Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
I’m fireside, in buffalo check pajamas, sipping spiked eggnog and wallowing at 8 AM, when my doorbell rings. The thought that it could be Lainey, here to pick up where we left off last night, is the only thing that gets me off the couch.
Unfortunately, when I open the door, I find a heavyset guy holding up an envelope.
He looks me up and down for a second, obviously unimpressed by my appearance. I know what he’s seeing. I accidentally caught my reflection in a mirror in the hall earlier and had to look twice: dark circles under my eyes, dirty hair, angry scowl.
“You, uh…” He squints as he reads from his iPhone. “Emmett Mercier?”
With his thick Boston accent, my last name comes out butchered.
“Mer-see-AYE,” I snip, to which he replies, “Like I could give two shits.”
And oddly enough, it makes me laugh.
I tip him well and close the door, studying the small envelope. Instead of opening it right away, I set it down and go to retrieve my eggnog. I drink as I stare down at where the envelope rests on the edge of my entry table.
Like I’m scared it’ll burn me, I flick it with the tip of my finger so it turns over. As I suspected there would be, embossed letters boldly stretch across the sealed flap: EED.
I swallow down the rest of my drink and decide it’s probably best to just get it over with. I don’t know why I’m putting it off.
I open it and withdraw a thick stationery card. There’s a single line of text written in small, looping letters.
I’ve called it off. You’re free.
I read it three times, trying to decide if it will catch new meaning if only I read it in a different cadence.
I’ve called it off. You’re…free.
I’ve called it off…You’re free.
I’ve called it off. You’re free.
None of them help.
The weightlessness I’d hoped would come from the declaration is absent. In fact, I feel like I might throw up.
Eggnog for breakfast will do that to a person.
EED are obviously Lainey’s initials. I know this is her way of calling off our old-fashioned fake engagement. I know I’m supposed to pop champagne and toast to my victory in this hard-fought war, only now, suddenly…I don’t want it.
Isn’t that hilarious.
It’s so funny I pour myself another round of eggnog. I’m good and drunk before 10 AM. I put on Christmas carols and sing, and when my voice gets tired and my stomach rumbles, I slip on some shoes and go out looking for food, only every fucking place is closed because it’s Christmas Day. I wander in aimless circles until I find a small Chinese food restaurant that’s open. The sign says takeout only. I go in to order, and an elderly woman hands me a menu and, with a no-nonsense tone, asks me what I want.
“What?” I ask, looking up at her with astonishment, tears suddenly clouding my eyes.
“What do you want?” she asks again, prodding my menu with her pen impatiently.
“The thing is…I don’t know anymore. I thought I did. I really fucking thought I did, only now I’m not so sure.” My brows crinkle with frustration. “Do you understand?”
She doesn’t understand.
She asks me to get out of her restaurant.
I’m relegated to the hot dogs they’ve got at a 7-11 down the street, the ones that have been rotating aimlessly on a greasy conveyor belt for the better part of a week. To finish off my fancy holiday meal, I grab a random American beer from the cooler, and then I go eat on the curb in the parking lot, trying to pick apart my feelings as best as possible.
This is…inconvenient to say the least.
An epiphany like this would have been great, say, twenty-four hours ago.
Now, it’s agony.
Even with copious amounts of alcohol addling my brain, I know full well this is not a simple case of wanting what I can’t have, or not knowing what I had until it’s gone, or simply being a stubborn asshole. It’s not even just a bad case of the holiday blues.
Even if I wasn’t abso-fucking-lutely sure of it already, my driver would be quick to remind me that my twice-weekly stalker episodes at Morgan Fine Art Gallery might prove that underneath it all, I have very real, very obvious feelings for Lainey Davenport. Of course I do. I always have. She pulled at my heartstrings even when we were younger. There’s a French expression for this: la douleur exquise, the heart-wrenching pain of loving someone unattainable.
I’m suffering the improbable possibility of pushing Lainey away over and over and over again out of some self-righteous need for independence, only to be given exactly what I want and despairing over it.
It starts to snow while I mope there in my pajama pants and robe, which feels apropos. I look down at my half-eaten hot dog, now covered in icy snowmelt. Zut.