auden, and Burroughs. Quite the selection. There’s a small volume open to a Sharon Olds poem, and I recall my senior poetry seminar in college. Dr. Parsons loved Sharon Olds. “Did you go out tonight?”
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