Page 26 of Christmas With the Jerk

I walked away from my support system, if it could be called that, to build something for myself. And it wasn’t easy. It never has been. I have to be controlling if I want to pull myself up and actually make something of myself.

I swallow hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they’re coming anyway, hot and fast. I wipe them away angrily, but they keep spilling over, my vision blurring as I make my way down the stairs. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that he got to me.

But it’s not just him. It’s everything.

I reach the bottom floor, pushing through the door into the lobby. The warmth and festive cheer of the Christmas decorations hit me like a slap in the face.

The tree, the lights, the music—all the things that made me feel happy and light last night now feel like a cruel joke. The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy, but right now, it feels like everything is unraveling around me.

I stop in the middle of the lobby, staring at the enormous Christmas tree. The train is still circling the snowy village display, the sound of carols filling the air. It should feel magical, like something out of a dream.

But right now I feel like I'm in the middle of a nightmare I can't wake up from. The pressure of it all is making it hard to breathe.

I’m so tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of proving myself over and over again, to everyone, to myself. It’s been years of pushing, striving, never stopping to catch my breath. And for what? To stand here, in themiddle of a snowstorm, days before Christmas, feeling like I’m about to fall apart?

It's ironic that I feel so alone while surrounded by so many people. I'm not sure I've ever felt so lonely.

I wipe at my eyes again, the tears coming harder now. I feel so out of control. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right, I do panic when I feel out of control. I can't stand the feeling of something I work for slipping out of my hands.

Ugh. I sink down onto one of the plush chairs near the tree, burying my face in my hands. The Christmas music, the laughter of families, it all feels so far away. All I can think about is how hard I’ve been pushing myself to be perfect, to prove I can do this on my own.

And now I’m not sure I can. Not like this.

TEN

Thorne

I'll be home for Christmas / You can plan on me / Please have snow and mistletoe / And presents under the tree.

6:18 am

It’s beenseveral minutes since Woodley stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the walls shake. And I’m still here, pacing around the room, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

I mean, we are on the same page, so why did she completely lose it on me? I think we are both stressed and our way of dealing with it clashed, because I know I could have been less of a dick. But, fuck, she was in full crazy person mode.

My heart’s still pounding, the anger from our argument simmering just below the surface. I keep replaying her words in my head, her accusing tone, the way she looked at me like I was the enemy.

I walk over to the window and yank the curtain open, staring out at the snow coming down in thick, relentless waves. It’s piling up fast, covering the courtyard below. The streets and sidewalks have completely disappeared.

My entire vantage point from this window makes it seem like the city is being swallowed by this storm, including my dignity. I have my father berating me in one ear and now Woodley hammering me in the other. I can't win for losing.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake the frustration, but it sticks to me like the wet, prolific snow. Her suggestions are ridiculous, but I may have been too harsh. Both of these things can be simultaneously true.

She may have found success in taking this aggressive posture in the past. But with this situation, she can't will the storm or the client into her personal timeline. She just needs to be patient. That’s all I was trying to say. I need to work on my delivery.

I lean against the window, watching the snow swirl and gust outside, like the storm’s mocking me for being stuck here. Because that’s what I am. Stuck. Stuck between wanting to get this damn pitch done and over with, and this nagging feeling in my chest that maybe I’m just running scared.

Scared of messing up. Scared of making the wrong move. Scared of fucking up royally. I’m paralyzed, and sometimes I do need to be more aggressive, go after things that are important to me.

The part where she said I’m more worried about getting home for Christmas than actually landing the account? I would never admit it out loud, but she may be right.

If I dig down, getting home for the holidays is a way to forget about all of the stress and pressure I put on myself. No one works over Christmas.

I'm not a boy anymore. It's time for me to be a man. I have to work, and I should have pressure just like everyone else. I need to make a living, stand on my own, close deals on my own so that I'm not just riding my dad's coattails.

Reality scares the shit out of me. Depending only on myself, there is a possibility of being exposed as a failure if I don't come out on top. It's a double-edged sword. If I coast along, taking advantage of our name, our money, our connections, then life is easy—but I'm a spineless asshole who never did anything for myself.

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