I wake up facing a blanket of white beyond the open curtains. There’s not a chance of getting out of Chicago today.

Beside me, Amy’s asleep. She has a gray t-shirt on now, its frayed tag turned up over the back of her neck.

I thought she’d be gone by now.

She could have left. I mean, it’s one thing to crash down in the nearest bed after having a few too many—that happens all the time. But to wake up in the middle of the night, change shirts, and lie back down alongside someone else? There has to some level of comfort there, right?

Maybe my expectations are too high. Chances are she was still three-sheets when she woke and simply boomeranged her way back to the bed as soon as she was out of the dress. Either way, there’s something very reassuring about that t-shirt.

I take a second peek outside. It’s still a white out. There will be plenty of time today for rescheduling flights, Christmas should come first.

Sliding out of bed as quietly as I can, I pull off the extra pillow case and start to rummage the room for any sort of bounty I can find: Designer shampoo and spa soap, two single serve bottles of Jack and Vishnevsky from the minibar, bags of Doritos and cashews, a room service menu, as well as a copy of the hotel’s complimentary travel magazine, Front Doors. On the desk is a postcard with Chicago’s skyline pictured on the front side and The Frohman’s letterhead printed on the back. Underneath, I write in quotations, “Where all your dreams come true.” Hopefully she still remembers the song.

It’s not until I place the pillowcase next to her suitcase and it crumples like a sack of laundry that I realize just how stupid of an idea this is. But it’s too late to go back and undo it all. If she wakes up, she’ll think I’d been stashing hotel items so I decide to roll with it. To help explain, I take the notepad from the desk and add a message, “Thanks for sharing your Christmas with me – James.”

Afterwards, I throw the pad and pen in to help bulk the stocking and place the whole bundle next to her bedside table with the note above it.

Standing still for the first time, my stomach starts to curdle like it had done the day before. I take another look back at the igloo-like bulge that is Amy. She might as well be comatose underneath. If I can pull off breakfast in bed, she might manage to forgive me for the sad Santa sack.

I change quickly in the bathroom to keep the noise down. Before leaving, I check the bulge one last time to confirm that she’s still hibernating, she is, and exit without so much as a click.

Downstairs, the lobby is drowning in Christmas spirit. I feel like a faithless hobo stumbling through a winter catalogue in my sweatshirt and jeans while even the children run around dressed to the nines in their latest designer sweaters, dresses, and Baby Gap sport coats.

Reaching the dining room, any hope I’d had for grabbing a quick takeout is crushed by the holiday brunch being held, complete with a live Santa and two elves. I know I could probably sneak in, but the combination of the post-presents obstacle course along with Santa’s line, fifty deep and fully encircling the buffet table, makes me nervous.

To save myself, I U-turn for The Green Room where packs of older guests have congregated to spread their children-free cheer with rounds upon rounds of mimosas.

“Do you serve any sort of breakfast?” I ask the bartender.

“I’ve got celery for the Bloody Mary’s but that’s about it. Better try the buffet.”

For a second I consider a liquid brunch but my stomach won’t have it. It will have to be the buffet or nothing.

Returning to the entrance of the dining room, I reassess the situation. I can do this. For starters, there’s absolutely no one keeping tabs on who’s actually part of the brunch or not. As for the obstacle course, it’s nothing a few athletic jukes can’t handle.

I start my dash. In and around giant twelve person tables adorned with poinsettias, over opened boxes and piles of wrapping paper, circumventing strollers and wheelchairs, on through the swaying Santa line, and all the way to the golden buffet, stopping safely behind a Barbie doll mother and her two children.

The two children are nearly the same age, with the girl having the slight height advantage over her brother. Making use of it, the second I arrive, she socks him in the shoulder when he tries to touch the flower that’s sewn to her dress.

Naturally, he starts to cry. When the mother chastises the girl, she starts to cry, too. Within seconds, the chain reaction hits Santa’s line—kids, babies, parents, and probably even one of the elves all start to bawl, yell, and squeal aloud, piercing the air from this dining room on up to Amy’s cocoon I’m sure.

