Page 6 of Texting My Secret Santa

“I thought you might like this, sir,” she says, biting her lip while looking down. Please don’t say she’s attracted to me. I’m not in the mood for any office romance, none, but especially one-sided.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“It’s a little cold in here,” she says.

“The rest of the office is cheery enough. Honestly, thanks for the thought, but it’s fine.”

When she turns away, she mutters, “No fun …”

Is Mia my Secret Santa? After the text exchange I just had, it’d make sense. What are the chances of it? Hundreds of phones were handed out. It doesn’t matter. Soon, they’ll break, tell me what gift they want, and I can just buy it and go on with my life.

“Want to join us for a late dinner?” Dan asks.

I’ve got him on speakerphone as I drive through the city. “Sure. I’ve just got to handle that thing first.”

“Good luck. You’ll be fine. Remember, she isn’t the same person anymore.”

“I know. We’ve written letters. Even talked on the phone a few times.”

Seeing her is going to be different, though. Mom was just beginning to get clean when I moved away. She was determined to make me proud. She stuck to her word, too. Iamproud, but I don’t need a mom now. I needed one when I was a kid.

When I came home, she practically begged me to visit her. It was heartbreaking. I’d feel like a douche if I left her in the lurch. It doesn’t mean it will be the touchy-feely reunion she might be waiting for.

I pull into her driveway. The house she lives in now is far more presentable than the one we lived in when I was a kid: a well-kept lawn, freshly painted door, a practical car in the driveway, not sitting on cinderblocks. It has wheels and everything.

There are decorations, too, predictably.

Mom throws the door open. She’s healthier than when I last saw her, with some meat on her bones. She runs out to the car and jumps at me, wrapping her arms around me. I hold her, aware I’m not as enthusiastic as she is. It’s tough. She disentangles herself, laughing uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, Asher. That was a bit much.”

“It’s good to see you, Mom.”

“Do you want some tea? Coffee?”

“Sure, but I can’t stay long. I told Dan I’d have dinner with him.”

She swallows. “That’s fair. I can’t expect too much.”

“The place looks good,” I tell her, avoiding her words.

“I have you to thank for that, my go-getter son. I’ll never stop being grateful.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t take care of my mother. What else am I going to spend my money on?”

She takes my hand. “You’re so big now. So strong. So different.”

I shrug. I can feel how badly she wants to make this emotional. All I can think about is that bush dug up from a neighbor’s yard, dental floss holding the pitiful ornaments in place. The look of manic, disconnected glee on her face made me feel like she was living a completely different reality from me.

I’ve built callouses over my soul—scars over any goodwill I ever had.

“You look different, too. Better. Healthy,” I acknowledge.

“Let me make you that tea.”

She leads me inside. I don’t stay long. We don’t talk about anything that has any meaning. She asks about the weather “out west,” as she calls it, and I tell her about my workout routine. Then, I can’t take anymore. I have to leave.

She doesn’t make me stay, but she can’t hide her sadness.

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