Page 71 of War on Christmas

When that upside-down Hermit card appeared in my tarot reading, I (oh, sweet summer child), had assumed it was a warning. But really it was adirection: Isolate yourself.

For a brief period last night—about halfway through my bottle of wine—I’d contemplated a face tattoo of the Hermit card. Just in case I ever manage to forget the marrow-quaking pain I’m in right now. But by the time I sobered up this morning, my plans de-escalated into a wall hanging of the hunched old man instead. I’m hitting “Submit” on my Etsy order when a loud, frantic banging on my door has me flinching.

“Wrong door!” I bellow, holding my throbbing head between my palms. (Wine hangovers are the worst.) The only person who would visit me the day before Christmas Eve is Leo, and he hasn’t knocked in years because he has a key. Obviously, whoever it is has the wrong apartment.

But they bang again, harder this time, sending the black and silver beads in my bedroom doorway swinging.

“Freya Estelle Nilsen!” Sam’s voice shouts from the hallway. “Open the door right this instant or I’ll kick it down!”

I scramble up on the couch, eyes wide.Samis here? In Chicago? Did Thad bring her? This would be the type of thing he’d—

“Freya.” Bethany’s voice, firm and commanding. Like a mom.Bethany?I blink, but before I can wrap my head around it, she says, “I know Sam’s tiny, but I’m pretty sure she could do it. Open up before you owe your landlord a new door.”

Thatgets me moving. My landlord is an asshole who would definitely inflate the price. I wrap myself in a quilt and sprint for the door, stockinged feet sliding across the hardwood floor. I pause in front of the gold sunburst mirror to check my reflection. I shouldn’t have. I look as terrible as I suspected, but before I can attempt to finger comb my hair, a loudbangrocks my apartment, followed by a tortured, “Holyshit, thathurt! Oops! Sorry, Mrs. Nilsen.”

I stagger forward and fling open the door so hard it crashes into the wall behind it. My jaw drops as I take in the trio on the other side. Sam, her foot raised as if she’s about to give the door another kick. Bethany, hands on her slim hips, raising a single you’ve-really-done-it-this-time eyebrow. And—

“Mom?”

And my mom, bundled up in her cotton-candy pink parka, looking like a very concerned modern-day June Cleaver.

Forty-Four

FREYA

“What—”Ishakemyhead, as if they’re a mirage brought on by a broken heart and too much cheap wine. “What are you alldoing—”

But they’re already pushing their way inside, Bethany leading the way.

“We would have been here yesterday,” she says, beelining for the kitchen and digging under the cupboards until she finds a garbage bag. As she talks, she heads to the couch and starts picking up dirty tissues. “But I had to line up people to watch the shop. Last-minute Christmas shopping, you know?” She stops long enough to look around my apartment, then turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “This place iscute. Why haven’t we been doing girls’ weekends down here?”

I gape. In my entire thirty-five years, the idea of a “girls’ weekend” with Bethany hasnevercome up. It would have been laughable. But Bethany just suggested it so casually—so matter-of-factly—that for a moment I can see it. Taking her to The Sphere for our latest performance. Sambusas at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant. Shopping for fake bags in Chinatown.

“The question isn’t ‘What are we doing here?’” says Sam, stopping in front of me to frown. “The question is ‘Why are you wearing a Dave Matthews Band T-shirt?’ You hatethem.”

Fuck.I’d been so shocked at their sudden appearance that I’d let my blanket sag around my elbows. I snap it shut around me like a cocoon, but it’s too late. They’ve already seen me wandering around in nothing but my knee-high Wednesday Addams socks and one very large, very stolen Dave Matthews Band T-shirt.

Look. I’m not proud of it. But it smells like him, and if I’d taken any of his other shirts, it would have been too suspicious. Also, I know now that this stupid fucking shirt had nothing to do with impressing his football friends and everything to do with getting a reaction out of me.

Which is kind of sweet. In a backwards, immature, seventeen-year-old kind of way.

Before I can start to defend my poor choices, my mom steps forward, her brow furrowing as she grips my shoulders. My back goes ramrod straight at her touch—old habit—but she doesn’t pull away this time. Instead of taking a step back and changing the subject, she stills, giving me time to settle into the physical contact between us.

“Of course we’re here,” she says quietly. “You’rehurting, Freya. And we love—”

“Hold up.” I step away, drawing the blanket tighter around me. “Of course? Of course you’re here?” I snort, unable to hold back my disbelief. “Mom, I’ve been in this apartment foreight years. And how many times have you been here?”

One beat of silence. Two. “This is my first,” she finally says, her gaze steady on mine.

“I’ve been at The Sphere for twelve years. Twelve. We do eight productions a year.” I do some quick mental math. “That’s ninety-six shows we’ve staged since I started working there. How many have you come to see?”

She swallows, but she doesn’t look away. “None.”

“So, what’s up with this ‘of course’ bullshit?” It feels good to focus on something other than the burning ache of missing Jeremy, and I throw myself into it, doing nothing to temper my voice or body language, which I know is screaming,Leave me alone!“Look, I know you love me—on some level, at least—but can we just not pretend that there’s anything ‘of course’ about our relationship? Because there’s not.”

My apartment suddenly feels too small, like the 600 square feet can’t contain the decades of hard feelings I’ve let loose. Bethany and Sam freeze, watching me warily. My mom, however, squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and jerks her head toward the couch.

“Sit,” she orders me, then turns to Bethany. “Make some tea.” Then she sniffs at me, and last night’s wine must be oozing out of my pores, because she asks, “Are you hungover?” At my terse nod, she adds, “Peppermint if she has it.”

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