Page 1 of One Hundred Lights
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BRITT
Monday, December 11
Iwouldn’t call myself the protagonist of this story. That sounds far too positive. More like the slightly-morally-gray main character. I’ve tried, I really have.
A year ago, Reese and I drank Baileys at this table, partaking in our annual best friend tradition of watching cheesy holiday rom-coms on Netflix, picking out the obvious plot holes and making fun of the performances from previously famous actors. I wrapped presents, overdoing it as usual for both my son, Jackson, and Reese’s family, and she ordered last minute presents online. It was perfect.
But this year, it’s just me watching movies, focusing even more on making things magical for Jackson. The holidays will be completely different without the tradition of sharing Christmas Eve with Reese’s family.
And it’s my own damn fault.
“Captain, don’t you dare.” I shake my head at the gray tuxedo cat who’s waving his paw next to my glass of red wine. If he had eyebrows, he’d be raising them. If he could talk, he’d say something like,I’m in charge here, and don’t you freaking forget it.I slowly stand and inch my hand closer.
He raises his paw higher, increasing the threat.
“Captain Underpants. I beg of you.”
Usually, I prefer to not call this cat by the full name he was given two years ago by my son. Never trust a ten-year-old child to name your pets. Jackson named our other cat Vanilla Frappuccino, Frappy for short. Could be worse, but I suspect the poor animal is self conscious because he’s mortified at being named after a Starbucks drink.
Captain Underpants has no such insecurities.
Captain opens his mouth for a soundless meow. I’d read cats only meow at humans, not each other. I meow back. We stare at each other, his paw still raised in the air, me giving him my most authoritative glare. I lunge for the wineglass. He leaps off the table, walking away with his tail straight up.
I let out an amused snort and sip deeply, letting the liquid warm my throat and belly.
Damn. I’m going to need a new pet sitter next month when I go away to pitch to one of the Silicon Valley venture capitalists with the tech start-up I’m currently hosting in the Idea Garage, the converted team space attached to my house. I haven’t traveled since I screwed up my best friendship.
I breathe in through my nose and hold it for a second before letting the air slowly out of my mouth. Six months ago, I thought I was doing the right thing. It was my problem, not theirs—my inappropriate, unwelcome feelings for Reese’s husband, Adrian.
I felt awful about it.
That was why I’d decided to take a break from spending so much time with them. We just needed some time apart. Especially after she’d confessed to me at a women’s retreat that she was having marital problems.
But when I told her I needed space, she saw right through me, the betrayal immediately sinking in.
Losing pet sitters you can trust with your garage code is bad, but it’s not even near the top of the list of things that suck about this situation. My stomach twists at the painful memory of running into Adrian at the high school musical a few weeks ago. I’d literally dropped to the floor and rolled behind a group of parents, as if I was on fire.
And Adrian saw me do it.
A buzz on the table distracts me from the humiliating memory. I search for my phone from among the piles of wrapped presents. The text might be from the PTO president about this Friday’s holiday dance. The parent running the event is sick and I got an email a few hours ago begging someone to take over. I should have said,No thank you! Enough on my plate!But I feel bad enough for everything that’s happened this year. I could use all the help I could get to return to some kind of karmic balance.
I really, really want Jackson to have a great time at the dance. A magical time, even. If that means I need to sacrifice this week to make sure of it, then I’ll do it.
When I was a kid, the holidays were cold and boring. Half the time my parents were off traveling somewhere exotic, usually leaving me and my older brother with au pairs. It was lonely in our quiet house, knowing our friends’ houses were full of holiday joy. And Jackson must miss Adrian and Reese’s daughter, Chelsea. Middle school has been hard enough for him, but now, thanks to me, he’s lost one of his best friends too.
Where the hell is my phone? Ah. I find it behind a wrapped stack of six identical portable phone chargers, tied with curled ribbon, ready to hand out to my team.
A text from my friend Laura lights up the screen.
Laura
Adrian’s here at CrossFit. Asking about you. Again
I suck air in, my insides knotting at the thought of Adrian hanging out at the gym, the place where we spent so much time together. I still miss him and his boring stories about work as a financial advisor, or the wordless way we communicated through facial expressions, making fun of some beefcake working out next to us.
Scrolling up, I re-read the texts Laura sent me last week, where Adrian told her that his divorce was final.
