Page 31 of Christmas Kisses

13

KELSEY

Itry to utilize the first solid alone time I’ve had in three years well. I respond to a handful of messages I received that veered away from their disappointment to my heartache, cancel the gift registry before more family members get stung purchasing Noelle’s expensive additions, and then draft the speech I plan to give my parents one week from today. It’s the day they are due to fly to Oregon and includes details about their new itinerary.

I’ve achieved a lot, but I’d be a liar if I said I’m not bored out of my mind and wishing I hadn’t told Zane he broke my coochie.

If he didn’t need to be with his family, I would have been halfway to his hotel by now.

Luckily, my morals still linger even when I want to be a harlot.

Confident I’ll die of boredom if I live this life every day, I open the finance section of a local online newspaper. I sent some feelers to possible clients earlier this week, but I’ve yet to hear anything back. It is understandable when you remember Christmas is only eight days away.

I haven’t bought a single gift yet, and I’ve been unemployed for days, so imagine the to-do list of people who work sixty-plus hours a week.

My eyes bulge when I realize the seriousness of that last thought.

I haven’t bought a single gift, and Christmas is only eight days away.

Shit!

My parents are easy. I could give them socks and they’d be as happy as pigs in mud, but I’ve been scrolling online stores for over an hour and haven’t found a single suitable present for Zane.

What do you buy a man you know intimately but have only recently become associated with?

I can’t get him nothing—that’s just scroogie—but I don’t want to go overboard either. I did that for Peter every single celebration, and all I ever got were broken promises.

To keep with the theme of our… whatever the hell this is… I need to make sure Zane’s gift is funny but functional. Reasonably priced but shows I put some effort into picking it out.

It also needs to be…

My thought process trails off when a faint “Ho, ho, ho” trickles through my open bedroom window.

“Yes!” I shout to myself when I come up with the perfect gift. “Then he can eat as many candy canes and drink as much hot chocolate as his heart desires.”

No one bats an eyelid when Santa downs a million calories in one night. He has an entire year to burn off the calories, so we let him prepare for hibernation with a heap of naughty foods.

It takes an hour to find a replica of the suit from the Santa Zane swears is stalking him. It’s from a specialist dressmaker in Canada, but with express shipping, it should be here in time for Christmas. I just need to input my credit card details.

I practically skip into the kitchen to fetch my purse from the drawer. I’m so excited that the glitzy sparkle of my engagement ring compliments to the overhead lighting above my kitchen cabinets doesn’t hurt as much as it once did.

It helps that I’m learning what my parents have been endeavoring to teach me since the day I was born.

Sentimental value far exceeds dollar value.

Only last week, my apartment was filled with designer furniture and pricy antiques, but I wasn’t game to sit on a single armchair while wearing a skirt with a zipper in the back because I was afraid of the damage it could cause.

This morning, I stomped across the floorboards with no concern that trinkets on the shelves could topple over.

Zane was down to a final tablespoon of crushed candy canes, and I was determined to sample it off his body as he had mine.

I won the battle. I can’t say the same for the vase I picked up at a thrift shop years ago. It wobbled to the ground when Zane’s hand shot out to secure a hold of anything he could when I took him to the very back of my throat.

Its cracks are blatantly obvious. I will never accept Zane’s offer to replace it, however.

It’s perfect the way it is.

Damaged but more beautiful than ever since it survived the trauma.

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