Only You

by Marie Landry

  *****

  Other than that first morning, I don’t have much time to wallow.

  Bridget calls just after noon and says she’s coming to get Celia, Fiddlesticks, and me in an hour and we’re going to start celebrating Christmas early and keep celebrating for the next several days. I relay this message to Celia, dubious about her reaction. She simply smiles and says she’ll go pack a bag. Cue the waterworks yet again.

  Christmas is a huge affair in the Higgins household. I’ve come to look forward to it every year because I know there’ll be lots of delicious food, free-flowing alcohol, presents, and general merriment. When I met Bridget six years ago and was basically adopted by her family, I was amazed to learn what Christmas could be—decorations and lights and magic and movies and music and warmth and love. So much love.

  Christmases with my parents were always a small, quiet event. We marked the passing of the day with a few gifts and a nice meal. It was nothing like what my friends said their holiday celebrations were, and certainly nothing like what I saw on TV. My final Christmas with them was the last Christmas I celebrated until I met Bridget. My aunt and uncle didn’t observe the holiday at all. It was just another day of the year for them. Since they made me get a job as soon as I legally could, I always saved a portion of my paycheck each year to buy myself something I’d been wanting, plus donate to my favorite local charities.

  Because of all this, my first Christmas with the Higgins’ was almost overwhelming. Marla knew my dad was Chinese, so she had taken the time to make a few Chinese side dishes as well as the turkey and all the regular trimmings. They’d had presents for me, and even a stocking with my name embroidered on it to match theirs. I’d had to excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom because I couldn’t handle the tsunami of emotions that flooded me.

  Bridget had eventually come to find me. She’d apologized profusely for making me uncomfortable, but I’d interrupted her and told her I was overwhelmed, but in the best way possible. I’d only told her the bare minimum about my aunt and uncle before that. Sitting together on the side of her bathtub, I’d explained how cold they were and how they didn’t believe in expressions of love or affection.

  “It’s all just hitting me in an unexpected way,” I’d told her. “I’m realizing all the things I missed over the years. Not just Christmas, but what it was like to have a loving, supportive family.”

  “Well, you’re part of our family now. An honorary Higgins,” Bridget had said. “You can count on us and know you’ll always be loved.”

  That was the best gift I’d ever received. I’ve spent every Christmas since with Bridget’s family, even last year, the first Christmas after Mr. Higgins died. My aunt and uncle had moved back to China earlier in the year, and after spending a fortune to ship a few small gifts to them, my aunt had sent them back, asking why I’d wasted my money. We’ve only spoken twice since then: once when she told me I should invite Celia to live with me, and again a few weeks later to make sure I had done it. That’s it. I have no intention of initiating contact, and I doubt I’ll hear from her anytime soon. I’ll always be grateful she took me in, but she and my uncle are a part of my past now.

  “You’re missing all the best Jude Law parts.”

  I blink hard, coming out of what feels like a heavy brain fog. I’m sitting on Bridget’s couch, between her and Marla. Celia is lounging in an armchair off to the side. The room is dark except for the glow from the TV and the colored lights on the Christmas tree. I look at Bridget; Fiddlesticks is curled in her lap, sleeping. My best friend tilts her head and gives me a funny little smile.

  “You okay? You love this movie, but you’ve been zoning out.”

  A glance at the TV shows Jude Law and Cameron Diaz frolicking through the grounds of the fancy restaurant where they just ate lunch. I smile, remembering the dozens of times Bridget and I have watched The Holiday over the years. “Just thinking,” I whisper. I shift closer to her and lean my head on her shoulder. “I’m so glad I’m here.” Movement catches my eye and I follow it to Celia, who’s watching us with an expression I can’t read. “So glad we’re here,” I amend, just loud enough for her to hear.

  She smiles, and we all turn our attention back to the TV.

  Later, my phone beeps with a message as I’m crawling into bed beside Bridget.

