Page 66 of Ms. Lead

First, I already told him I loved him, and well, he didn’t. He specifically didn’t say it, which isn’t something that can go unnoticed. I think I was already too sad when that happened, and it blended in with all the other pain hitting me that night. The more I think about it, the more profound it is. If he felt it, he could have said it. Even if he didn’t want to stay with me at that moment, he could have been honest. If he honestly felt that. He must not have.

With that fact in the back of my mind, the second reason I don’t reach out is absurdly clear: there’s no point. If he couldn’t say it back to me, then he’s not suddenly going to be able to say it after not seeing me for six months. It’s ludicrous to think anyone could.

I’m not going to put myself in the position of exposing my vulnerability and subject myself to that embarrassment. I’ve made a fool of myself around Oliver enough for a lifetime. I always showed and said how I felt, never getting anything in return.

The problem with all of this is, and it’s a big one, I do still love him. I can’t help it. A couple of weeks after he left, I bought every single one of his books just so I could read his words. It’s the closest I could get to his thoughts and voice. I could almost hear him reading to me from the text. He writes as he speaks, effortlessly and with a dry humor. I found his books fascinating, too, which was a bonus. They’re something to decorate my fireplace now, and they offset the kitten poster hanging above it nicely.

It's Thanksgiving and my least favorite holiday. I don’t know why, but I’ve never enjoyed it. I like having the family together, but that’s it. Maybe because there aren’t any presents involved. I like presents.

This year will be extra lonely since Enzo is staying in Los Angeles to spend it with his new girlfriend, Theresa. I can’t begrudge him that, though. It’s a new relationship. They’re still getting to know each other and impressing family. I don’t need to be impressed. If my brother is happy, I’m happy. It’s pretty straightforward where we’re concerned.

Normandy and Brandon invited me to their house, probably out of pity that I’d be alone, but I didn’t care. I said yes. I get to see the kids and don’t have to cook, so I’m in. Plus, the Carmichaels have the most fantastic wine cellar. With all that going for it, why would I refuse?

I arrive a little early so I can get some extra Ava time. Ever since Normandy started showing in earnest, Ava’s been a little withdrawn. I thought she would be climbing the walls with excitement at having a new sibling. I guess I don’t know as much about kids as I thought. Or at least as much about Ava as I thought I did.

All of the thoughts about Ava being withdrawn go out the window when I walk in because she practically knocks me over as she runs to give me a hug.

“Aunt B!” She screams, coming at me at top speed.

I crouch down to catch her, and she barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing tightly. I pick her up and swing her around, making her giggle.

When I stop, I see Normandy and Chelsie staring at me, horror-stricken. My heart stops.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask, pulling back to look at Ava to see if something is wrong with her, but I don’t see any injuries.

What I do see are her hands. One has red paint on it, and the other has yellow. All over the palms of her hands. Little hands and fingers that were just in my hair, around my neck, and on my back.

Shit.

“Oh no, Bianca. I am so sorry about that,” Normandy says, coming up and peeling Ava off me, who looks scared to death that she did something wrong. “We were finger painting turkeys for place settings, and well, you know the rest.”

Seeing Ava so worried breaks my heart, so I roll with it as best as I can.

“Well, I need to see these amazing turkeys immediately.” I give her a wink and a smile. “I do have their feathers in my hair now, after all.”

That gets her to smile, and it's when I notice Jett standing next to Chelsie, paint on his own hands that is now smeared all over her jeans around her knee. I can’t help but point at her leg and start laughing. Chelsie looks at what I’m pointing at, rolls her eyes with a sigh, and laughs too. At least I’m not the only one playing the part of an art canvas today.

There’s a special kind of energy that kids emit on holidays when there are a lot of people around. A buzz in the air is full of their excitement at all the extra attention they get. It’s not that they’re deprived otherwise, but it’s a day for excess. Excess food, excess attention, excess everything.

All day I soak it in, reveling in their spirit and imaginations. Jett is turning out to be quite the storyteller, availing us with some amazing make-believe tales. And every time I held Grace, I got a running report about what she can and can’t do now. It’s all very exciting.

By the time evening rolls around and the turkey coma is starting to hit everyone, especially the kids, I make my excuses and leave for home. I’m not tired. Quite the opposite. I’m overloaded.

While I’m used to a lot of daily activity at the depot, it’s nothing compared to today's onslaught. I thought I was ready for it and even craved it, but I was wrong. It was too much.

When I enter my apartment and switch on the track lights by the fireplace, something inside me cracks when I see that poster of the kitten hanging on that dumb branch. Hang in there.

I can’t anymore.

It starts with a sob, and I wrap my arms around myself as if they could hold me together, and the tears don’t stop. I haven’t cried since the day he left, and I don’t know why today is so different from any other.

I think today it felt officially over because it’s a holiday. Loved ones spend holidays together, or at the very fucking least, they call or text. I don’t receive either, nor do I expect them. I know now that it’s truly over.

I need to give up the idea that happily ever afters happen for everyone. They don’t. Some people end up cold and alone, pining for someone who doesn’t care.

It’s me. I’m some people.

Straightening myself, I wipe my tears, not caring what it’s doing to my makeup. With the paint still in my hair, runny mascara is the least of my worries. I walk over to the fireplace and rip the poster off the wall, my heart tearing with it. I crumple it into a ball as I take it to the kitchen and throw it into the trash can, but I’m not done.

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