Page 27 of One Foggy Christmas
“There’s just so much history there and an already planned future. It’s safe.”
“But I thought the whole point of going to Chicago was because you were sick of planned-out and safe. You wanted the unexpected.”
“I don’t want planned-out and safe when someone else makes the decisions for me, but if I choose that life, then it’s fine.” I know the logic doesn’t make sense, but it’s how I feel.
“Well, I can go either way here,” Autumn says. “I can talk you into Stetson, or I can talk you into Nash. What are you looking for?” Spoken like a true best friend.
I press my palms on the counter and hang my head. “Stetson. I know I should be with Stetson. In three months, I’ll move home, and Nash will be some boss I once had.”
“Okay, if you want to be all-in on Stetson, you need to stop noticing all the cute things Nash does around the office. He has an unfair advantage over Stetson because he’s the new shiny guy who hasn’t done anything wrong, whereas Stetson threw a tantrum and broke up with you because you wouldn’t stay in Skaneateles.”
I nod, agreeing with everything Autumn says.
“Stop comparing this new exciting man to the old dependable guy that’s been around for years. Stetson is like your favorite pair of jeans. You know, the ones that fit perfectly to the curvature of your butt? The ones you put on and always feel your best in?”
“But lately, I feel my best around Nash.”
“That’s only because you and Stetson have been fighting. Your feelings for him are tainted because you're mad at him.”
“I am mad at Stetson—for the breakup and my parents.”
“The breakup was stupid. Everyone knows it doesn’t mean anything, an empty threat to try and get you to stay. And as far as your parents go, can you really blame Stetson for taking their side with the whole Tate thing? You guys have been together since third grade. Your parents are his second parents. Your family and his family are best friends, and he’s back in Skaneateles, seeing a different perspective than you.”
“I know, but he should bemyperson no matter what. Is it too much to ask that he’s on my side?”
“You know Stetson. His loyalty is to truth or what he perceives as truth. Maybe it’s the lawyer in him. Even though he loves you, he’ll tell you if you’re wrong. And he definitely thinks you’re wrong by blaming your parents for Tate overdosing.”
“I hate how he does that.” I turn around, leaning against my kitchen sink. “Do you think I’m wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think Tate’s death is my parents’ fault?”
“Whoa!” She laughs nervously. “That’s a loaded question and something I’d rather stay out of.”
“Autumn?” I press.
Her heavy sigh filters through the speaker. “Has your dad always been unreasonably hard on Tate? Yes. Could your dad have afforded to put him in a rehab facility instead of kicking him out on the street? Yes.”
I close my eyes, feeling vindicated.
“But,” she says, “I also don’t think you should ruin your relationship with your parents over this one thing. They lost Tate, too, and are grappling with their own pain and hurt. Dividing your family over his death is wrong. They’re your family, and I don’t think that’s what Tate would want.”
Part of me knows Autumn and Stetson are right. But my grief and anger take hold of all logical thinking, and I can’t do it. I can’t forgive them. Not right now, at least. I need somewhere to place the blame and anger so it doesn’t fall on Tate. It’s easier to deal with his loss if I put him on a pedestal.
“It’s not just thisonething I’m mad at my parents for. It’s been building for a while now. You know they were against me moving to Chicago for this internship. It’s like my dad wants to keep me under his thumb forever, and when Tate or I or anyone else goes against his wishes, he can’t handle it. I mean, he barely spoke a word to me before I moved to Chicago as a punishment.”
“Families are complicated. And you guys have some crazy crap going on in your family right now.”
“That’s exactly why I’m staying at your house when I come home for Thanksgiving next month, even though you won’t be there. Your mom won’t care, will she?”
“Nah, she’d love it. You can sleep in my room. Did I tell you that Mrs. Richenbaugh called me last week?”
“What for?”
“She’s still trying to get me to fly home for a few weeks to fill in as the choir director, hold her place for her until she’s fully recovered and can lead the music for A Dickens Christmas. She says she’ll pay me. I’m sure it would be, like, ten dollars for the whole month.”
“Wait.” I straighten. “Say that again.”
