Page 5 of Christmas Coffee

Nova

Mystery Man is gone, he took off without a word. Mortification sours my stomach and I nearly fold in half. This has never happened before. Ever. What the hell?

I dress quickly with every intention of darting. When I fly by the counter, head lowered and eyes glassy, the man at the counter calls out to me. “Miss! There’s a message for you.”

I stop and turn on my heel. I stop in front of the long gray desk and he hands me a note.

‘Keys will be under the mat in your car first thing tomorrow.’

There’s nothing else. No reason for walking out on me. No apology. No mention of an emergency.

I crumple the paper up, balling it in my fist. I can’t go home. I have no car. I don’t want to see Ben. This has been the worst day of my life. I turn and storm back up to the room. There’s a bottle of Absolute with my name on it.

* * *

The next morning,my head is pounding. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to face the day. This is going to suck. I dry swallow a few aspirin, shower, and leave the hotel, but not before I pass happy children dressed in pretty fall clothes as frantic parents try to corral them into the car.

It’s snowing. Fat white flakes fall from the sky and melt when they touch my skin. It won’t stick, but it’s enough to make traffic a mess. I groan and wrap my arms around my middle, tuck my chin, and walk faster toward my car.

Part of me expects it to still be busted. The whole thing was a massive play to get into my pants until someone else came along. Being left behind with no explanation stung. Coming off an abrupt breakup, and now this? Well, it’s more than I can handle. The best way to deal with it is to pretend it never happened and if I see that asshole again, I’ll kick his junk into his skull.

When I make my way across the double parking lot, I spy my car dusted with a fresh blanket of snow. Crap, it’s sticking. Getting a tow truck is going to be even harder.

I walk up to the ‘89 Honda and wrench open the half frozen door. The keys are still under the mat where I left them for Hot Guy’s ‘friend’ to fix it. I slide into the car and press my head to the steering wheel when I spy my crocheted hat on the floor. I reach for it and tug it on my head. It’s freaking cold. I inhale deeply and decide that I should at least try to make the engine turn over. AAA is going to ask me when I tried to start it, so here we go.

I slide the metal key into the socket and twist. The car sputters like it usually does and then turns over. Startled, I glance down at the gauges. The battery needle is where it’s supposed to be, rather than hanging limply to the side.

“He did it,” I mutter to myself, shocked. But why? He walked out on me. Why the hell would he pay to have someone fix my car in the middle of the night? It must have cost him a fortune to get it done so fast. I don’t understand.

The snarky voice in the back of my mind snaps at me. He pities you and your sad little car.

I frown. It didn’t look like pity last night. In fact, I thought he actually liked me. My skin prickles as I think about him, his touch, and easy laugh. Screw it. I’m not torturing myself trying to figure out why he walked. It’s his loss.

Snarky me chides from the back of my mind, Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

The roads are a sheet of black glass. My wipers frantically wash away thick flakes as I crawl ahead with the rest of the stragglers who decided to head to their Thanksgiving dinners this morning. Lots of people are going over the river and through the woods to their grandmother’s house. I’m headed toward my older sister’s house in Deer Park. It’s a little town that lies smack in the center of Long Island, about thirty miles east of Manhattan. Think of suburban homes, cape cods and split-ranches, and tons of traffic. The homes have little yards with barren trees that jut up from the frozen ground like skeletal fingers. Add in the cold morning air and the scent of exhaust as I travel east, and I don’t have the stomach to eat the muffin I nabbed from the breakfast buffet. Instead, I clutch a cup of mediocre coffee like it’s a lifeline.

My chest feels like it’s going to cave in. I don’t want to think about anything. I try to stare at the road and forbid my mind to wander, but it does. Ben’s voice echoes in my ears—it’s been over for a long time. We should both move on.

He was the one who wanted to date me. He was the one who wanted to move in. At some point, I stopped doing what I wanted because it made him happy. I had never dated anyone for long before him. I guarded my heart ferociously back then, but somehow Ben got through. And now, it feels like I’ve been ripped to shreds. Add on the hot guy who wanted me one second and vanished the next and I feel completely mental. If I go crazy, at least I’ll blend in a bit more with the family. They’re all nucking futs.