This is what I’d been nervous for, and now, only adding gravity to the situation, I notice there’s a baby lying on a lettuce-lined serving dish like a Cabbage Patch Kid while its mother plucks at a shrimp platter from ten feet away. With every other being in the room now screaming on the inside or out, the Cabbage Patch baby starts to screech with laughter.

“I’ll be at the bar, Maude,” groans a grandfather behind me.

“Talk about crybabies,” Maude says over my shoulder. I rotate my head to the sight of a five inch Band-aid clenched to her transparent cheek. I feign a laugh and turn back.

Between the choruses of screaming, a demonic baby, and Maude’s bandage, it’s almost too much. I look further down the table to see what nourishment might save me. There’s an open dish with two final servings of eggs in it. Of course, the boy and the girl, now moist around the eyes with snot dribbling down their chins, are each trying to peek over the rim of the dish to see what’s inside it.

“Those are eggs,” their mother explains.

“Ewww,” protests the girl. Check one.

“I want eggs!” Yelps the boy. My heart pulses as his mother begins to scoop. Once. Twice. Please not a third time.

Thank God, no, as she drops the spoon, leaving enough for me. Definitely enough if her son would just step forward.

“I want eggs!” He screams again, not stepping forward.

“Blaine, look, I got them for you,” she pleads, lowering the plate down for him to see.

“I want eggs!” Now Blaine’s pointing towards the serving dish with both hands up. Noticing that each of his mother’s hands are full, my clairvoyant stomach knots itself.

He jumps up to grab the tip of the dish’s handle and yanks it straight down, causing the dish, the spoon, and the serving-and-a-half of eggs to all collapse on top of him.

Release the cries.

With the morsel of a conscience I have left, I bend down to make sure Blaine’s okay. The tray had missed him, almost completely, but he’s draped from head to toe in my eggs. I should be the one to be howling.

While his mother starts to pout over his stained jacket, I bolt around them. Lined in a row beside the now empty tray space, there’s bacon, french toast, and mini-waffles. I dump bits of each onto my plate and fill up the biggest glass I can find with orange juice. Running for the exit, I’m sure there are plenty of bystanders who will have much to say about the scruffy young man who blitzed past that unfortunate accident, but I’m in no mood to satisfy their displeasure. I have the treasure in hand and my princess awaits.

Upstairs, I don’t want to risk waking Amy so I set the plate and glass on the floor before swiping in. Click, a gentle twist of the handle, a backwards entrance, and bend down for the goods. A few small shuffles, a half-turn around the red suitcase, lay it all carefully on the dresser, say bonjour mademoiselle, and…she’s gone.

Beside the bed, the stuffed pillow is right where I’d left it. I look around for another note, check my phone for a message, but there aren’t any. Her only trace is the red suitcase left behind.

Maybe she went to find me. I send her a text, “Where’d you go?”

No response.

Twenty minutes and a plate of breakfast later, I accept that there won’t be.

As much as I want to go running after her, it’s getting late and I know that if I don’t start rebooking now I’ll be one of those stranded passengers left at O’Hare. I dial out and try to embrace the perma-hold.

To the tune of Bing Crosby, I unpack the pillowcase—sending soaps to the bathroom, drinks to the fridge, and the copy of Front Doors to the desk. At one point I sit on the windowsill, looking down in hopes of spotting Amy, but it’s of no use. She’s well gone by now. All that remains are a few cabs braving the brown slush of the street and a band of hotel employees clearing the sidewalk with silver shovels. This is Christmas in Chicago.

Returning to the bed, I can’t help but face Amy’s suitcase which seems to be staring at me like a single giant red eye from five feet away.

If she’s gone, what on Earth is it still doing here? If she’s not gone, why would she have left it?

I step towards it but then back off, as if Amy might jump from some hidden space if I go near it. It’s not that I have any desire to see what’s in it, I just want to know that it’s real and not some pulsing mirage or decoy.

