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Once I had the supplies, though, the plan was complete in a matter of minutes.
And then I waited. And waited.
Mark left Rigby for me
, I suspect so I wouldn’t be totally alone on Christmas Eve, and after I get everything ready, I settle down with the little dog on my couch.
I thought about doing it at Mark’s place, but the plan will really work better with a Christmas tree backdrop, and Mark doesn’t have one. It’ll make for a more romantic story when we tell our kids and grandkids.
I wait. I wait. I should eat dinner, but I’m too excited. I distract myself with Christmas movies, but I keep the volume low, one ear listening for the door.
At nine o’clock I turn the TV off altogether and check my phone. Maybe he changed his plans. Maybe he’s not planning on coming back to his house tonight after all and didn’t see my texts.
Maybe I need to go to him.
I call him. He doesn’t pick up.
I leave a message (or twenty—who’s counting?) telling him I need to see him—that it’s urgent.
I turn on Christmas music and wait.
And wait.
Midnight comes and goes, and I try to amuse myself by thinking about A Christmas Carol and what the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future would say to me tonight.
Past and Present would call me an idiot, probably.
Not the Ghost of Christmas Future, though. He or she would nod approvingly at my plan and assure me that I was going to live happily ever after with my best friend and love of my life….
At 2:00 A.M. I find myself lying on my side in front of the Christmas tree, Rigby curled up against my back.
As Bing Crosby croons “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” I let the tears fall as I acknowledge what’s happening here.
He’s not coming.
And this is not a merry Christmas.
December 25, Early Morning
Mark
I rest a shoulder against the doorway and take in the scene in front of me, a smile playing on my lips.
My best friend really is an adorable idiot.
Rigby’s black head lifts when he sees me, little stub of a tail wagging wildly. I raise a finger to my lips telling the dog to stay quiet, and miraculously, he seems to understand.
He rests his head on his paw and stays where he is, plastered against Kelly’s sleeping form.
Easing into the room, I set the duffle bag on the floor and move toward her.
She’s wearing blue pajama pants with snowflakes, Grinch socks, and the atrociously ugly red sweater she insists on wearing every Christmas.
I reach out to wake her when I notice that instead of a pillow, she’s resting her head on her arm, and her arm is stretched across…a stack of white poster board?
What’s this sweet little weirdo gotten up to now?
I gently ease the posters out from under her arm, and though she makes a sleepy noise, stirring slightly, she doesn’t wake up.
