AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Idrinktoomuchafter Saint leaves the party at Eliza and Grace’s place. My head is throbbing and the unfamiliar floral wallpaper takes me a minute to place when I wake up with a killer hangover. I’m in Marcus’s guest bedroom. Not the one they’ve turned into a nursery, thank fuck. That might have made me think I somehow traveled back in time to when I was expecting Owen and everything was yellow duckies and endless diapers.
And a hellscape of never measuring up to Trevor’s expectations and always feeling like an inadequate mother and wife because of how terribly the titles fit me. It didn’t matter what I did; it was never right. Never enough.
But I’m not there. I can own the fact that I am the best Pop to my kids I can be, and soon Trevor will barely be a part of my life. I should probably be sad about what that will mean for the kids, but mostly I’m grateful. Better a clean break now than a long, drawn out death by a thousand cuts to their relationship. Better for Owen to realize Trevor has abandoned him in one fell swoop than gradually over dozens more missed weekends and years of broken promises and canceled plans.
I should probably be ashamed to wake up in my brother’s guest bed on Christmas Eve morning with only hazy recollections of how I got here. But it is what it is. The last thing about the party that’s really clear to me is how Saint brushed me off and the finality of that goodnight kiss. I always knew he was out of my league, but I didn’t expect losing him to hurt this much. Or for it to happen when I was already struggling with the holidays.
When I pry myself out of bed and down to the kitchen, Gail is sitting with a cup of tea. Her mug smells like peppermint, and Marcus is cooking pancakes for her.
“Hey, grab a coffee and join us.” Marcus gestures to the coffeemaker with his spatula as he scrapes the last of the batter onto a hot griddle. “Gail was craving strawberry pancakes, and I’m making plenty.”
At my wince, Gail gives me a sympathetic smile. “There’s Tylenol in the cupboard with the mugs.”
“Thanks.” I force a grateful smile and try not to ache with envy at the sweet way my brother dotes on his wife. What would that have been like? Probably as lovely and comforting as when Saint makes me warm apple cider and rubs my shoulders after a long day at the diner. I shake that thought right out of my head.
Saint isn’t my boyfriend, and he told me up front that he doesn’t do those big romantic gestures. Except he does all the practical little things that make me feel adored. I don’t need flashy declarations and worthless gestures. I just need the steady guy who is there for me and smiles when I indulge his sweet tooth. But he can’t seem to accept that and I refuse to chase after what I can’t have.
If I had any pride left, I wouldn’t text Saint about tonight. It’s all too clear we’re not still on for our plans, but I don’t want to face my first Christmas without my kids alone. How many times did Saint swear he’s my friend? Well, I desperately need one tonight.
Even if the benefits part of our friendship is over, and that chaste kiss said it might be, Saint is the only one I want to spend tonight with. Still, it might be better to spend it alone than with someone who is too nice to tell me I outstayed my welcome. My eyes burn at the thought of no more Thursdays with Saint, but I tell myself that’s just the hangover making them irritated.
I eat breakfast with Marcus and Gail, then beg off from spending the day with them, claiming my headache as an excuse. Marcus gives me a ride back to Eliza’s place to pick up my truck. I have a vague memory of agreeing to tutor Marcus’s niece before I got wasted.
Hopefully, I didn’t fuck that up already. Grace offered me an hourly rate that almost made my eyes pop out of their sockets. A few regular tutoring clients like that, and I might be able to finally stop living from paycheck to paycheck. No more draining my meager savings with every unforeseen expense and minor emergency.
When I get home, the apartment seems empty as a tomb without Meg and Owen in it. I miss our ancient, bedraggled artificial tree, but it’s broken beyond repair. The live one we replaced it with this year makes the entire apartment smell mockingly festive. Today that is back to reminding me sharply of loss.
With the lights dark, it’s just a sad beacon of everything I don’t have today. How alone I am. No point driving up the utilities by lighting it if the kids aren’t home to enjoy it, though. The carefully wrapped presents under the branches only serve to remind me of how alone I am.
I go up to the tree anyway. Face the ghosts haunting me head on. Laminated handprint ornaments from both kids’ baby days flutter when I approach. Hard to believe their hands were ever that tiny. I caress the red and green paint. It seems fitting that even that small, comforting piece of them remains separated from me behind a layer of thick protective plastic. I’m being maudlin; they’ll be home on Monday with all their exuberant holiday cheer and teenage angst and everything that makes them who they are.
I hang the colorful gnome ornament from the party front and center, near my trans pride flag, Meg’s gaudy bisexual cat, and Owen’s pirate flag. Those three hang front and center, at eye level.
I bite my lip. This tree is covered in memories. Some small part of me hopes that by putting even a tiny fragment of Saint on it, I can let him have a bigger place in my life. Some mark that he’s more than a convenient stress relief. So much more. The gnome, with its bright rainbow hat, seems to mock me, brimming with all the cheer I just can’t muster.
I turn my back on the tree and bundle myself into bed to sleep off my hangover. With any luck, things will look brighter when my head isn’t throbbing in time with my pulse and I’m not on the verge of puking up my guts.
It’s dark when I wake up freezing. Too dark, and too quiet. Not even the low hum of the fridge and all the other electronics that fade into the background until they’re gone. I glance at my alarm clock, but the face has gone dark. We lost power. Again. From how much the temperature has dropped, it happened a while ago. Fuck only knows when it will be back with the holiday weekend.
Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair as I consider my options. Earlier, I figured I should skip pestering Saint about tonight. No sense pushing myself on him when he seemed so lukewarm about our plans last night. But I can’t stand to be around Marcus, with the perfect life he’s building, and there isn’t anyone else I can call.
I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to be around people either. I shiver. Maybe I can just go to my brother’s house for a bit to warm up. Except, Marcus won’t let me come back to a place with no heat if I can’t take being around a happy family all night.
So that leaves Saint. He already invited me over. My phone is on its last dregs of a charge. I could text, but if he doesn’t get back to me right away, it might die before I hear from him.
I dial Saint’s number before I can chicken out. My pulse pounds as I wait for an answer, mind racing with what I’ll do if he rejects me. At least he doesn’t send me straight to voicemail or dismiss my call on the first couple of rings.
I wait with bated breath for the chance to blurt out my plea for him to just give me one more night before he ends us. Or even just one night as friends because I need a friend so badly right now. I squeeze the phone as it rings one last time, and the voicemail picks up. No answer. I bite my lip. Consider calling back. Give him one more chance?
Or I could text after all. Try to find somewhere that’s open so I can at least charge my phone and grab something for dinner. There’s no point even trying to get hold of the property manager. He doesn’t take calls on the weekend and his voicemail has been full for as long as we’ve lived here. It would take an actual flashing sirens type emergency to get him to deal with an issue on Christmas Eve, and even that might not cut it.
I’m staring at the text thread with Saint when my phone rings in my hand. It startles me so much that I almost drop it. My stomach swoops with reignited hope. Saint! That makes me laugh at myself. It’s probably an ill-timed telemarketer. Or someone calling about an unpaid bill or…
I answer without bothering to check. “Hello?”
“Hey, Angel, did you still want to come over tonight?”
I almost sob in relief at Saint’s timely offer. He must just have missed my call. It’s possible I read too much into that goodbye kiss last night. Maybe…