Finding the nerves, I start to lift it. It’s heavy. It’s real. She’d packed it and all. I look for tags but there are none, just a yellow polka dot ribbon on the handle to differentiate it. Outside of opening the suitcase and searching for an address, there’d be no chance of returning it to her. I won’t go there, though. She’ll have to come back for it. She will come back.

“Thank you for holding, this is Walter speaking, how can I help?”

Bring Amy back, I think.

But that’s no use. “Hi, I was supposed to fly out today,” I begin. Fifteen minutes later, I’m booked for tomorrow’s flight, with another complimentary night at The Frohman in between.

She has a day, at least.

In the meantime, I know I have to get out of this room, do something besides wallow the hours away in disappointment. With the entire afternoon available, I remember the one bit of sightseeing I’d always promised myself I’d cross off if I ever made it to Chicago. I run back to the window—blizzard conditions and likely freezing as hell—as good a time as any to visit Wrigley.

I bundle up as best as I’m able with what I have—a couple extra undershirts and the business shirt I wore two days ago to wear beneath my sweatshirt. For Amy, I leave a small note on the room service card that hangs on the door, “Amy—will be back.”

Outside the hotel, I pick up a cab and the driver takes me back north along the mushy Lake Shore Drive. I ask him if a lot of people ask to visit Wrigley in the winter but he doesn’t respond. Left to my own thoughts, I turn my attention to the barren lake where fresh snow glows on the small patches of ice. There’s no sign of the yacht from the other day.

Suddenly, the driver catches an exit and begins to weave his way through a neighborhood of three story row homes. Feeling like we’re getting close, I start to think about how cool it would be to live within a walking distance of the ballpark—to be able to grill on a porch right through batting practice and still be able to make the first pitch. Then, after the game, to be able to march home and fire up the grill all over again.

As soon as the stadium’s white lights arch into view a moment later, my desire turns into outright envy. This might as well be baseball heaven.

I ask to be dropped off alongside the overhanging outfield bleachers which rise only thirty feet above the sidewalk. Further down N. Sheffield, the classic green centerfield scoreboard towers into open sight with its mast-like flagpole rising above. Meanwhile, lined in a row across the street are the converted apartment buildings I’d always heard about. It used to be just lawn chairs on roofs, I remember my Dad saying, but now most of them look like revamped club suites with professional grade bleachers on top. Turning around, I bypass the sidewalk and trek down the tire-tracked center of W. Addison, towards the main gate where I’m finally able to take my own picture of Wrigley’s famous red marquee.

Three summers ago, my Dad and I were supposed to have seen the Dodgers play the Cubs here. He’d been a lifelong Cubs fan and when he realized I’d never actually been to Wrigley, he told me to drop all my plans, we would catch the very next home stand. Of course, in the hard-luck tradition of all Cubs fans, fate intervened when his Aunt Patsy, a diehard White Sox fan, passed away two days later and her funeral was scheduled for the same Saturday as our game. “I bet she planned it,” I remember my Dad quipped.

We never made it back.

He was born in 1958 which meant, as he put it, he’d been blessed to have only witnessed half the losing streak as opposed to the entire hundred years. In comparison, I’d seen my Yankees win four titles before I’d finished middle school. Not to make light of any of those, but I’d always had a sense that winning a championship held a different mystique for him.

As a result, later that fall, in the middle of a World Series that neither of us had a rooting interest in, I asked him about it, what the Cubs winning the World Series would mean to him.

At first, he wasn’t sure. “It’s hard to always know what something might feel like before you’ve experienced it,” I remember him saying. A few nights later, watching the Phillies celebrate, he found his answer.

“Do you realize,” he said, “in my lifetime, I’ve probably listened to or watched over two thousand games. Now there’s some that I’ve definitely cared about more than others and even a specific few that, don’t tell your mother this, I remember more clearly than our wedding day. But what I don’t think you really grasp until you take the time to look back is just how much it becomes a part of you.

“Maybe you’re not there yet, but really, how many things in your life can you look back on and say you’ve committed that much time to? Literally, three waking hours nearly two thousand separate times? Outside of work and caring for you all, I can’t think of any.

