Knowing I’ve lost her for good has pretty much ruined my Christmas. I’d hoped we’d be spending it together. I had her present all picked out but hadn’t bought it yet: a Pilot Custom 823 fountain pen. I don’t know anything about them, but I found a Reddit forum, made a post, got some advice, and learned enough to make a semi-informed decision. The pen is still sitting in my cart online. Just another reminder of what I lost.
I’ve been home a week now for the holiday break, and even though I’m not acting any different, everyone at home can sense my foul mood. I’m still the court jester, smiling and cracking jokes, but I’m the ninth wheel on the wagon that’s making it all wobbly, and I’m guessing everyone is having more fun when I leave the room, which never happens. They probably sense the heartbreak under my laughter like the current under the waves. They’re just hoping I don’t pull them down with me.
I spend more time in my room than I might normally do over a holiday break. The worst part is, everything in my house reminds me of her because just a month ago she was here. Just a month ago I got to hold her and share a bed with her and watch her laugh and share meals with her in my home. Now I spend most of my days listening to Black Phantom, working out, trying not to text her, and wondering what she’s doing nearly every second of the day.
I can’t do this forever, and I won’t do this forever. I know eventually I’ll move on, but I can’t yet. I’m not ready to let go yet.
Some days are harder than others, and I woke up this morning hoping it would be a good day. It’s Christmas Eve, so we’ve already had brunch together as a family, and we have a whole day of activities planned. After cookie decorating, we have a church service, and then we’ll have dinner and open stockings. Then it’s a hot chocolate bar and pajama-party game night.
It’s a lot of together time that is both the perfect distraction and the perfect torture. I snuck to my room for a few minutes to myself after brunch this morning, but the longer I sit here, the less I want to go back downstairs. Everyone is getting ready to decorate cookies, and I told them I’d be back in a few. The growing ache in my chest is almost too much. For the third time today, I hover my finger over her name in my phone, but a knock at my door keeps me from following through.
“Yeah?” I say, and the door opens, revealing my dad. He leans against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in hand. The steam rises out of the cup and I smell the caramelized, nutty, smoky aroma of it from here. Mom must have just put on a fresh pot.
“Hey, Dad.”
“What do you say we play a little Christmas hooky and go for a round of golf?”
“Mom is okay with that?”
He gives me a reassuring nod, and I tell him I’ll be down in five. I don’t even like golf that much, but a little fresh air and movement and some time away from all the couples sounds really good to me right now.
It’s a surprisingly warm day for December, in the upper fifties, and with the sun shining it still feels like fall. The country club my dad is a member of is just a five-minute drive from the house, and when we arrive they get us set up with a cart. We sling our golf bags on the back and we’re on the green not twenty minutes after Dad appeared in my doorway.
I tee off first. The rule is always youngest to oldest when we golf. One of those unspoken family rules everyone’s followed for so long no one remembers its exact origins. I haven’t played in ages, so I’m rusty, but it’s like riding a bike; all my old golf lessons come back to me, and even if I’m not playing my best game today, I’m happier than I’ve been in a while. With the sun on my face and the quiet of the greens it’s hard to care about much else but what is right in front of me. I almost turn and thank my dad for bringing me out here, but I know he’ll just grunt and wave me off. Even gratitude is too big of an emotional display for him.
We play in comfortable silence, as it usually goes if it’s just us. My brothers are the chatty ones and always find a topic to interest my dad: sports, work projects, more sports. But I didn’t come out here to chat with my dad; I came out to escape, and for some serotonin. It’s working.
But a few holes in, Dad finally breaks the silence.
“You ever find out about that scholarship?”
I swallow hard. I’d hoped he’d start with a softer ball, something like, “How’s school?” But leave it to my dad to throw a trick pitch first.
“I did,” I say, shifting my weight as I watch my dad line up his next shot.
“You win it?”
“I did.”
Did he hear the way my voice cracked when I said that? Can he sense I’m holding back? I know I need to be upfront about the scholarship, but my heart is racing, and despite the chill in the air I feel sweaty, clammy even. I pull my shirt away from my body. The material feels too heavy and sticky, as if all the places I’m sweating are actually glue holding the shirt against my body.
“Good. Four valedictorians in the house is something to be proud of. Expected nothing less from a Baldwin boy.” My dad takes his swing and the ball soars through the air, landing probably just where he wanted it to. He pats me on the back as he heads to the cart, not even looking me in the eye.
All of this annoys me. His declaration about what a good Baldwin boy is, the fact he won’t tell me even now that he’s proud of me. I search for the familiar ache in me, the longing for my dad’s approval, but it’s not there. What lives there instead is the confidence that I don’t have to just lie down and take his bullshit anymore.
“I declined it.”
My dad freezes, his back to me. He stands stock-still. I imagine he isn’t blinking or breathing. “Say that again,” he says. It’s not a question or a request. It’s an order. His low near-growl sends a chill down my spine, but I straighten, channeling all the energy from my improv night.
“I said, I declined the scholarship.”
He spins around, stalking toward me. He gets almost nose-to-nose with me. “Why the hell did you do such a damn stupid thing?”
My dad almost never loses it. He’s a silent treatment kind of guy, so I know I’ve really hit a nerve.
“Because I don’t need it. We have enough money, and that scholarship should go to someone who actually needs it.”
“This is not about the money, Mackenzie Aaron Baldwin.”
