Page 36 of Go Back to December

We fall into a quick rhythm, clearing and cleaning. Between trips back and forth, the server tells me her name is Marie, and she recently moved here to be closer to her sister and family.

Together, we make quick work of the backlog. I could kick myself for my efficiency, because unless Marie returns with a metric ton of dishes, I’ll have to go back to the party. Unfortunately, when she bursts into the kitchen, she’s empty-handed. A damp stain leeches across the front of her black shirt.

She staggers to the marble-topped island and grasps it with shaking hands.

“Someone spilled a drink.” Marie pulls the fabric of her shirt from her skin like it’s soaked with acid. Her hands tremble, and her mouth twists, and for a moment, I think she’s going to hurl all over the kitchen.

I douse a towel in cold water and hand it to her. She frantically scrubs at her shirt like Lady Macbeth. “I can still smell it.”

Many members of my staff have come to us in the early stages of addiction recovery, and Marie’s voice echoes the heartbreaking desperation I’ve heard from them, when they talk about the holidays, and how triggering it can be to scent just a whiff of alcohol.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask.

“No. Came straight from my other job.”

“Then take mine.”

She stutters a protest, but I yank off my top, exposing my camisole underneath.

“Take my sweater. It’s black, so no one will notice.”

“I can’t.”

“Marie.” I take a step closer. “You’ve done an incredible amount of work tonight. And I imagine it isn’t close to the effort it took to show up at this party.”

Her jaw trembles. “The holidays make being near booze worse.”

“Many people feel that way.”

“I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Allowing someone to help isn’t screwing up.”

“It certainly isn’t,” Sofia says from the door.

She walks into the pantry and retrieves a chef’s jacket. “Would you be more comfortable in this? I believe one of your colleagues left it last year, so you can take it with you.”

After a moment of deliberation, Marie takes the jacket and ducks out to change in the bathroom. I pull my sweater back on over my burning face.

“That was kind,” I say. “Not embarrassing her.”

“You were going to give her the shirt off your back. It was the least I could do.” Sofia furrows her brow. “My sister is a recovering alcoholic. I recognize the signs.”

She’s cautious with her words, and the way she schools her features is so reminiscent of Baz, it makes a lump lodge in my throat. He’s so careful with drinking, and if there’s a family history, does he struggle with it too? Is that why they all spend the holidays apart?

I wave a hand at the dishes drying on the counter. “I hope you don’t mind. Occupational hazard…can’t resist helping.”

“Mind? Melody, we wouldn’t have anything to be celebrating without you, and what you did for Baz last night.”

She huffs a soft laugh. “I should have canceled this ridiculous party. My son is in the hospital on Christmas Eve, and I should be there.”

With a shake of her head, she whispers, “I worry about him. So much.”

Relief rushes in, and my breath eases out at her confession. If I were a good fake girlfriend, I’d reassure her, but I’d be lying if I told her that Baz is living his best life. Every morning for the last two years I’ve been reading his moods, and deep down, I know he’s unhappy.

I can’t tell Sofia not to worry, because if Baz were mine in any shape or form, I’d worry about him too.

Stick to the truth. As few details as possible. Get them to talk about themselves.