  Just got to my sister’s. Christmas morning festivities will commence in a few hours, and I’m off to attempt sleep until then. Will call you later today—or tomorrow for you. Thinking of you. Merry Christmas, Ivy. xxx

  I fire back a quick message, telling him I’m glad he arrived safely, I’m thinking of him too, and I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I end with my own wish for a ‘Happy Christmas’ and send a string of Xs and Os.

  “Hugh?” Bridget is halfway reclined with her arm stretched toward the bedside lamp. I nod and she clicks it off, plunging us into darkness. “Wanna snuggle?” she asks and I laugh. “I promise not to imagine you’re David if you don’t imagine I’m Hugh.”

  “Your breasts are much bigger than Hugh’s,” I joke. I turn off my phone and set it on the nightstand, then nestle into Bridget’s side. I do and don’t want to talk about Hugh. I’m afraid it’ll open the floodgates again and I want to enjoy my holiday, not spend it weepy and wallowing.

  Bridget must sense this because she’s quiet. Normally she’d ask a question or tell me she’s here if I want to talk. Instead, she whispers, “Merry Christmas, Ivy. We’re going to have a great few days.”

  I sigh and curl further into the warmth of her body. Her softness and sweet floral scent are such a contrast to Hugh. Surprisingly, instead of making me miss him, it just makes me love her more. “Merry Christmas, Bridge.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  January is frigid and dreary, a mixture that doesn’t do much for my general outlook. I managed to keep it together through Christmas and New Year’s, all spent with Bridget, David, Marla, Celia, and Fiddlesticks. Even though I miss Hugh, I wouldn’t say I’m pining over him. We talk most days, but between the five-hour time difference and our jobs, plus the fact I think we’re both trying to keep things low pressure, it’s been hard.

  Celia starts college the second week of January and I start working with Piper one or two nights a week, going over ideas to bring in new customers. Those evenings, when I get to let my creativity out to play, become the highlight of my week. I’m not sure if it’s the January blahs or the strange transition feeling I’ve had since Hugh left, but everything seems dull and colorless. I miss Santa’s Village—the people, the action, the color, the excitement. Every day was something new, unlike my job at Quest. I’m running on autopilot because there’s so little variety in the work.

  One afternoon, I’m sitting at my desk waiting for the coffee I had at lunch to kick in when I realize the office is almost empty. A quick glance at the calendar on my desk reminds me there’s a staff meeting today…and it started ten minutes ago. “Shit,” I hiss, jumping up from my chair and snatching a notebook and pen.

  I dash to the conference room at the far end of our floor and burst through the closed door. I’ve made far more noise than intended, which, of course, means all eyes look to see what idiot is arriving late.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I murmur, closing the door quietly and slinking into the nearest empty seat at the long rectangular table. Bridget is standing at the head of the table, frozen as if in pantomime with her reading glasses in one hand and a folder in the other. She shoots me a concerned look and I shake my head, opening my notebook to a blank page.

  Bridget starts speaking again. I hear her voice, but I’m not processing the words. People around me nod along and take notes, occasionally interjecting with ideas of their own. It all sounds like the adults from Charlie Brown to me—wah wah wah. I stare around the bland room, taking in its beige walls and brown carpet. Outside the huge window behind Bridget, snow falls on the already gray city below.

  “What do you think, Ivy?”

  The words break through m
y stupor and I come back to a reality where everyone is staring at me. Again. Bridget’s brows are drawn together and her mouth is turned down at the corners. After a moment of studying me, she sets her folder down and claps her hands.

  “Okay guys, great work today.” Her voice is overly bright. “Let’s all take a break and then head back to work.” She speaks to a few people as they leave. I stay put, avoiding eye contact with my coworkers. When the last person has left, Bridget sighs and gathers her things. “My office in ten, please,” she says as she leaves the room.

  Well, crap. This is one of those times when it’s not so fun having your best friend as your boss.

  Wanting to avoid the break room, where I know I’ll likely have to field questions and concerned looks, I hop in the elevator and ride down to the cafeteria. I change my mind about coffee at the last minute, deciding on herbal tea instead. I think I’ve hit my caffeine quota for the day, as dozy as I currently feel.

