Page 12 of Christmas Coffee

“Yes, you do. You’ve had everything to catch a man for a while.”

I blanch when she gestures her hand to the side and accidentally swats my girls. Lucas’s face turns red as he pretends he didn’t see and turns his attention to the toddler nearest him.

“No harm in pointing it out.” Gran swats a withered hand at me, making the silver bracelets on her wrist clatter. Gran could be easily mistaken for a gypsy fortune teller with her tiny arms packed with glittering metal and a crocheted shall over her shoulders at all times. The only difference is that Gran’s pants are polyester rather than a billowy skirt.

Mom picks up where Gran left off. “Guys like Ben don’t wait around forever. If you keep putting him off—” she gapes at me as I suddenly begin shoveling food into my mouth in a very unladylike way. “Novatin Nikolaev!”

Just as Tinselly finally sits down to eat a now cold meal, I scrape the last bit of stuffing off my plate and shove it into the Thanksgiving buffet in my mouth. I feel bad, I really do, but I can’t do this right now. The speeches about how I had everything and blew it will reduce me to a bag of tears. No way. I’m out of here.

I stand and hear Gran pish posh me, but Mom just rolls her eyes as if she knew I was incapable of adult conversation. That’s totally okay, because it’s true. I talk with my mouth full as I wave the tips of my fingers at the twins. “This was so good, Tinselly. Your cooking is amazing. The house is perfect. Add a baby Jesus to the front lawn and you’ll be all ready for Santa.”

The twins cheer in unison, chubby little hands in the air like they really don’t care, which makes their food go flying. Cranberries splat on Lucas’s cheek. He acts like nothing happened, and wipes it off with his hand, and licks his fingers before going back to his plate.

Tinselly stares flatly at me, fork in one hand, knife in the other—paused above her slice of turkey. I see it in her eyes. Pity laced with annoyance, but then compassion floods in and wins out. She knows I’m miserable. I’m treated to a warm empathetic look. “Thank you. If you wait a second, I’ll make you a baggie and grab you a piece of pie.”

Everyone knows the only thing in my fridge is condensation and an empty jar of pickles.

I’m already walking by the twins, kissing the tops of their heads, and making a beeline for the door. “No need. I’ll stop by tomorrow. You wanted to hit the sales, right?”

Tinselly pauses half way to the kitchen and turns. “Yes, but—”

I wave to the kids as I back away and only slow to grab my purse. Tinselly follows me as Mom mutters from the dining table to my brother-in-law about responsibilities and that I need to buckle down. I’m about to lose it. I shove outside without my pocketbook on my shoulder.

Tinselly comes out a moment later. She smiles calmly. “You don’t have to do what they did. No one in their right mind gets married that young anymore.”

I’m mad, pacing across her sidewalk and onto the crunchy dead grass that’s covered in a thin dusting of freshly fallen snow. I want to rant and throw my hands in the air and scream. Instead, I let out a huff and turn back to Tinselly. “You did. Mom did. Gran did. So I’m nearly twenty and have no desire to marry anyone. That doesn’t mean I’m some sort of social pariah.”

“I know,” Tinselly says soothingly. “I happened to find the right guy. Mom didn’t. Gran did. The point in all this is that it’s your life. If Ben wasn’t the one, he wasn’t the one.”

Tears are prickling at the back of my eyes. She doesn’t know why we broke up. I never told her in the text messages. I didn’t say anything about the other woman, or that he has a warm bed. I’m alone again. I thought Ben was going to be the one. I thought that he loved me and only me. But he didn’t. He cheated.

I feel hollow inside. When people look at me, very few see a teenager, a nineteen-year-old. I’ve been called an ‘old soul’ for as long as I can remember. I’ve seen things that most kids never have to endure. I was a frightened child when it happened and it changed me. But, I’m the wiser for it. It also separates me from the other women in my family, and the rift feels like a chasm at times.

I put my hand on Tinselly’s shoulder and smile at her. “You cooked a great dinner and I’m ruining it.”

“No, you’re not.” Her sincerity kills me. She’d do anything for me and I love her for it.

I turn her back toward the house and start her walking in the direction of the steamy glass door. “Go eat something, play with the kids, and let someone else clean up. Everything looks beautiful and tastes delicious.”

She leans into me, refusing to move. “But what about you? What are you going to do?”

I stop pushing and when she faces me, I smile broadly to hide the ache in the middle of my body that threatens to tear me in two. “I’m going to figure out what I want to do with my life. I’m starting over. New job. New life.”