Page 12 of The Holiday Ex-Files

Lots of love,

Cami

P.S. Check out my pinned post for the best online places to book your travel plans. If you can’t travel this year, see my highlights for one hundred excuses to skip holiday gatherings. You can thank me later.

Between bites, I scripted out my post under the table while the chaos of the Jenkins family dinner swirled around me like a hurricane. I had gotten good at texting without looking. It had helped me over the last few years while my family would discuss the holidays and use the C-word, like they were now. (My family, unlike my best friend, would not cater to my sick game.) My brothers and sisters-in-law were all talking over each other around the massive, rustic-wood table that sat sixteen in my parents’ large eat-in kitchen with an island the size of Manhattan. Most of my nieces and nephews were seated around the island, arguing, and telling potty-mouthed jokes that their parents were conveniently ignoring.

It all worked in my favor. Between the chaos and my family basically ignoring me, knowing I would only say no to being included in all their plans, I could pretend to listen, all while tuning them out. It was rude, I will admit to it, but it was torture to hear them talk about all the things I used to do with Ben. Things I used to love to do. Pumpkin picking at Peterson’s Pumpkin Patch, the Apple Festival, where we would eat apple pie until we were sick, the corn maze we loved to get lost and make out in until I couldn’t catch my breath. That was just in October. In November there were all the craft fairs where I would get a jump on my C shopping, the Aspen Lake Thanksgiving parade, and the Turkey Trot 5K we would run every year. Then came December in all its majesty. Sleigh rides in Holly Park, the lighting of the tree in town square, the winter wine walk, ice skating, drives down Candy Cane Lane to look at the lights, and riding the Polar Express. Not to mention picking out the perfect tree at the Aspen Lake Tree Farm the day after Thanksgiving. I was getting hives and shortness of breath thinking of it all. Too many good memories that were all a lie.

I closed my eyes and tried to think happy thoughts. I thought of the great pictures I had captured on my phone of all my minions wearing their shirts, which most of them had already gotten spaghetti sauce on. My heart rate started coming down thinking of their silly faces. But then Noah, who had insisted on sitting next to me during dinner, squeezed my knee. My eyes popped open. I was so startled that I fumbled my phone, but caught it before it dropped on the hardwood floor. I wasn’t used to a man’s touch, even a friendly one.

“Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

I hadn’t noticed that. I took a deep breath in and let a cleansing one out. “I’m good.” I slid my phone into my hoodie pocket. I would publish my post later.

“Why don’t I believe you?” He began rubbing my knee.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I mean, it felt nice, but it was weird. He was getting touchy-feely in his old age. I thought of him more as a high-five kind of guy. Perhaps this woman he wanted to marry was helping him get in touch with his feminine side. This wasn’t a good time for me to have him try to be so in tune. Didn’t he know that I was trying to avoid my feelings? At least most of the big ones. And admittedly, he was stoking some strange long-repressed urges. Urges I swore to never have again.

I placed my hand over his and cleared my throat, nonverbally communicating that he needed to stop. I was on a no-womanly-urges kind of diet. Besides, Noah and I were strictly friends. Hardly even that lately. It felt almost dirty that his touch was making me feel a little tingly. “Really, I’m fine.” I popped my hand off his, which I noticed was quite smooth considering he worked in construction.

He didn’t get the hint and his hand stayed firmly in place.

I leaned toward him and whispered, “Why are you touching me?”

His baby blues danced with amusement. “Someone recently told me that when you touch someone, it tells them they’re safe and they can trust you.”

For a second, I thought that was super sweet. Noah had always had this safe presence to him. But . . . “Let me guess—you got this advice from the poor woman you recently dumped? By the way, I’m done editing your recent photos. If I’d known you were going to be here today, I would have saved you a trip and brought your flash drive.” He refused to just let me email his pictures to him.

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