Fifteen

I wake up to my mother’s voice, which sounds far too bright for the gloomy winter’s day outside. Of course I can only assume it’s gloomy. I haven’t been outside lately, much less even walked to the window. But the light coming through my pulled blinds is dim at best, and even under my down comforter I feel a little chilly.

It’s been a couple of days, maybe three, since Jamie broke up with me. I’ve been sleeping so much it’s hard to tell, to be honest. Mom comes in from time to time to offer food or attempt to get me moving. Dad came in when he got back from New York to say hello and drop off a few books his editor recommended for me. For the most part, though, my parents have left me alone to wallow in self-pity. And I am having a spectacular wallow. All I can think about when I’m conscious is the look in Jamie’s eyes as he told me to get out, so filled with dark contempt, and it’s only made worse by the slow, torturous reckoning that I’m never going to kiss him again and I don’t deserve to.

My mom’s voice drifts through the door again like chiming bells, and it dawns on me that she’s not talking to me, or my father for that matter. Then I hear Landon’s soft laugh and I put two and two together. Before I can even think about getting out of bed to put on a fresh shirt or brush my teeth, Landon cracks the door open, just wide enough to fit his head through, and gives me a weak smile.

“Am I allowed in?”

I almost consider saying no. I haven’t been out of this bed for possibly three days and I must look (and smell) like crap.

“I’m gross,” I say in lieu of a protest.

“I know. I can smell you from here.” Landon’s grin is warm and so welcoming that I can’t resist smiling back. He sets a large cardboard box on the floor as he enters. He leaves the door ajar, remembering my mother’s rules about having boys in my room, even though it’s been years since that mattered with us. “How are you?”

I sit up and Landon takes a seat next to me. “Hurting,” I say, even though that one word can’t possibly cover the anguish that’s made itself at home in my chest since Jamie said those painful words.

“Gina said you haven’t been out of bed in a few days. She’s worried.” He reaches over and seeks out my hand on top of my comforter and rubs his thumb along my knuckles. “Me too.”

“Did she ask you to come over?”

“Nah. I figured it had been long enough that you might be ready for a friend now.” Landon shrugs and swoops his thumb over my knuckles again.

I watch his thumb move. “And Meg?”

“Meg will be over tomorrow.”

“She’s not mad anymore?”

Landon makes a face. “I wouldn’t say that, but she’s not pissed enough to stay away while you’re doing the breakup hermit thing. She really did want to come over but her parents won’t let her out of the house. They have to go to Christmas Eve Mass or something, although I’m pretty sure that’s not for hours yet.”

“It’s Christmas Eve?” I ask, and the realization that it has indeed been three days sobers me a little, brings a tingle to the edges where it had felt so numb.

“Yep. Very important day for Santa Claus. And apparently Catholics.”

“Far too holy of a day for Meg to soil herself with the likes of us,” I say, and chuckle. My throat feels rusty with it.

“Precisely. Can’t go gallivanting about with us heathens on high holy days. Pretty sure that’s grounds for excommunication.” He laughs with me, and it feels so good to hear that sound. Then, after a long pause, Landon says, “Were you in love with him?”

I pause before answering. “It hurts like I was.”

“Close enough, maybe?” Landon offers.

I use one of my father’s favorite sayings. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“And sometimes carpentry,” Landon adds, and then gives me a smile that barely turns up the corners of his mouth. “And love, perhaps.”

“He was kind of wonderful, you know?” Despair colors the edges of my voice dark. “Everything I wanted.”

Landon leans away from me and fidgets with his clothes, first smoothing a wrinkle in his dark jeans, then tugging down the hem of his gray sweater. “He did seem to be your Perfect Ten.”

“So why did I screw up?”

“I don’t know.” Landon’s pale gray-blue eyes are warm, sweet, almost prettier than normal. At least I think so. It’s been a long time since I really looked closely at his eyes. It’s really been a long time since I’ve pulled my head out of my ass and really looked at anything, to be honest.

“I was being an asshole.”

