by Hazel Grace
“Build up your strength,” I cut in. “Or I’m going to call Doctor—”
Mama scoffs. “And she threatens me. You really do need to come home and calm your sister down. ”
“She’s right though,” Marty claims. “No more of that or I won’t ask for that leave.”
“Don’t stroke her out,” I tell him as Mama swats me with her hand. “Oh, she must be getting some of her strength back, she’s abusing me.”
“Your smart-ass deserves it,” my brother reprimands. “Someone has to do it.” Some rustling sounds on his side of the phone then he says, “Hey, I gotta go.”
“What?” Mama squeaks. “But you just called and—”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I’ll try to call you as soon as I can. I love the both of you so much. I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.”
“We love you too,” I answer for the both of us. Mama remains silent, chin tucked into her chest. She’s trying to hold herself together, to keep the sadness out of her tone. And as amazing as Marty’s calls are, they are just a reiteration of him still being gone.
“Mama,” Marty presses, knowing all too well that she’s upset. “Couldn’t hear you over Reagan’s big mouth, how much do you love me?”
“To the moon, baby,” she replies softly. “Come home safe.”
“Good. Reagan, promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”
I can’t, I’m already in a load of it now.
“I do every time I talk to you,” I reply, not fully agreeing to it. “A promise is forever.”
“I like the reminder that you remember. I’ll talk to you all soon, love you.” And he hangs up because saying goodbye is just as hard for him as it is for us. He may be a hard-ass to everyone else outside of Mama and I, but he’s a softy at heart.
Mama unmutes our movie, leaning back on the couch as she stares mindlessly at the screen.
“Mama, if you don’t finish eating and put that grin back on your face, I’m gonna tell Marty not to call you anymore.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t pull them away from our movie. “Girl, I will whoop you.”
“Never have before.”
“Never too late to try,” she counters before a corner of her lips quirk.
We finish watching our movie, Mama finishes her plate and falls asleep during White Christmas. I remain seated next to her, enjoying the comfort of just being home and away from my business.
A few minutes after midnight, a text message comes through from Chase, immediately making me smile.
Chase: Merry Christmas, Sox.
Me: Merry Christmas, Yank.
Chase: Have a good night with your mama?
Me: The best, my brother called.
Chase: No shit! That’s awesome.
Me: Best Christmas gift ever.
Chase: I got you something.
Me: Oh, Yank...please say you didn’t.
Chase: Guilty as charged.
Me: You told me to yell at you next time you use lawyer lingo.
Chase: Right, my bad.
Chase: It’s nothing that I bought, I promise.
Me: Now I’m intrigued.
Chase: It’s more of a confession.
Me: You’re an eighty-year-old man.
Chase: No.
Me: You have a love child.
Chase: Hell no.
Me: You’re not a lawyer, you’re actually a convict that studied law in jail. That’s how you know all the jargon.
Chase: You’re exhausting.
Me: Last one...you’ve been stalking my life.
Chase: Sure.
Me: KNEW IT!
Chase: You done?
Me: No...
Me: FINE! I’m ready…
Chase: You seriously just killed the mood of my being serious.
Me: I’m being dead serious...right now…
Me: Straight face and everything.
Chase: I seriously do not want to tell you anymore.
Me: Scared?
Chase: *eye roll*
Me: I’m sorry, I’m ready.
Chase: You’re going to laugh at me.
Me: I promise I won’t.
Chase: Mhm.
Me: Promises are everything.
Chase: People break them every day.
Me: I don’t.
As long as I don’t fall in love with you and you live a seperate life.
Chase: Fine…
Chase: I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about this so much lately but…
Chase: I think you’re one of the most intriguing people I’ve ever talked to in my life, and I never want to meet you.
Me: ...thank you?
Chase: I’m not done.
Chase: It’ll ruin everything. What if you don’t like me or I don’t like you. I look forward to your text messages and how you always seem to make me roll my eyes and wish I never messaged you back in the first place.
Me: This is getting worse.
Chase: I want to make a deal.
Me: There’s more to this?
Chase: Always is.