  Ten minutes later, with two take-out cups of tea in hand, I push open Bridget’s slightly ajar door. “Knock knock,” I say. “I can’t actually knock without spilling tea.”

  Bridget rises from her chair and comes to take one of the cups from me. “Thanks for this. And thanks for coming. Have a seat.”

  While she closes the door, I take one of the two cushy chairs in front of her desk. I expect her to sit in her own desk chair, but she plops down beside me instead, angling her body toward me. “Are you okay?” I’m still formulating a response—I’ve been asked that question so many times in the last few weeks, I’m tired of my usual automatic answer—when she barrels on. “I’ve been so swamped lately with work, we haven’t seen each other as much as I’d like. I know what a difficult time this must be for you, and I’m sorry for failing you.”

  “Failing me?” A disbelieving laugh tumbles out of me. “Bridget, you’ve never failed me. I don’t think you could, even if you tried. You’re busy. You have a crazy job and a boyfriend and—”

  “None of that is an excuse,” she interrupts. “I feel like you…you’re…well, you’re not yourself. And I should have noticed sooner and spoken to you about it. Is something going on other than the obvious?”

  Bridget’s words ring in my ears. ‘You’re not yourself.’ I’m not even completely sure who I am anymore, so I guess I shouldn’t expect her to know. I inhale deeply. My brain plans to tell her how off I’ve been feeling, but my mouth takes over and blurts, “Did you pass me over for the Ruiz project because you’re afraid choosing me would seem like favoritism?”

  Bridget’s mouth pops open. “I…what? Why would you think that?”

  “I’ve been passed over for a number of projects lately and I can’t understand why. I was worried maybe you thought giving me some of the higher profile accounts or even a decent selection of other projects would look like you were choosing me because I’m your best friend and not because I’m good at my job.”

  “Ivy.” Bridget sighs. She pulls the lid off her cup and blows on the liquid without taking a drink. “That’s not it at all. Even if people did think that, they’d be wrong, so it wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t give you a project I felt wasn’t a right fit, and that was the case with the Ruiz project. Since you already have a full caseload, I didn’t want to give you more accounts unless I thought it was something that would genuinely interest and challenge you. Since you’re doing well with the accounts you have, I didn’t think it would matter.”

  We’re both silent after that, staring into our tea so we don’t have to look at each other. Several moments pass before Bridget sets her cup on the desk and stands. “I’m sorry you’ve felt overlooked,” she says, beginning to pace. “That was honestly never my intention. Sometimes I wish I could go back and not accept this job. I miss my old job, the creativity and freedom of it. I miss being friends with my coworkers and having people treat me like an equal and not as the boss. I know everyone likes and respects me, but I’ve lost a certain closeness with a lot of people, and it hurts. I hate the long hours and the stress and the pressure. I hate running the staff meetings, and even more than that, I hate the meetings with the other higher ups.”

  The words pour out of her like she’s been bottling them up for a long time and the stopper has popped free. I watch her pace in a tight circle across her office—a few steps forward, pivot, a few steps back, pivot, repeat. She’ll wear a hole in the carpet in no time.

  “I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “Yeah, well.” She sticks her hands in her hair and leaves them there. For a minute, I think she’s going to yank on the strands.

  I hop up and dart in front of her, stopping her pacing. With gentle fingers, I pry her hands loose from her hair and hold them in mine. “Talk to me.”

  She sighs again. “I’ve been seriously considering seeing if there’s a way I can go back to my old job. I don’t know if anyone has ever done that before, and I know it would be crazy because it’s a huge demotion and pay cut, but…I’m just not happy being the boss.”

  My heart hurts hearing her say that. Maybe I’m the one who’s failed her because I didn’t notice she was unhappy. Although to be fair, she’s put up a good front. “Can you talk to David about it? See what he thinks?”

