Page 24 of War on Christmas

And what do I want now? Now that I’m forever and always the consolation prize, permanent second place to Stepdad-of-the-Year Gary Cassidy? I thought I’d know once I came back, but I just don’t. The time I’ve spent with my mom so far doesn’t feel loving or nostalgic. It doesn’t fill the invisible hole I’ve been living with. It feels tentative and awkward, like being stuck in a broken-down elevator with someone you had a nasty breakup with.

“Iamfucked up,” I say. Freya’s clear, gray gaze unlocks something, and without planning to, everything comes pouring out of me. All the things I couldn’t say, even to Thad. My head drops into my hands. “I’m so pissed at her, Frey, and I get how fucked up that is. She’s so…fragile. You saw her.” Freya gives a single, jerky nod of acknowledgement. My mom’s overly quiet voice. The way she jumps at anything unexpected. “She’s obviously dealing with trauma, and I get it. Rationally, I can step back and recognize it. Gary was abusive, and it changed her, deep down. I can’t judge the choices she made. Or Ishouldn’t, at least. But—”

“Here you go, honey.” Wanda returns, filling Freya’s cup and topping off mine. She obviously heard some of what I said, because her flirtatious glances morph into something maternal and soft. Pity.

I drop my gaze to the Formica tabletop until she’s gone. Her white sneakers recede, but I stay silent. I’d told Freya I wanted to be friends, and friends confide in each other. However, the situation with my mom seems a little intense to unload on anyone. People choose to stay in my life because I know how to be pleasant, entertaining. Not because I word-vomit my deepest fears over pancakes and bacon.

“But…” Freya urges, sipping calmly from her coffee, and that single word is all the permission I need.

“But how could she do it?How?How could she let him just cut me off like that? I still feel so”—a loud exhale rips out of me—“soangrywith her about it.”

I swallow, and it tastes bitter. Rancid. My stomach churns, every drop of grease I consumed suddenly swishing and rebelling in my guts. It disgusts me, this anger. It makes me feel small and weak, like the scared, powerless kid I used to be, and I want to get away from him, but I can’t because Iamhim. My eyes drop again, tracing the red-and-white swirls in the tabletop, because it’s bad enough knowing how grossIfind this anger. I can’t bear to see Freya’s revulsion.

There’s a long silence, filled only with the clattering of silverware and the hum of conversations around us. And, of course, Christmas music. A few tables down, Wanda’s “Right on, sugar” breaks through as she takes another customer’s order. For a second, I wonder if Freya will get up and leave. This was supposed to be a “friendly brunch.” Fun and casual. The stuff I’m usually good at. Instead, I turned it into a goddamn therapy session. This is enough to send anyone running in the opposite direction, high school rival or not. I wait to see Freya’s cute black ankle boots scurrying away, like Wanda’s white sneakers.

Freya’s hand slides across the table, palm up with fingers open and loose, curling gently. Not a gesture of disgust. A gesture of invitation. Acceptance.

My chest tightens, my Adam’s apple bobbing as I reach out and lay my hand on top of hers. Mine is much bigger, my wide palms engulfing her pretty, tapered fingers and pale skin. She’s soft and cool—she’s always had cold hands—and something primal unfurls in me as my heat soaks into her, warming her palm.

This. This quiet recognition of the darkness that lives in each of us—the anger, the shame, the hurt—this is Freya’s unique magic, shadowy and magnetic. All those thoughts and feelings that make most people duck their heads in embarrassment…Freya takes them in. She doesn’t celebrate them. She doesn’t push or prod you into them. She just…accepts.

For a second, with her skin against mine and a thrum of electricity connecting us, I’m thirteen again, the thrill of feeling so totally accepted by her pulsing through me. During those nights when I crawled through her bedroom window, I could tell her anything—fears about Gary, frustrations with my mom, my silly, fantastic ideas about drawing and art—and she’d listen, quiet and absorbed. Sometimes she’d sit beside me, my head next to her lap, and glide her cool fingers through my hair until my eyes drifted shut and we’d sit in silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. Not because we were happy and shiny and perfect, but because we were, both of us, human and warped and a little bit broken. Because our jagged edges fit.

