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Up until the last couple of years or so, I’d managed to skillfully avoid integrating my life with Rob’s in any formal manner. I hadn’t come to his parents’ for Christmas but kicked around my mother’s house instead, always inviting him to join us. Boxing Day I’d stay by myself in our condo and spend a rare quiet day watching the movies I wanted to watch, eating junk food, and ordering salty Chinese takeout from the grungy restaurant down the street. That time was good for me. I’d make notes about movies I’d like to make one day and wake up early to spend some holiday money in Yorkville before Rob got home.
Then he’d arrive at the door, his arms laden with presents from his family to me, and spend an hour making me feel guilty for not coming with him. “My mother would love to have you!” was what he said every year. Eventually there came a point when it was impossible for me to seek refuge at my mother’s. About four years ago, we were at my mom’s house for her quasi-annual New Year’s Day brunch. We ate waffles, eggs, bacon, and any still-edible leftovers; it was an excuse for my mother to gather everyone together. Rob always came, and that year he and my mother ended up talking about my feelings about Christmas.
“Oh, it’s not the holiday for Kelly, ever since she figured out there was no Santa Claus. Meghan still believed up to that point. My eldest must have been six, maybe seven. We were at some out of the way mall in Barrie. God, it was so grungy. And there was a Santa Claus there. The girls had had their Santa pictures done two weeks before at a photo studio in Sears—a much classier setup. Anyway, the two Santas looked nothing alike. Ever focused on continuity, my Kelly said to him, ‘You’re not Santa.’
“He tried to backtrack and make up some story about how he was sitting in for Santa, because, you know, the real Santa was so busy. But she was having none of it.” By this point my mother was already laughing. “She stood up in front of the entire line of people, screaming kids and terrified babies, and told them all to go home because it was a hoax andnone of it was real.
“After that there were no more photo ops, and every time December rolled around Kelly would huff and puff through the month talking about the hoax that was Santa and wouldn’t it be better if we gave up the ghost about it all and got down to the turkey?
“It’s no wonder Kelly avoids your house, Rob. I bet your mother goes full out and you and Stephen still believe in Santa, waking up on the twenty-fifth with full stockings, the whole gambit.”
My mother told that story a lot, so I was surprised that Rob had never heard it.
After my father left, throughout the circus of my mother’s love life, there were lean years, no-present years, and no-fairy tale years, and I believed that I was all the better for it. I had no expectations of a magical holiday season. I liked where my family was now. But Rob didn’t understand that I wasn’t aholidayperson. There was no magical childhood behind the scenes to prop up the façade into adulthood. And I didn’t want kids, so why did I need to even bother?
Over the years, the arguments about Christmas had all centered around how I didn’t open myself up to the idea of even liking his family. How I’d convinced myself that they didn’t like me and that was why it was uncomfortable. The worst thing he ever said to me was “You can’t blame your father leaving your mother for your emotional shortcomings, Kelly. At some point you need to put it in the past and leave it there. I’m here. I’m the one who stuck around. I love you and you’re being selfish.”
He was convinced that I’d be swayed by the family setting and how nice it was at Camille’s, but really, he wanted me to be more a part of his life. And so we integrated. And I had to give up my Boxing Day, my big bag of chips, and my bargain shopping. After that I went to see Rob’s family for holidays. Easter dinner, birthday dinners, Robbie Burns Day—you name it, they celebrated it, and now I was always there to witness it. Maybe I had been selfish, only thinking about how I felt about it all, and promised myself I’d keep an open mind. I’d try.
And then Camille pulls something like this—the ring, the house, theexpectations.
Leaving the steamy bathroom, I checked my phone. There was no message from Garrett. I didn’t know what I was expecting. I had been terrible to him the day before. Deep down, I needed to hear what he thought about me now that I was engaged. In a cheap and petty way, I wanted to keep on hurting his feelings like I had yesterday. I wanted him to know all about my happy life and my perfect boyfriend and my amazing ring. The right course of action stretched out in front of me like a yellow brick road: right guy, right ring, set for life, happy families, house in the ’burbs. Why wasn’t I gratefully throwing my arms up in celebration?
Chapter 7
THE AMOUNT OF breakfast food laid out on Camille’s dining-room table could have fed Rob and me for a week. There were three different kinds of eggs, pancakes, French toast, expensive pastries, Rob’s beloved cinnamon buns, fruit salad, six different kinds of toast, trays of jams, jellies and spreads, and cereal in case we didn’t want something hot. It felt like coming downstairs to an elaborate hotel buffet.
“Come! Come!” Camille shouted. Impeccably dressed already, she refused to even entertain the idea of opening presents until everyone had a full stomach and something warm to drink. As predicted, there were mimosas: a giant crystal jug full of freshly squeezed orange juice and actual champagne. I took the chair closest to it. The conversation was happy and polite, and Camille kept things that way. If my underwhelming response to Rob’s proposal had caught her off guard, she was too polite to say anything. She was determined to have a good holiday, and nothing would stand in the way of that.
I downed three glasses of champagne and OJ in quick succession, pushed the eggs around on my plate, and waited for that warm, half-drunk feeling to take over. Talk about babies permeated most of the conversation. Camille was asking Audrey if she was having morning sickness, which started the two of them off on a pregnancy conversation that I prayed they’d exclude me from.
“Kelly,” Camille said, “you’ll have to help me plan the baby shower. You have such a gift for parties.”
“My sister’s having a baby too. Maybe we can do a two for one.” Their expressions were horrified. “I’m joking. Yes, I’d be happy to help with the party planning.”
“Meghan’s pregnant?”
Rob looked heartbroken. Damn my mouth.
“She told me yesterday,” I explained. The champagne had been stronger than expected. “She wanted to tell you herself, today. I can’t believe I ruined her surprise.”
Liar. My whole body shrank.
He recovered quickly. “I’ll act like I don’t know. I promise.”
We didn’t keep things from each other. And we certainly didn’t lie to each other to cover up a mistake. The destructive part of myself was rearing its ugly head.
Camille asked, “What time are you expected at your mother’s house?”
“As long as we get there before the turkey’s done and not after it gets cold, my mother’s happy,” I replied.
“There’s time, then, for presents before the two of you jet off to your next engagement?”
“Rob wouldn’t let us leave before he has a chance to open his presents,” I said, keeping my tone purposefully light. “Dinner won’t start until at least three.”
“Wonderful,” Camille said. “To the living room, then! Bring your drinks with you but leave the plates. We’ll tidy up later.”
I was the last to leave the dining room. Rob didn’t even glance in my direction as he got up. No one else would notice, but the cold shoulder had descended. And I wasn’t sure if it would last all day or not.