“So then you break that down again. Two thousand games. How many of those were games I got to go to at Wrigley with my Dad and then later being able to take you to at Yankee Stadium? How many games at bars with friends in college or games I took your mom to on dates? Going even further back, try adding every game my brother and I listened to on the radio during our summers up on Green Lake.

“Then you count the actual playing—all the practices and all the backyard catches. That’s how I found out you were right handed by the way. I kept trying to give you the ball in your left hand and every time you’d both flip it straight over to your right like it was nothing. But I guess the point is, is that you spend enough of your life around one activity, and before you know it, it sews its way into enough memories that your history and baseball’s become the same.

“I remember my own mother used to always ask us why it mattered so much when we’d be watching the Cubs instead of doing work or something. ‘But you’re not on the Cubs,’ she’d say. ‘You won’t get a trophy, you won’t get a ring. So why’s it matter?’ Well I think the answer is right there on those players’ faces. I think for some of them, they realize it’s a special chance to look back and celebrate the lifetime that brought them here. Celebrate the fact that, for once, the dream came true.

“So when you ask what a championship might mean to me, and this is what she never understood, I think it’d be more like a validation of the role it’s played in my life. The chance to see the entire spectrum of baseball played out in front of me at once—from first playing the game and holding a baseball to eventually witnessing the game mastered by the team I’ve associated myself with for all my life—the Cubs. Not that I necessarily need it, but maybe a championship would stamp all those memories for me and tell me they meant that much more.”

My Dad never got to see them win. Standing outside of the old stadium I wished we had made new plans to go back. No, the Cubs weren’t his life, but like he said, they were a major part. And even if he never got his validation, maybe my being here somehow affirms it all in a different way. It’s hard to say. One day they will win and my Dad will be watching. That I know.

Thinking of Julie again, I realize I had yet to call her back. It’s quiet beside the stadium so I dial her from beneath the great red sign.

“James?” Answers a male voice. I check my phone again—I had dialed Julie.

“Yes?”

“It’s Matt.”

“Hey Matt.”

“Julie’s upstairs. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Are you still in Chicago?”

“Yea. Standing outside of Wrigley, actually.”

“Why?”

“Had to see it.”

“So you’re not going to make it back today?”

“Tomorrow, hopefully.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yea, nothing’s going out today.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” I reply, starting to feel guilty. “Thanks for the Knicks offer, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it. Sorry we couldn’t go.”

“You taking Julie?”

“No. I gave the tickets away. She wouldn’t have cared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about the Knicks. They’ll be fine. But listen, James, real quick, while I got you on the phone here, and be honest with me, what are you doing out there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know how you’re stuck and all, and I’m sure you’re having a good time, but seriously, at some point it’s got to end. You need to find a way home.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Julie needs you here.”

“Is she all right?”

“James, I’m telling you, she’s fine, but you know it’s the holidays and she misses you. She’s looked forward to this, having us all together. It’s all she’s talked about for the last three weeks. And I know you can’t control the weather and that was a nice thing you did the other day, but please, if that plane takes off tomorrow, make sure you’re on it.”

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

“Don’t be sorry, James, just be on that flight.”

“I will.”

“Okay. And I’m sorry to be a hard-ass on you but I had to say it.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem. You enjoying yourself out there at least?”

“Yea.”

“Good. Good for you. Well keep doing that, get drunk or something tonight, and we’ll see you tomorrow. I gotta hop, though, she has me making rolls here and I’ve got dough on me.”

“Oh God.”

“Exactly. I’ll see you tomorrow, James,” he finishes, hanging up.

Julie needs me, I think to myself, the words cycling over like some completely obvious statement that all the same feels like a guilt-laden revelation.

Maybe it was playing the part of being oldest, but after the crash, Julie went ahead and assumed most of the responsibilities of the family. Whenever I tried to help, she told me, no, that she would take care of it, that I shouldn’t have to worry.

As a result, the best way I thought I could help her was by removing myself as much as possible. The more independent I became, the less of a burden I’d be on her. That way she could go back to living her own life again. What I never realized is that I may have removed myself too much. This whole time, my only job has been to be there for her. And I haven’t been.