Outside, snow starts to fall, giant, wet flakes coating everything in a fresh layer of white. Inside, Freya’s fingers tighten around mine, grounding me, and I squeeze back.

Seventeen

FREYA

Tonightisanewmoon.

Pop culture reserves its excitement for full moons, blaming them for everything from werewolves to overwhelmed labor-and-delivery units.For those of us who embrace magick, full moons are a time to let go. To unclasp your grubby, greedy fingers from what no longer belongs to you.

Personally, I prefer new moons.

I like the darkness of them. How the moon is a whisper of a shadow in the night sky. I like the mystery of them. Full moons look back at a completed cycle; they carry the comfort of 20/20 hindsight. New moons look forward to an unknown future. What do you want for yourself? What are you willing todoto make it happen? Each new moon is an inky little pocket carved out of the month, a place to hide and dream.

I’m sitting cross-legged in my papasan, Hecate purring loudly from my lap as I shuffle my tarot cards in the dull glow of the Christmas lights. Most months, my new moon tarot readings are mundane. Practical. I take a deep breath, enjoy a moment of stillness, and soften my senses so I can approach a current challenge with fresh eyes. How can the theater scrounge up enough money for a new sewing machine? What should the theme be for the burlesque show? How can I navigate the romantic drama between Greg and Robby?

Tonight, as the cards flutter through my fingers, my thoughts circle back to Jeremy. He’s a bad penny in my psyche, insistent on resurfacing no matter how much I try to concentrate on my life—myreallife—back in Chicago.

There’s not even a question for me to ask, because I already know how our story ends. We’ll play out this little charade of being “friends” for a while. Jeremy will try to ignore the chemistry between us. Because he’s foolishly optimistic. I’ll wait him out until the chemistry between us wins. Because I’m tragically realistic. The sex will be good. (Fine—better than good.) And then it will be over. Finished. Done.

I have zero interest in creating false hope for myself. I refuse to waste time or energy daydreaming about a future I know will never come to pass, and I’m being up front with Jeremy about that. I may be a lot of things, not all of them nice, but I’m not a liar. The “two-week rule” isn’t some imaginary power struggle I’m needlessly stoking. It’s a matter of honesty. Integrity.

I try to drag my thoughts back to the theater. I imagine myself as a huge, bumbling troll—complete with warts and crooked teeth—violently clubbing my own thoughts over the head and tugging them back where I want them to be. The Sphere. Myrealfriends. Life in Chicago. But when the memory of Jeremy’s large, warm hand wrapping around mine interruptsagain, I blow out a frustrated breath and resign myself to a generic question: What do I need to know right now?

A tiny, barely perceptible pull in my solar plexus tells me when to stop shuffling, and I rest the deck on my knee, cutting it with my left hand. When I turn over the top card, I snort. Not a little ladylike one either. Hecate turns to me with an irritated glare, and I run my hand along her bony spine until she settles back into a soft, contented lump.

Then I turn back to the card I pulled: The Hermit. Upside down. Of course.

My deck is black, with spooky, ethereal images sketched in white. The Hermit is a lone man, old and weathered, his back bent as he carries a lantern before him. Upright, it’s a call to solitude, encouraging you to take some space and turn inwards for the answers you seek. Reversed, like it is for me, it’s a warning. Don’t get lost in your solitude. Only retreat mindfully, with intention. Don’t retreat to avoid something.

My teeth grind as I shove the card back into the deck. Even tarot is against me today. Fiona Apple eyes me coolly from my bedroom wall, and I stare back as I contemplate drawing a new card. A do-over. However, if I pull the Hermit again, I can’t pretend it was a bum card. I bite at the inside of my cheek as I wage my internal debate:To pull? Or not to pull?

A soft knock at my door saves me from deciding.

Thank the gods.

---