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Blue skies greet me when I step off the plane, I already miss home—or maybe I just miss Camden. After a forty-five-minute drive from the airport in Nice, I’m dropped off at my parents’ private estate in Monte Carlo. It’s decked out for the holidays, complete with fake flocking on fake trees and perfectly constructed garlands draped across the Belle epoque architecture of my parents’ villa. Happy ostentatious holidays. Fa-la-la-di-da.
I pull out my phone and text Cam, he’s probably just waking up.
Me: I’m here.
Cam: I want proof of life
I send a photo of myself with the dusky Mediterranean behind me.
Cam: Damn . . .that’s a view.
Cam: Sea isn’t bad either.
Me: *eyeroll*
Cam: How many days until I see you again?
Me: 20.
Cam: That sucks.
Me: You’ll be so busy, you’ll hardly notice I’m gone.
Cam: Oh... I meant sucks for YOU. I’ll be fine. But are you really going to last 20 days without my good looks and charm?
Me: Probably not. How ever will I forge through the long-suffering loneliness without you?
Cam: It’s going to be a marathon of misery and gloom.
Me: Tis the season.
My parents welcome me with open arms and hugs.
“We’re so happy you’re spending Christmas with us,” my mom coos, and the three of us are seated at their favorite restaurant, Le Louis XV.
I smile. “Me too, Mom.”
Truth is, I’d rather be celebrating Christmas with the Tellers. Every Christmas I’ve ever had has been flawlessly curated. From the exquisite private-chef menu to the tree I wasn’t allowed to touch. It’s always beenperfect.I assumed that’s the way it was for everyone, after all, that’s what’s shown in the windows of Fifth Avenue and holiday advertisements. Christmas is a spectacle meant todazzle and amaze.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the splendor, but I’d like to be a part of it, rather than have it done for me. I want to pick out my own tree, one that isn’t perfectly coned. In fact, I want it misshapen and disfigured. With dead spots. I want to decorate it with ornaments that don’t come from Bergdorf’s.
My parents aren’t showy people, they’re simply oblivious. They always hire a company to “do” Christmas for them, which results in flamboyant decorations and traditions. It’s all so... artificial.
I bet Camden’s family will cook their own Christmas dinner, wrap their own presents, and decorate their own tree. They probably watch Christmas movies, bake their own cookies using family recipes, and maybe even build a snowman or two. Chicken Salad will be with them on Christmas. She’s staying with Kelly, Logan’s friend/piercer/apprentice while Cam travels. My dog will be well cared for, considering how obsessed she was with her over Thanksgiving.
I left a couple presents in his closet. One for Chicken Salad and one for him. Chicken Salad is getting a new rope toy, and Camden is getting a hat. It’s not the greatest hat, but it was something I knit by hand after finding a pattern online. And I even found out how to knit his number, forty-six, on it. On the inside, I added a small C, for captain. Not sure if he’ll even wear it, but I wanted to give him something heartfelt.
I wish he was here . . .
“Jordana?”
“Huh?”
My thoughts are brought back to reality when I realize the sommelier is waiting on me.
“Oh, my apologies. Whatever you suggest for the red mullet.”