I’m also slightly shocked it was Matt that called me out on it. We’ve never been all that close. Julie had gotten him to marry quickly last year and I think it only compounded his anxiety when he had to go from my sister’s boyfriend to a pseudo-father figure nearly overnight. Until now, it seemed like our entire relationship was based on icebreakers. Now maybe we’ll talk for once.

I know one thing I’d always meant to tell him was that all he needs to do to impress me is keep Julie happy. After that phone call, it’s a conversation I’m not sure I’ll need to have.

Behind me, Wrigley sits dormant, asleep for another winter, waiting for another spring. Nearly a hundred times now it’s repeated the cycle, for how many different generations, looking forward to that first spring day when its gates can open to a new set of fathers who will pass through its turnstiles with sons or daughters in tow, pointing out across the field to where the ivy grows.

While my Mom had kept her nautical sanctuary to herself, Dad had made no secret that this had been his. One of these summer days, I’ll come back, when Wrigley’s open and basking in all of its in-season glory. I’ll let that be the validation, when I’ve sat in the bleachers amongst the white and blue faithful and witnessed a full nine inning procession of the game and team that meant so much to him.

Until then, there’s only making it through another off-season’s winter.

On the opposite block, a few bars are still open. Outside of Harry Caray’s, a cab sits in idle. I make a run for it and request The Frohman again.

• • •

At the hotel, I sideswipe the lobby in order to check in on The Green Room. Roger never told me if he had a family or not, but with it being Christmas, I don’t want to leave it to chance.

It’s busier than it had been this morning, with older guests filling most of the tables, likely having returned from one celebration and preparing for the next. In the corner, there’s a ten foot table of hors d’oeurves set up—where had that been earlier?

“Can I help you find someone?” Asks the manager as he walks towards me.

“I was in here the other night and there was an older man here. He introduced himself and to be honest with you, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t by himself again tonight.”

“What’d he look like, pretty big?”

“Yea.”

“Boomerang for a nose, maybe you happened to catch the duck-shaped birthmark on his neck?”

“I missed the birthmark.”

“Believe me, it’s a doozy. Roger tell you any stories?”

“Yea, one.”

“Just one, huh? He’s a regular all right. Tonight, though, you’ll be happy to hear he has family out in Peoria that he’s spending Christmas with. I’ll get to hear all about it next week, I’m sure.”

“That’s good to know. I was a little worried he’d be here every night.”

“No, no. Thursday nights are his thing. You said you were here two nights ago, right?”

“Yea.”

“That would be it then. Until she passed, he and his wife Leigh would try to make weekend trips to the city and they’d stop by here every so often. Then once Leigh did pass, he said he felt like a burden on the kids so he moved back to the city full time where he wouldn’t need a car. Moves pretty well for eighty, right?”

“Eighty?”

“That’s right. He’s quite an institution. We have a couple of them, regulars, but none go so far back as Roger. To tell you the truth, this place belongs to him as much as anyone. I can show you if you have a minute.”

“Sure.”

“Great, come with me.”

The manager leads me to the back corner of the room where, hidden behind a six foot median, two wooden booths sit alone. Inside of each, the walls are covered with framed pictures and clippings that act as a literal shrine to The Green Room that was.

“This entire side used to be booths but they cleared most of them out in the seventies to make room for events. Since these two were in the corner and had the most history, they survived.”

“The Originals?” I ask, pointing towards an engraved placard at the end of the corner table.

“That’s right. Glenn Maris, Wilson Page, Mike Summers, and Duke Baldinger. That was their table. But take a seat here, this is the one I wanted to show you,” he says, sliding into the nearer booth, marked on the end by a much larger placard declaring “The New Originals.”

“Some of these date back to the forties,” he explains of the pictures. In every one, the bar is packed to a tilt, just as Roger had described. “Up here you actually got Benjamin Frohman who never drank, Hank Sauer over here, Bette Davis on the other side, and finally, if you look right over your shoulder, to the left of the Mayor Daley article, take a close look at the one with the five young guys all laughing.”