Me: Alright...shoot.
Chase: If we aren’t dating someone within a year, we meet.
Me: Seriously?
Chase: Yes.
Me: What if I make up dating someone?
Chase: You promised, remember?
Me: I promised not to laugh.
Chase: Again, I don’t know why I talk to you—seriously you’re annoying.
Me: Must be you imagining me underneath you all the time that gets you to stay.
Chase: Stop.
Me: You don’t? I’m insulted…
Chase: You’re changing the subject.
Me: I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.
Chase: Yes, Sox, I think of you, fuck, happy?
Me: Very.
Me: And okay, I promise we’ll meet, and I won’t lie if I’m not dating anyone.
Chase: Alright, cool.
Me: Feel better?
Chase: Not really.
Chase: It’s like a looming deadline.
Me: YOU MADE IT UP!
Chase: I’m regretting it.
Chase: Let’s forget it.
Me: You being a pussy, Yank? Like your team.
Chase: The Patriots won last week, didn’t they?
Me: Yeah...against the Browns…
Chase: We play against each other in a few weeks, wanna place a wager?
Me: LOL, sure, let’s do that.
Chase: What do you want?
Me: Can I think about it?
Chase: Absolutely.
Chase: I already know what I want.
Me: Name it.
Chase: I want you in that red lingerie with your hand underneath those lacy panties.
Me: Damn, that was...surprisingly hot.
Me: And unlike you lately.
Chase: *raises brow* Haven’t I always been hot?
Chase: AND I LIKED OUR TWENTY QUESTIONS!
Me: You’ve been failing on that aspect of your personality. Hence the 80-year-old comment.
Chase: Says the woman who hasn’t opened up that dick pic yet.
Me: Didn’t want to ruin anything, as you said earlier.
Chase: Wouldn’t have sent it if it wasn’t something worth bragging about.
Me: Yeah but, you see, you could be someone with a vision impairment or maybe girls have lied to you in the past and said it was big.
Chase: LOL, you’re an asshole.
Me: Aww...but you said I was intriguing!
Chase: Intriguingly an asshole with your comments.
Me: *smiley face*
Me: What do you want for Christmas, I am an asshole, I didn’t get you anything.
Chase: Honestly—nothing.
Me: Please hold.
Jumping from the couch, I walk to the bathroom and lock the door. Pulling up my reindeer sweater that Mama makes me wear every year, I snap a picture of my white cotton bra and torso. (Hey, I’m trying to be comfortable.)
>
Sending it over to Chase, I go back into the family room to wake Mama up and get her to bed. Once that’s done and she kisses my forehead before letting me leave, I go into the spare bedroom I always stay in and plop down on the bed to find several messages from Chase.
Chase: Are those antlers on your sweater?
I roll my eyes because he seriously is a cute moron.
Chase: Where do I buy one of those sweaters?
Chase: Oh yeah—damn you’re smoking hot woman.
Chase: Got distracted by that sweater though.
Me: Are you really hating on my Christmas sweater?
Chase: More like I’m entranced by the numerous designs of red and green on that thing.
Me: My mama bought it so who’s the asshole now?
Chase: *raises hand*
Chase: I’m going to start using my “Dad” card on you to make you feel bad.
Me: Shit, has he passed away?
Chase: No, but he’s a HUGE Patriots fan.
Me: You’re an idiot and your dad needs to get his entire life.
Chase: Who’s the asshole now?
Me: Still you!
Chase: If it wasn’t for the amazing visual of your body, I’d be ending this conversation right now.
Me: Would probably be a Christmas Miracle if you did.
Chase: *blocked*
Being the alleged asshole that I am, I snap another shot of myself, this time of me yanking down my jeans and panties to tease him.
Chase: *unblocked*
Chase: Now you’re just being a tease.
Me: Merry Christmas, Yank *hearts*
Chase: Merry Christmas, my sexy Sox.
Me: Text me tomorrow?
Chase: Absolutely. First thing.
Chase: Good night.
Me: Night!
