Page 19 of Booked for the Holidays
But perfection can’t last forever.
Worried replaced wonderful. Anxious overpowered good. The world ofhappinessandforeverchanged, two events rocking my world in ways I never knew imaginable.
Mac’s unplanned arrival was first. Born on December 23rd, she was the best kind of surprise and my greatest Christmas gift to date. One glance at her, eyes that looked so much like my own blinking at me from a hospital crib, and I realized how utterly clueless I had been at understanding what true, selfless love really was.
I was infatuated, a blubbering mess of emotions, and I made a vow the very first time I held her in my arms. I would do whatever it took to keep that tiny bundle of joy swaddled in a pink blanket safe, healthy and so damn happy for the rest of my days.
Before Mac, I often pictured life as a revolving door; always moving. A dozen different possibilities, each as good as the last. That’s what I expected my thirties to be–a time to figure out and learn what I want to get out of my time here on Earth. Maybe I’d buy a house. Move to a different city for a while. Buy a motorcycle and do a cross-country road trip in the fall.
After her birth, I saw a different, more vivid vision of my future; the love of my life of three years and our precious new baby girl by my side. It was a future of new traditions, of matching pajamas, of Season’s Greetings cards. More kids, maybe, if we wanted them, and playdates with other couple friends who had little ones Mac’s age. I’d exchange texts with my wife (a ring would be coming soon) about why I was late to the parent-teacher conference or if she could grab a carton of milk from the grocery store.
Those dreams–the ones full of love and aspirations–never manifested. Life took a different turn, a sharp right off the highway to a destination I didn’t know how to navigate. I was without a map, without direction, without a guiding light. The only beacon of hope, the thing that kept me going every day, was Mac. The two of us alone, trying to figure out how the hell to move on.
Parenthood was–is–an adjustment, one that probably took me longer to figure out than some people, but I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t go back and undo Mac’s birth. Sometimes, she’s the only thing keeping me sane in a world that feels more and more uncontrollable with each passing week. Most times, she’s the only good part of my day, her giggle slightly deeper, height a smidge taller, but still my little girl.
In an alternate timeline full of redos and rewinds, the one thing I would erase is event number two: Christmas Eve five years ago. The abnormally cold Friday night that changed everything.
When I think about the evening for longer than a heartbeat—the blinding headlights, the screams of pain, the wail of a siren in the distance, approaching, but still too far away—nausea and bile work their way up my throat. Sweat soaks my clothes. My insides constrict, becoming a tight spool of guilt, of sadness, of regret.
A pressure forms behind my eyes, pain radiating across my temples. It’s a merciless game I never win. Discussing and processing the events in therapy has helped. It’s an outlet for my anger. A place to unload all the dark thoughts no one should be plagued by. Every day gets easier. A touch more bearable. A degree less painful.
But it doesn’t mean I want to listen to “Silent Night” every day from now until December 25th.
“Boss. Are you good?”
I blink and I’m transported back to the present.
Lucas, my best friend and one of the store’s supervisors, is giving me a curious look.
“Hey,” I say. My shoulders roll back, and I crack my neck to the side. “I’m fine.”
“We’ve been friends for decades and you still think you can lie to me?” he muses. “Bullshit.”
Red-headed and six foot five with a dimpled smile, he’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. His family owned the flower and garden shop that used to sit adjacent to our building. We’d spend our afternoons on the sidewalk out front, drawing hopscotch squares with chalk and dirtying our knees in the grass. We bonded over sports and growth spurts that hit far sooner than anyone else in our grade. A real-estate office showcasing multi-million dollar listings took over the space a decade ago when Lucas’s parents decided to retire, the smell of hydrangeas and roses no longer permeating through the thin walls.
My parents offered him a job after the sale, and he happily accepted. In the last five years he’s helped me navigate the rapid transition fromguy who helps out at his family’s business on the weekendstomanager who still knows jack about shit and pays people’s salaries.
No matter how much of a dick I try to be, Lucas never gets frustrated. He’s my closest confidant, a diligent knobhead who grins at everything and won’t ever leave me alone. I’ve never been one to believe in soulmates, chance encounters, or any other astronomical bullshit, but this man has saved me repeatedly. Pulled me out of my darkest hours, a hand clamped on my shoulder without asking for any details, helping however he can. He’s on a lifelong quest to make sure I’m not a completely miserable prick.
It’s working.
Kind of.
“It’s not bullshit,” I counter.
“I know you’re pissed about the contest. They did it with good intentions.”
His large body folds into the seat across from me, looking comfortable in the puny, pathetic chair only he ever occupies. I purposely picked the smallest piece of furniture to stop any conversations from happening in my office, but this fucker is lounging like he’s sunbathing at the beach. His arms cross over his chest. He kicks his shoes up on the edge of the wooden desk, leans back like he’s going to stay a while. Smiles and waits.
I hurl a scathing look his way, the most menacing one in my arsenal. I show my teeth. I scowl. The man blinks, unaffected. There’s a twinkle behind his green eyes, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before I’m going to fold.
Dammit.
“I’m pissed because someone went behind my back, Lucas. And lied about it. How the hell are those good intentions? I didn’t enter us on purpose, and then I get an email confirming our participation? Do you know how this is going to affect our daily schedule? In addition to the busiest time of year for us, and the eight million things I have on my plate including calculating bonuses, now I have to put up strands of garland and memorize all the verses of ‘Deck the Halls’?”
“Theo,” Lucas says on an exhale. Exasperation fuels the heavy sigh. “We both know this isn’t just about the contest. This time of year is hard for you. You harbor a lot of justified resentment. You also don’t think you’re allowed to celebrate anything good that happens in your life, especially around the holidays. It makes sense. I’m in your corner.”
My friend has always been a helper. An avid problem solver determined to offer aid to anyone who needs a hand, he doesn’t ask for accolades or recognition. He’s just a kind man with a soft heart who does things because he wants to, not because he has to.
