Page 1 of The Art of Being Merry
the merry meet
CLEM
“Of all thestupid things I could do, all the dumb mistakes I’ve made in my life, this might be the most foolish.” I shake my head, a worse one coming to light. “Nope, that honor belongs to marrying Keith. Ignoring all the red flags. Thinking he was ‘perfect.’ Perfect, my ass. More like the laziest and stupidest son of a bitch living.”
A sneeze from the back seat returns my attention to the car. Probably wise to keep my focus on the road in front of me and not the errors of my past. Besides, had there been no Keith, I wouldn’t have Atlas and Jace, the best parts of my life. Despite sharing half their DNA with their father, they’re my world.
The reason I get up in the morning.
The reason I live and breathe.
The reason for this trip.
“Bless you, Attie. You hungry?” I seek Atlas in the rearview. He’s dozed on and off, but he’s been my company for the drive, asking all the questions, questions I didn’t—don’t—have answers to.
“Are there any apples left?”
“I’m not sure. Can you check the bag next to you?”
My gaze drifts to the empty road. Early Christmas morning insouthern Vermont isn’t a busy travel time, but I can’t blame folks for staying home. No one should drive on Christmas morning at this hour. Unless you’re a fool, which I am. I’m not certain it’s for being out on the road on the holiday or staying this long in a horrible marriage.
Probably the latter.
“Found one.” Having temporarily forgotten what he’s talking about, his groggy morning voice startles me. “I need it cut. And did you pack the peanut butter?”
I’m lucky I packed the three of us,I want to shout, but I refrain. I’m the only one to blame for the predicament we’re in—running away to Vermont on Christmas because my life imploded yesterday morning. Atlas and his brother are innocent bystanders, along for the ride because no way was I leaving them with Keith. He could barely manage them when he got home from work before me. Also, the thought never crossed my mind. Whenever the urge to run away from my life hit, they would never have been left behind. Where I went, they followed. Much as I might need a break from them from time to time, I knew I’d never leave them behind. I’d figure it out.
Perhaps Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to put the plan in motion, but my patience snapped yesterday, and I couldn’t stay in that house one second longer.
Logic should have sent us to my parents’ house, a mere five miles down the road, but amid my meltdown, reason and rationality flew out the window. It wasn’t until I had the car packed with a suitcase of clothes for each of us and all their wrapped Christmas presents did I realize where I was headed.
Not that I told Willa I was coming. She’d be up now. I could call or text her, give her a heads-up we’re here. I can’t explain why alerting her makes me physically ill.
Okay, Iknowwhy. I’m ashamed, mortified at how this looks, at how I’m behaving. Taking my children from the only home they’ve known, from their father, their grandparents, and driving over a dozen hours to a twin sister I hardly ever see. It’s only because of the physical distance, not that we aren’t close. She’s my best friend, but it’s been three years of her living in Vermont andnot home in North Carolina with us, I’ve had enough of missing her.
Beyond getting to her, I don’t have a plan. Not how long we’re staying. Hell, not where we’re going to stay. All my mind can handle is “get to Willa.” Like she’s the one who will know what to do in a crisis. And a crisis this is. Even of my own doing.
What the hell am I doing?
The question has played on repeat since a mile outside of town, a loud voice in my head commanding I turn around. With two screaming kids, tears cascading down my cheeks, I should have listened. But I couldn’t. A magnetic force was pulling me north to Willa, consequences be damned.
I pulled over to compose myself as best as I could, but I didn’t turn around. With a full tank of gas, I pressed forward, counting down the miles to Vermont with each new state we entered. Virginia. D.C. Maryland. Delaware. New Jersey. New York. Connecticut. Massachusetts. Vermont.
Not when Jace threw up did I contemplate turning back.
Not when Atlas demanded to go home did I consider his opinion.
Not when the pesky voice of reason highly suggested I was making a mistake did I give it another thought.
Come hell or high water, I was on a mission to Vermont.
Now, nearly nine hundred miles, a night of no sleep, and an eerie sense of calm washing over me, the end is in sight-ish.
“Are we almost at Aunt Willa’s? We’ve been driving a long time. I hope Santa found her house okay.”
A “lie” I told him when I needed him to get into the car without arguing.“Of course Santa knows we’ll be at Aunt Willa’s house on Christmas.”Nothing white or little about it, but he seemed to buy it. Haven’t quite worked out how I’ll unload the presents from the car into her cabin without his knowledge, but I’ve got about an hour to figure it out.
Along with how to explain to Willa why we’re here. She’ll welcome us with open arms, but as soon as we’re alone, she’ll question my every decision. It’s in her nature and what makes her good at her job as a children’s mystery author.