  “I have.” She bites her lip. From her guilty expression, I’m guessing she’s worried I’ll be upset she talked to David about this before talking to me. “He wants me to do whatever makes me happy. I made good money before in my old position—well, you know that, we had the same salary. And David seems to pay for most things these days, so it’s not like it really comes down to money…” Her cheeks flush and she lifts one shoulder. “The perks of having a rich boyfriend.”

  I laugh. I got a taste of that myself with Hugh, so I can imagine.

  Some of the tension in the room has eased as we sit back down. “I’ll have to think about it,” Bridget says. “Give it some real thought.”

  “You know no one would judge you if you went back to your old job,” I tell her. “Everyone here cares about you and would want you to do what you feel is best.” Bridget bobs her head, her eyes glazed slightly as if she’s in deep contemplation. My own mind starts to swirl. This is my opening. Now is the perfect time to tell Bridget about my own desire for change. “I’ve actually been thinking about a career change too.”

  Bridget rockets out of her chair. I startle, nearly sloshing the tea I just picked back up. “This isn’t because of the projects, is it? I’ll find you something else immediately. I can talk to—”

  “No,” I say, cutting her off. “No, it’s not that.” She had been heading around the desk to her computer and now she’s frozen in place, her shoulders tense once more. “Will you chill out and let me explain?”

  Her face softens and she laughs lightly. “I’m suddenly wishing I kept a flask in my desk. I feel like we could both use a shot right now.”

  “Wanna just bail and head down to Connelly’s?” I ask, and she laughs again, retaking her seat. “I don’t want to say I’m bored with this job, but it’s something like that. I hate to complain, but my heart isn’t in it anymore. I’m working on autopilot.”

  “What would you do if you left?” Bridget asks.

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

  “What about the bookstore?”

  “I’ve been working with Piper once or twice a week, but I couldn’t live off that money. It’s probably only a temporary position anyway.”

  Bridget slumps down so she can rest her head against the low back of her chair. “I guess I’m not the only one with a lot of thinking to do.” She stares up at the ceiling. I mimic her lounged position, letting my body go limp. “We’ll figure it out.” From the corner of my eye, I see her turn her head toward me, so I do the same. “And in the meantime, I say we have a date this weekend and let loose. Have a drink or five.”

  “You’re on.”

  *****

  After our meeting, Bridget suggests I leave early. “As much as I’d like to bail ri
ght now, I can’t, so I’ll live vicariously through you. Get out of here and go do something for yourself.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I gather my things and bustle out of the office. When I get in my car, I decide to drive around until inspiration strikes. Celia won’t be home for a while, and I don’t feel like going home myself. I drive down familiar streets, realizing after a few minutes I’m heading toward the bookstore. I guess I know where I’m spending the next couple of hours.

  The weather is surprisingly mild for late January, so I drive past the bookstore’s lot and park down the street. I haven’t checked out any of these shops since my mad rush right before Christmas. I meander down the sidewalk, checking out the window displays. I’ve just stopped in front of a consignment shop when my phone buzzes.

  I pull it out of my purse and smile when I see it’s a text from Hugh.

  Had to bring the ol’ kilt out today for wedding prep stuff. Imagine me in a white shirt, knee socks, shiny shoes, and whatever else my sister insists on.

  I open the attached picture and nearly fumble my phone into the gutter. It would be fitting since that’s where my mind has run off to.

  Oh. My. Great. Scot.

  The picture is a selfie taken in front of a full-length mirror in what looks like a bedroom. The lighting isn’t great, but that doesn’t detract from the image of Hugh in a kilt and nothing else. My mouth goes dry, then starts to water. I’ve missed that broad chest and the way the light dusting of hair feels under my hands. His hair has grown a bit, and it curls slightly around his ears and neck, giving him a definite Jamie Fraser/Outlander vibe. Yum. The picture is too dark to make out the exact colors of the kilt, but it’s a reddish tone tartan and it looks sinfully sexy on Hugh.

  I save the image to my phone and close out the text, hitting the call button. Hugh answers immediately. I hear the smile in his voice as he says, “This is a nice surprise. I thought you’d still be at work.”