“Maybe. Or maybe two really hot guys both wanted you and you had trouble deciding between them.” Landon shrugs. “Which isn’t an asshole move. Maybe a horny teenage boy move, but not an asshole move.”

I chuckle because there’s a lot of truth to that, but then I sober again. “I made that stupid list, though. I know what I want. Or at least I thought I did. And then I basically did to Jamie what Gus did to me. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Sam.”

“I lied to Jamie.”

Landon nods. “Yeah. But he should have given you another chance.”

“Yeah?” I ask, incredulous. “Would you have given me another chance if I’d cheated on you?”

“Yes,” Landon answers without hesitation. “Because I was so stupid in love with you. But also because you’re awesome. You’re a Perfect Ten. Jamie should have realized that.”

I stare at him, taken aback and flattered. I shake my head at him. “You’re just as delusional as Meg. No wonder you took her side the other day.”

“I didn’t take her side. I just understand.” Landon shrugs like it’s no big deal, what he just said, but he’s blushing. The blush deepens as he adds, “For what it’s worth, I think Jamie should have fought for you. A real Perfect Ten would have.”

I consider that. Landon might be right; a real Perfect Ten might have given me another chance. Then again, would I have even noticed Travis if Jamie was really the Perfect Ten?

The whole thing makes my head hurt on top of an already hurting heart, and I rub at my temples.

“I want a break,” I blurt, and Landon raises a brow at me. “I don’t want to think about that stupid list for a while because I’ve got no clue what I want, or what I don’t want, or whether he measures up or not, or whether he should have given me a second chance, blah blah blah. I just don’t know anymore. All I know is that I hurt Jamie. And I miss him. And this whole thing sucks and it’s really kind of sucked since I first started it, with Gus and Travis and Jamie and ugh! I don’t want to do this anymore. It hurts.”

Landon nods and I can tell he understands. “Okay, then. Take a break. Be single for a while. Are you hungry?”

It’s kind of whiplash-inducing, but I’ve always been thankful for Landon’s no-nonsense approach. He just accepts things and rolls with it.

“Starving,” I reply. I’ve eaten sandwiches and other things my mother has brought me, but not anything substantial enough for a growing boy.

Landon nods. “Okay. Why don’t you shower and I’ll go find food? Then after you eat we can watch bad TV all day long.”

“Sounds great,” I say, and it does. I throw the covers off of myself and stand, stretching. “What’s up with the cardboard box?”

“Oh,” Landon says, and shrugs. “I figured I’d box up all this stuff you were going to give to Jamie for Christmas and, uh, dispose of it.”

I sniff, amused. “Gonna burn it in some Wiccan ritual?”

Landon covers his mouth because an irreverent snicker escapes his lips. “I was just going to give it to the Salvation Army. But maybe a ritual burning is more fitting?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Good karma might undo this stupid spell more than burning paintbrushes, and goodness knows we need to end it.”

Landon gets up and sets the box on the bed, eyeing it once before squinting at me. “You sound like you believe the spell worked.”

“I’m not saying it worked, but don’t you think it’s a little fishy that three impossibly gorgeous boys mysteriously came out of the woodwork after that?” I can tell Landon’s trying to hold back a laugh and I roll my eyes. “What? All I’m saying is that maybe Meg doing some sort of spell to end it doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me. Just in case.”

Landon snorts and then orders me to go shower. I take a long time, standing under the water until my muscles relax completely and my skin is all wrinkled up. I even shave. When I get out, I dress for comfort—wool socks, flannel pajama pants, and an old Denison sweatshirt of my dad’s. The box is gone, along with all of Jamie’s presents, and I follow the sound of laughter to the kitchen, where Landon and my mom are putting together plates of food. I sit on a stool at the counter.

Mom winks at me. “Good to see you’ve rejoined the living.”

“Nursing a broken heart takes time,” Landon says.

Mom hums. “Yes, but even the most heartbroken of all of us need to eat on occasion. And shower.”

