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Saint rubs my back comfortingly. “I’m sure he’ll deal with whatever it is and be back.”
“Yeah.” I swallow down my disappointment, bitter as ashes. I know better. If his work is calling him back early, then that’s it for us.
I don’t have any illusions about Nick’s priorities and where I rank. All the holiday lights are a blur of golden fractals when I turn to go inside. I have to blink away tears. A wild part of me wants to go after Nick and beg him to stay with me. But what would be the point? This was never real. Better to rip off the bandaid now.
Saint bundles me inside, where I can let my heart break in the privacy of my living room. I cry by the light of a Christmas tree that I’d hoped would illuminate Nick and I cuddling on Christmas morning. The wrapped presents, ready for my niece and the rest of my family when I see them tomorrow, are a hollow reminder that Christmas is only ruined for me.
Chapter 13
Nick—December 24th
Itkillsmetoleave Carl at his place after his sister’s Christmas party. All I want is to go inside with him. If my boss hadn’t made it clear that my job is on the line if I miss tomorrow morning’s client meeting, I’d be angling to wake up in Carl’s bed again.
Instead of another evening with Carl, I stop at Tim’s for a Double Double on the way out of town and drive through the night back to my sterile condo. The spider plant on my fridge is the only spot of brightness in the place. It looks decidedly under-watered despite the automatic waterer I jammed into its pot before leaving for Mom’s last month.
I don’t have the energy to deal with my overnight bag, packed with starry-eyed hope that it would see me through a very different ending to my night. I fall exhausted into my bed and take in the glittering lights of the city laid out below me.
There was a time when that million-dollar view filled me with pride in my accomplishments. That first night after I closed on this place, I’d celebrated with a bottle of champagne. I’d shared it with a boyfriend who was more interested in what we could get up to between my high thread count sheets than taking in the stellar views. Let alone discussing our days.
Would Carl love these lights as much as the ones we’d strung onto my mother’s tree together? I’ll probably never know. A night spent pining for a man I can’t have won’t help me present a cogent case tomorrow. It’s my job to help convince Mr. Sagun to stick with Merryman and Associates with his multi-million dollar ad portfolio.
Losing that account when we’ve been working on their ‘Healthy New Year’ ads for months would be a disaster. It seems ridiculous that he’s threatening to pull the plug and refuse payment days before the campaign’s intended Boxing Day debut.
That will mean litigation and it’s a catastrophe in the making. It just figures the same project I killed myself to finish remotely is coming back to destroy my holiday plans. Word is that someone on my team set the wrong date for a social media post to go live. So this steaming pile of shit landed on my plate to deal with on the eve of a major holiday when I should be home with my loved ones.
The facthomeconjures thoughts of Elk’s Pass pulls me up short. Toronto has been my home for over half of my life. Yet when I think of the perfect holiday, all I can see in my mind’s eye is Carl’s bright smile as he plays his guitar in my mom’s living room. His lips warm against mine in the lightly falling snow. A feast with all Mom’s friends and her home cooking. Beatrice even brought over loaves of her fresh bread and delicious pies.
Since when has home meant Elk’s Pass? Since when has putting work over my boyfriends threatened to tear out my heart? Maybe I’m getting old, or it’s the middle-of-the-night bleakness of my cold and lonely bed, but it’s hard to convince myself this is all there is to life. That I’ll be happy in ten years’ time if I keep on my current trajectory.
I sleep fitfully, wishing I had Carl in my arms like I did last night to settle me. I should be anxious that we might lose the account, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything but numb about that. In five years, it won’t matter. We’ll have other clients, other crises to handle instead of building a life. It all seems so…empty.
Bright and early on Christmas Eve, my boss greets me in our nicest conference room. Jim provides quality coffee at least. Then we pitch our case to Mr. Sagun, the CEO of a major fitness brand. It takes all morning and an extravagant lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant to smooth his ruffled feathers. My intel was right. Sagun is livid that one of the scheduled posts in his Boxing Day ad blitz went live three days early, revealing the details of his sale early.
Jim and I wine and dine him into sticking to our contract rather than litigating the alleged breach in confidentiality. It’s absurd that he thinks it’s a surprise for a fitness company to launch a ‘New year, new you!’ themed sale on memberships around New Year’s Day, but he’s the client.
I keep wondering what Carl is up to. If he’d enjoy the tiny portions of gingerbread spiced steak and parsnip puree or if he’d laugh at the pretentious meal. Mostly, I wish I was eating cookies with him instead of drinking hundred-dollar wine.
It’s late afternoon when we shake on our amended deal. Then I have to call in my entire team from their well-earned vacation to spend the rest of Christmas Eve pulling together a miracle. We agreed to replace the compromised social media posts with a new, slightly updated, version of the client’s artistic vision. This one includes an upgraded video montage ad package Jim promised him. Nevermind that it normally takes longer than one day to put that sort of promotional video together.
We work late into the night. My team pulls off a feat the likes of which I wouldn’t have imagined possible if my boss had suggested it last night when he called me at Carl’s sister’s party. It’s after midnight when we submit the revised ad that gets the thumbs up from our persnickety client.
My team toasts to a stressful job well done, then disperses to our various interrupted holiday plans. Those with family and partners to get back to can’t leave fast enough. I stick around to shepherd the others out and lock up the office.
Several of the young singles on the team troop off to hit the bars to celebrate. I turn down the invitation to join them. As their manager, I suspect they’ll have more fun without me anyway, though they make a show of disappointment. It just all seems so pointless.
They exit the elevator, taking their bubble of post-stress hilarity with them. I watch as the doors close on the festive lobby and my team. The elevator takes me down to the eerie quiet of the parking garage.
My car beeps when I unlock it, the sound loud in the cavernous emptiness that drives home how strange it is to be in the office today. I drive along slushy streets, as gray and lifeless as the superficial milestones of success that I’ve been measuring myself by.
I drive through a city being pelted with a hazy gray drizzle. The streets seem as deserted as they ever are in downtown. A few blocks out of the quiet business district, I find myself cruising through the more touristy areas, bustling with holiday merrymakers making the most of the night.
Nathan Philip’s Square is lit up in technicolor and music echoes across the square as skaters glide past the massive tree that Carl mentioned enjoying. With a pang, I know there’s only one place I want to wake up tomorrow morning. The vision I’ve cobbled together of what success looks like pales in comparison to the picture Carl has been painting with me over the past week.
I want to be there for my mom as she ages. Who knows how many more Christmases I’ll have with her? Looking at what I have to show for twenty years of putting my career first is bleak. I don’t want to wake up in twenty years and find myself all alone when I have a community in Elk’s Pass that would embrace me. A life full of friends, family, and even a love that can last, if I’m lucky. Something built on a foundation of shared interests and putting the people who matter first.
I’d rather spend the rest of my mornings waking up next to Carl’s smiling face than chasing the next vital project, the next huge promotion, a bigger, penthousier condo. That’s what I’ve been chasing for years and all it’s gotten me is lonely. Compared to the glimpse of what it might be like to go back to my roots, I’m not sure what I want anymore.
It’s late when I get back to my condo, but my phone buzzes with another text from Mom asking if I’ll be home tonight. I’ve had my phone silenced all day and there are several other missed messages. I’m struck by the overwhelming need to hear her voice. Like I’m a little kid again and she can solve all my problems.