I smile as I toss the phone on the full-size mattress and turn the small flat-screen TV on. Catching the last scene of White Christmas, I feel relaxed and oddly content.
This year has been nothing short of chaotic. From continuing to build a brand to Mama’s up and down health issues, everything blurred into one big sprint.
Then I met a man who challenged and knocked me down a peg or two—not that I’d ever admit it out loud, but he did.
Wade Lockwood was a pest, someone that kept teasing and irritating me. It could be lack of sleep or that my brain cells have been fried from smoking too much weed in the past, but he’s everything that gets my body to hum and react like the whole thing is on fire.
My phone goes off a little while later, and I’m halfway through another Christmas movie, something off the Hallmark Channel. Picking it up, my heart pretty much recoils back into my spine from the message that awaits me.
Wade: Merry Christmas, Reagan. I miss you.
My nostrils flare on their own while my brain is computing which emotion to focus on. First, it’s anger, my fingers tighten over the phone because I just want him to leave me the fuck alone and let me deal with this—whatever the hell this was—in peace.
Second emotion that drowns me is sorrow.
I miss him too, wanting to deny that I do, but it was nice that someone thought of me more than just a fuck or someone they could control.
Third was acceptance. Embracing the fact that our “relationship” couldn’t go any further than it had.
And we all know how far it went.
Regardless of his not being married in his brain or them being separated, she’s here. And I think it has to do with him being so close to his dream that she wants to bank off of it. However, I’m not playing the mistress role or wanting to be involved in that sort of drama.
Demi will start some shit, I’ll cut her, and Mama will be alone while I go to jail. I’m not playing with that fucking snob.
I stare at his text message, wanting to answer but also not wanting to give him hope.
Wade and I are done.
No matter what he thinks he can do or say, I’m not feeding into this anymore. Yes, he is the most attractive man I’ve probably ever seen in my life, but that’s it.
There is no future. Only a small past that should’ve never been done in the first place.
New rule for the new year—don’t fuck your clients.
♫ Addicted — Saving Abel ♫
I would’ve never agreed to come here if Emmy didn’t threaten me with more Post-it Notes on my car or the dozens of text messages full of begging and promises of a great time. The blocking feature on my phone has been looked at more times this week than ever before. But her “famous” New Year’s Eve party was all she’s spoken of since Thanksgiving, so I caved.
I thought it’d be a rented hall or her house, but instead she booked a full penthouse, and it is absolutely stunning. The dark hardwood floors are pristine like they’ve never been walked on before. Ceiling-to-floor windows surround the whole front room with a skyline view of the city. Soft tan couches with a sixty-inch TV over a fireplace with real wood. The kitchen is immaculate, white marble with gray and brown swirled countertops, all ivory cabinets, and an island with modern-styled stools.
I’m in love with this place.
It’s a few towns over from home, far enough away to drive here without too much traffic and no signs of work. There are only three bedrooms and about ten of Emmy’s girlfriends, but they are all bunking together, where I was forced to stay at Emmy’s side all night.
Her little party was in full swing for most of the evening, jamming old 2000’s hits of R&B and Hip Hop, champagne and food abundant, but it was a tad too much for my tastes.
It must be because I’m a party planner, always around hundreds of people, always with music, food, guests who want to dance and have a good time—not sure I know how to do that anymore.
When midnight hit, half of the girls were already passed out drunk on the couches and the other half rang in the New Year with cheers and a few more dances, then they hit the sack. They all have busy jobs, some with kids, so staying up past midnight was like pulling an all-nighter.
Now Emmy snores softly next to me in the California Queen bed we’re sharing as I glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The red numbers tell me it’s past two in the morning, and I’m restless, the penthouse is eerily quiet besides Emmy’s soft snores.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the cool floors as I make my way out of the gray paneled bedroom. Inside the kitchen, I grab a bottled water out of the fridge, glancing back over at the windows. Some buildings have lights on, others are dark, the moon casts a bluish-black shadow over everything that touches it.
I walk towards the edge of the penthouse to look down at the street when a voice startles the absolute shit out of me, almost ripping a scream from my lips.