Landon snorts at my mom and shoves a plate across the counter for me. It’s my favorite—chunky peanut butter and homemade strawberry jam, with the crusts cut off like I loved when I was a kid. I’m almost positive it was my mother who cut the crusts off, but if it was Landon I wouldn’t have been surprised. There’s a healthy dose of potato chips and sliced apples on my plate too, sprinkled with salt, and I truly do feel like a kid again. A kid who needs someone to take care of him and cut off his crusts. But it feels wonderful, not insulting, and warmth spreads through me, taking away the chill that’s been settled in my bones for days.

“I seem to remember seeing something about a Star Trek marathon on the sci-fi network,” I say casually, and accept the glass of milk my mom hands to me. I catch Landon’s eye. “If you’d like to watch that, I could go for it. But I know you hate Star Trek, so it’s okay if you don’t.”

“I don’t hate it, I just don’t worship it like you do.”

“It is completely deserving of worship, I’ll have you know,” I argue around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Whole languages were invented because of that show.”

“Oh yeah, and I’m sure Klingon is extremely useful in the real world.”

“We both study a dead language and you want to argue with me about usefulness?”

“Touché.” Landon swipes a chip off my plate, even though there’s still a pile on his, just to feel like he’s winning something, I’m sure. “Star Trek it is. Anything is better than Sixteen Candles for the millionth time.”

“We can watch Labyrinth after,” I offer. “And maybe The NeverEnding Story.”

“Ha! We’d need a full week of my favorites just to make it even.”

I nod and then say, with as much gratefulness and pride-swallowing as I can muster, “Then consider it a thank-you.”

Landon, to my surprise, flushes and glances at my mother for a second before shrugging it off. Then he says simply, “I’m sorry he hurt you, Sam.”

I don’t miss the quick hug my mother gives to Landon before we make our way back to my room. I don’t miss her whispering her own words of thanks into his ear either. On any other day, I might be upset that they’ve obviously been talking about me and planning things behind my back, but today I’m just grateful.

Two hours later, while Commander Riker and Deanna Troi are having one of their exciting moments of sexual tension, Landon lies down beside me, his head in my lap, and for a second it feels like we’re back in freshman year, hanging out like we used to do. Together. I comb through his hair with my fingers, smiling when he keens like a cat against me.

Who needs love, anyway? I ask myself. Maybe it’s much better to have friends who think the world of you, enough to conspire with your mother when things are going wrong and to sit with your stinky self when you’re sad and cut the crusts off your sandwiches. Maybe especially friends who don’t mind a little snuggling when there’s a boring TV marathon on.

Maybe not having a boyfriend won’t be so bad at all.

Sometime in the middle of the night, my dad wakes me with a gentle nudge. I sit up, squinting at him in the weak light. “Dad?”

“Hey. Do you have a minute?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Dad,” I say. That’s my father, odd as can be and socially awkward to boot. “So no. No plans right now.”

“Good. Follow me.”

I get out of bed with a stretch and a yawn and follow him to the other side of the house, where his office, a converted sunroom with just enough space for his antique desk, is brightly lit by a couple of lamps. It’s a mess in here. Several boxes are piled on the floor, filled with manuscripts new and old, and the single bookcase is piled with books instead of neatly arranged, and there are so many that the shelves are bowed. He uses a few of his literary awards as paperweights, keeping some of the piles of loose papers on his desk in control. I notice he’s been smoking, which I hate because (a) cancer, and (b) that means he’s feeling really stuck if he’s resorted to smoking. There are several butts in the ashtray, one still lit and resting carelessly among the others.

As Dad sits behind his desk and starts riffling through the mess, I try to make conversation. “So how was New York this time?”

“Hmm?” He pushes the ashtray aside. “Oh. It was tolerable, I guess. Lots of meetings when I should have been writing instead, but a decent bagel and schmear selection.”

This is why my father is so good at what he does. Writing is all he wants to do, even with the distraction of a decent bagel.

“Here!” he proclaims, producing familiar pages from the bottom of one of his piles. “Your samples for applications. I took a red pen to them, but really, they don’t need much.”

I take the pages he hands to me and look them over, incredulous. There are some editing marks, a few sentences crossed out or circled here and there, but nothing major.

