Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“Okay, well h”
“Hang on, there’s someone at my door. That’s weird, because Marlowe is the only person it could be and she always texts first. Ugh, getting out of bed is the worst.” There was a pause. “It looks like a delivery person. Okay, I’m going to open the door. Stay on the line and call the police if you hear me being murdered.”
“Jesus, Shelby.”
“Hey, thank you so much. Let me grab my purse and tip you…oh, really? Okay, well, thank you.”
I heard her close and lock the door and then she returned to our call.
“It’s from a bakery,” she said, sounding confused. “I bet they got the address wrong. I should go grab the delivery guy so he can take it back. Hang on a sec.”
“Hey, wait. They didn’t get the address wrong.”
“I just saw the note on top. Feel better soon—Beau. That was so nice of you, thank you. And you even tipped the delivery guy.”
I smiled, because it was the first time in a while I’d heard her sound so happy.
“They’re ginger cookies. Ginger helps”
“With morning sickness,” she finished for me. “Thank you. These look and smell amazing. I’m going to try one right now.”
I waited a few seconds.
“Oh wow, these are amazing. They’re gingerbread men, but they’re soft and they have actual frosting instead of just little lines of decoration icing.”
“I’m glad you like them.”
Everyone in the locker room was gathering by the whiteboard for a meeting with our coaches.
“Hey, I have to go,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later. Eat the cookies and drink the Gatorade. And fuck work. It can wait. You need to rest.”
She gave a wistful little moan. “Maybe I will. I can always work later.”
“Text me later, okay?”
“I will.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shelby
I ran my fingers over the worn album cover of the most treasured record in my collection. When I’d lived with my grandparents, my grandpa always played this collection of classic Christmas music as we decorated the tree he cut down from a local tree farm.
Now I had his prized vintage record player and I played this album once a year, on Christmas. Memories of holidays with my grandparents brought a hollow feeling to my chest every time I thought of them, so I could only listen to it one time, in their memory, and then I always tucked it back into its sleeve until next year.
I’d been honest with Beau—I was too sick to go with him to his parents’ house for Christmas. What I hadn’t told him was that even if I were well, I wouldn’t have been able to go. Christmas was an incredibly hard day for me. I dreaded it every year.
Bing Crosby’s soothing voice and the fat snowflakes falling peacefully outside my windows grounded me slightly. This year, tears quietly slid down my cheeks, which was better than sobbing until I had a headache, as I usually did.
Why couldn’t I just remember the beautiful Christmases with my grandparents? Waking up to gifts for the first time in my life at age fifteen. My grandma’s homemade biscuits and sausage gravy that she made every Christmas morning. That trip to the tree farm the day after Thanksgiving every year to choose our perfect tree and bring it home.
Those memories were a balm on the wounds from all the Christmases before. My father had died from a drug overdose on Christmas, so my grandparents easily could have chosen to feel the pain of losing their son that day rather than celebrating, but they chose to make it as joyful a day for me as they could instead.
I wanted to choose joy, but every year I ended up on my couch with a box of tissues, letting myself feel the hurt instead of burying it like I tried to do every other day of the year.
As a kid, I’d been mesmerized by holiday lights. When I saw other kids go into homes with windows trimmed with multicolored lights, I thought they must be the luckiest kids in the world. On the rare occasions I went over to another kid’s house, I’d gape at their Christmas tree with homemade ornaments and shiny decorative balls, wishing my home had one, too.
It hurt to go to school after Christmas break and see the other kids wearing new clothes, talking about the games or bikes they’d been gifted. On the rare occasion someone asked me what I’d gotten for Christmas, I’d lied and said I got the gifts I heard everyone else saying they got.
In our house, Christmas Eve and Christmas were just regular days, when my mom was either out or in bed recovering from being out. For years, I’d been telling myself it shouldn’t hurt this much. I was an adult now and I could buy myself clothes and shoes and makeup if I wanted to.