The bends in the highway are pitched sharply to one side and the car slips as I take a curve too fast. Swearing to myself, I slow further. I could walk faster. I grip the wheel tighter and lean forward in my seat, trying to see. An old Bonneville crawls up next to me. I’m on top of the steering wheel when I glance over and notice the driver. She’s eighty years old with a crocheted cap on her head, hugging the steering wheel with her face so close to the glass that she could kiss it. Something white paws at the back window of her vehicle and I can see that her ancient car is filled with felines. The old woman straightens her knitted cap and adjusts her huge-ass glasses before looking over at me.

It’s like she’s my ancient twin. Or the worst omen ever. It’s like looking into a mirror with a built in time machine. Fast-forward sixty years and that’s me. Holy crap.

I rip my hat off my head and toss it in the back seat and give a panicky yelp to myself, “No cats! Never!”

The old lady frowns at me, flips me the bird, and speeds away. I’m left gaping in her wake of white exhaust. I try to speed up but the car loses traction again. I make a mental note never to buy a Bonneville.

My mood drops a few bars into suckage as I near the exit for my sister’s place. The last thing I want to see is her Norman Rockwell poster child life, but I don’t want to go home and eat frozen leftovers. Being alone will make everything that’s happened real. I’ll have to face it and that’s the last thing I want to do. Besides, the only thing in my fridge is a jar of pickle juice. I ate all the pickles when I ran out of Vienna Sausages. I can’t believe I ate those, but it was tiny wieners or dinner with Mom and her million questions.

When I finally get to her pastel gray cape cod, I park in front. A stream of smoke billows from her little chimney. Snow hugs the roof of the picture perfect home. Boughs of holly hang from her eaves, coupled with draped evergreens, and topped with twinkling white lights. It forms a pretty garland that runs the length of her house. A matching deco-mesh wreath adorns her front door. Sprigs of holly and evergreen poke out from between the bright red and green plastic.

I tried to make a deco-mesh wreath with her this summer. She bought all the materials to make a summertime wreath. The picture looked cute, but when I was done, my wreath looked like a bloated marshmallow with crap stuck to it. I’m not Suzie Homemaker and never will be. Just ask the pickles in my fridge. I need to go grocery shopping.

I take my time moving up the shoveled walk and reach the front porch. The wooden front door is cracked open an inch, behind a glass storm door that’s foggy with condensation. I wrap my knuckles on the glass and then poke my head inside. “Tinselly?”

My sister’s dark hair swings into the doorway, followed by a face that’s a few years older than mine. “Nova!” She’s wearing a long brown skirt with a festive sweater, all of which is covered by a ruffled apron with a hand-drawn turkey on the front. She rushes at me, spatula in hand, and gives me a bear hug. “You came!”

When she plows into me, I let out an oof sound as I’m bear hugged. I pat her on the back and then pry myself away and smile. “I couldn’t pass up your stuffing.”

She believes me for a moment and then her face falls. “You were wearing that sweater yesterday.” Frown lines pinch between her brows as the corner of her mouth raises.

I avoid her gaze. “Yeah, I sort of had a bad day and didn’t have time to change.” I feel my face flame. “Can I freshen up?”

Her mouth opens and the spatula rises. I already know what she’s going to ask.

I raise my hand, one finger up, and shake my head. “It wasn’t what you think. I slept in my clothes. I’m that girl. And for the love of God, please don’t mention Ben to mom at dinner. She doesn’t know and I can’t deal with it, not today. Promise me?” I texted Tinselly last night when I was a little past drunk. Texting while intoxicated is never a good idea. I grimace as I think about the messages I sent. Some were weepy—those were sent to Tinselly.

I told Ben to fuck off a few times. Texted that I hate his guts and hoped he had fun with his new girl toy last night. I may have written some other things too—crass, angry words that I would have never said.

Tinselly’s dark eyes rest on mine, sad or disappointed, I can’t tell which. She nods and then her lips twist into a smirk as if she knows I had a rebound guy last night. “Well, at least answer this—was he good?”

I frown and swat at her. I don’t like lying to Tinselly, but if I tell her what really happened, I’ll cry. So, I smirk and whisper in her ear, “He was completely unbelievable.”