“Really? You don’t think so?”

Dad pulls at his hair, which is curly like mine but longer, grayer, and slightly thinner, which means it looks a bit like Einstein’s. Which maybe isn’t a compliment.

“No, they’re quite good as is. If you don’t mind me saying so,” he begins, and I nod my permission, “the one about the musician is your best. I would advise you to send that one.”

“Thanks. Jamie really liked that one too.”

Dad bites at a hangnail. “I’m sorry to hear he’s not around anymore. Your mother said he was a lovely person.”

“It’s my own fault,” I say.

“All the same,” Dad says. “I’m sorry that you’re hurting, Sam. I know it’s not your first breakup, but it never gets any easier. And I’m sorry I wasn’t around for it.”

I don’t know why but my father’s one simple apology lifts a ton of weight off me.

“You really like my samples? I mean, they’re just stories.”

“Everything is just a story, Samson. It’s the way you tell it that makes it worth telling.” He smiles at me, revealing perfectly straight teeth that are just a little too big for his mouth. Another thing we have in common. “I wrote a book about a man who rides the subway all day long. Nothing happens in it, at all. But people love it because of the telling. And you, my son, are great at telling. You have a style that is very uniquely yours, and I’m so proud of that. I’ve been so afraid that you would follow my path instead of your own, but it’s clear to me, you’ve found your own way.”

There must be something in my eye because my view is suddenly all watery. Damn it.

“I hope NYU agrees with you.”

“If they don’t, they’re wrong.” My dad’s toothy grin flashes again. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

As if to prove it, he pulls out the cigarette butt, long ago burnt out and all ash, and looks absolutely bewildered that it’s not lit anymore.

“I didn’t mind,” I say. “You should get some rest, though. Take a break. It’s Christmas.”

He nods. “I will after this scene,” he says, which roughly translates into “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” for my dad.

I leave him bent over his manuscript, squinting at his words like they’re completely foreign to him. When I get to my room, I take one more look at his edits to my work before putting them underneath my bed for safekeeping.

Merry Christmas to me.

When I wake again it isn’t Landon by my side, or even my mother. It’s Meg.

“Merry Christmas.”

I sit up immediately so that I can hug her. She hugs back and clings to me, her soft hair against my face.

“I’m such a jerk,” I say.

“I’m the jerk. I shouldn’t have brought up Landon. I know it’s a sore spot.”

“No, I was being a hypocrite and an idiot and—”

“You were being a good friend,” she interjects, and draws back to smile at me. “Other than calling me a bitch.”

I wince. “Yeah, that was definitely a jerk move.”

She makes a pffft sound. “I’ve been called worse.”

Meg leans over and takes a plate off of my bedside table. It’s piled high with my mom’s chocolate chip cookies, and she holds it in front of my face. I take one. “Your mom’s on a baking tear so I’m staying all day.”

I laugh. “But it’s Christmas. Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

“Nah. I’m all churched out and my parents didn’t feel like arguing in front of the family.” She inspects the pile of cookies for the one with the most chips, and takes one from the bottom. “Besides, I think I filled my quota of family time Friday night. I helped Mom dust off all her saint figurines. That’s a few hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

“Friday night, huh?”

“Yeah,” Meg says, spraying some crumbs on my bed. I couldn’t care less. “I’m a wild one, I know.”

“I just thought you had plans with Michael.”

“I did, but then you and I fought and I was worried about you and whatever. I can lose my virginity after prom, like everyone else.” I study her, and she shrinks a little under my stare. “Okay. I don’t think I’m ready, all right? And get this. My mom actually lectured me about waiting for marriage while we were cleaning, as if she could read my freaking mind. And it was all creepy and Catholic-y but she said a few things that made sense too. And so did you, so . . . I guess I’m keeping this virginity thing for a while.”

I smile, proud and relieved. “And Michael? Is he okay with that?”

She beams. “He said he’d wait forever if he had to because I’m worth it.”

I’m relieved to hear that, and it’s kind of sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Maybe Michael’s not a completely horrible person.

“So . . .” Meg takes another cookie because the first one has mysteriously disappeared. “What do you want to do today? And the answer is not ‘Sit around moping in my PJs.’ Not at Yuletide, sir. The God is reborn and we need to celebrate.”

The God is reborn. I have no idea what that means. Jesus was born on Christmas, sure, but just the once, and that’s not Wiccan anyway. Whatever. Meg’s here, we’re not fighting, she didn’t have sex with Michael, and it feels great to smile.

“How about you help me undo the spell and then we open presents?”

She freezes midchew. “What? You can’t undo the spell.”

“Why not?”

She opens her mouth to say something, shuts it, then opens it again. “Because I don’t know how.”

I smack my forehead with my palm.

“What?” Meg asks, chewing again. “I’m new at this. I mean, I can look it up in my books, but do you really want to undo it? The Goddess might have the best saved for last.”

I give Meg a wry look. “Gee, it’s worked out so well with Gus and Travis and Jamie, I just can’t wait to see what’s next.” Meg rolls her eyes at me but I ignore it. “Besides, I’m on a break. No more guys for a while. I need to fix my list before I date anyone again. At least.”

“Fix your list? What’s wrong with it?”

I take the plate of cookies away from her because she’s about to eat another, and I know she’ll regret it. “I’ve just been thinking that maybe I wasn’t in the best state of mind when I made it, so maybe I put a few things on there that shouldn’t be on there.”

“You mean since you were completely desperate and pathetic?”

I glare. “I mean since I was kind of shallow. Like, maybe instead of putting down Thick hair I should have put down something a little more substantial. That’s all I’m saying.”

Meg nods, leaning closer to me, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Okay, I like it. Go on.”

“Like Gus. He wasn’t faithful. I mean to me, but not to his stupid French boyfriend either. So maybe—”

“Maybe all these guys are the Goddess’s way of teaching you something!” Meg concludes, and she’s got the spirit if not the concept.

I run with it. “Yeah. Like now I know that I want someone faithful, and someone dependable, and someone who isn’t going to give up if I screw up once.”

Meg sticks out her bottom lip. “Maybe Jamie will get over it and ask you back out.”

“I hope so,” I say, and my chest tightens because it’s so true. I can proclaim I want a break all I want, but if Jamie wanted me back I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d go straight back to him, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I look at Meg hopefully. “So you’ll help? Maybe if I rewrite the list—”

“Nope. It won’t change the spell. But it’s working anyway, don’t you think? Just not in the way you’d planned. Trust Her. Figure out your new list, take a break, then boom! She’s going to hit you with Mr. Right. The Perfect Ten. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it, Sam? The Lady of the Moon is working.”

I have to admit, Meg’s faith in this is kind of endearing. Not just her trust in a goddess she’s never seen, but her trust that things are going to work out for me. So I don’t roll my eyes like usual at her Goddess talk. Instead I reach out and tug a lock of her strawberry-blonde hair like I used to do when we were kids, when I wanted to get her attention or wanted to make her smile.

“Thanks, Meghan Grace.”

Maybe I’m so sentimental because we fought, or maybe it’s because it’s Christmas, but when I thank her, I’m thanking her for just about everything she’s ever done. It’s so sappy and nauseating, but I mean it.

I think she gets that, because she leans forward and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I love you, Sam.”

“Love you too.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I hope that means you got me that spell book I wanted for Christmas.”

“Spell book? I thought you wanted The History and Dogma of the Catholic Church, volumes one through ten. Crap. I hope I still have the receipt . . .” She sticks her tongue out at me but she’s already up and skipping off toward the Christmas tree, where her present waits.

I follow slowly, and get into the living room just as she’s tearing off the wrapping paper from her spell book. She lets out a squeal of excitement before digging under the tree to find her present to me, which she hands to me with an order to open right this very minute because I’m going to die when I see what’s inside.

But what’s inside doesn’t really matter to me. I have her, and Landon, and even though my heart is broken, it’s going to be a pretty good Christmas.