In the photo, five men in their late twenties, each dressed alike in gray suits, white shirts, and thin dark ties, stand together for a pose while a prankster friend dives in towards the center to mess it all up.

“Look, second from the right,” the manager points.

I count two over. The eyes wide apart and even then the nose was a butcher’s job. Better yet, creeping just above a tight collar is the nearly perfect silhouette of a duck’s head, bill and all.

“He won’t come back here,” the manager continues.

“Why not?” I ask, admiring how extraordinarily happy everyone looks.

“It can be a painful thing to realize your time has passed. Not to say that life’s easy for us, but we’ve got the benefit of being right in the thick of it. Things happen, good and bad, but we always have that chance to react and impact some sense of difference in the flow of things, right? We’re involved.

“On the other end, try to imagine yourself as someone that used to mean something. That people used to recognize you, or used to admire you. Hell, to a certain extent, it may not even be the worst thing if people loathe you. It means you’re a part of something.

“When you fall out of that loop, there’s a lot less to be excited about. Eventually, I suppose you realize the point comes where more and more begins to happen to you than you’re able to do outwardly. Friends and loved ones pass, you can’t change that. Your own body deteriorates, you can try to slow that down, but momentum has its course. And from a production standpoint, you’ve produced most of what you can. So there’s Roger, at the end, thinking he’s had his opportunity. He’s no longer the shaper of the world.”

As he talks, my hand scratches another small placard on the inside of the table. “Tops Hutchins,” it reads. I look to the left at where “Nick Fryer” once sat.

“Then why come here at all?” I ask.

“This allows him to relive it, allows all those memories to pour right back. It’s different for sure, but he’ll tell you that he still feels it well enough—in the fabric of the chairs, the dry scotch in his throat, and hopefully anytime he finds someone like you to listen. Sometimes when you can’t live it fresh, retelling it can be the next best thing.”

“But still, why won’t he at least look at the pictures?”

“These are photos from the grave for him. They’re too detailed, he looks too young. Close your eyes and imagine being that age, that’s one thing. See it right in front of you, though, how young you really were, that’s when the great divide really hits you. Roger sees these and he worries that his time has passed and all it adds up to is a half-dozen portraits for another generation to look at and compare if they’re having more fun than he had. Memory just paints with a softer brush.”

“Then why leave them up?” I ask, edging the nametag and starting to wonder if it’s possible that seventy years from now someone could scratch a James Haskins tag just as well and wonder who or why.

“I guess that’s the paradox. Do you kill a man slowly by showing him his age or do you wipe him clear off the map of history? Just because he can’t look doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it here.

“This is his evidence. If someone ever doubts him or if he ever even begins to doubt himself, he can just point back this way. This is the proof that he was here.”

“Hey Dennis,” interrupts a waiter.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got this guy in the yellow sweater over here—his wife just came down, saying he’s on four different types of meds—anyway, he just grabbed Sara’s ass and keeps calling her Wendy. Might need your help.”

“Thanks Brian,” the manager groans before turning back to me. “Should I tell Roger you stopped by?”

“If you think he’ll appreciate it.”

“Course he will. ‘Another old friend,’ he’ll tell me.”

“Thanks for showing me this.”

“Thank you for listening. Be sure to come back soon, alright,” he says, turning towards the commotion. The man in the yellow sweater has his hands bolted to the chair’s armrests like he’s expecting someone to pull him out. Across from him, his orange-permed wife wraps her own two hands around a cosmo, shaking her head saying, “I keep telling him he shouldn’t be drinking.”

I leave The Green Room and walk back towards the lobby which has turned into an impulsive party. Husbands and wives all group together in little cliques, jutting their chins in the air with laughter at every joke while their children all run amok, playing with and showing off whatever the toy had been. IPads and American Girl dolls are popular. By the tree, two boys duel their brand new remote control cars, weaving a large race track around sofa chairs and tables. Meanwhile, between shimmering chandeliers, a massive styrofoam glider takes flight.

In no hurry to hide upstairs, I find an open chair in the middle of the room. Across from me, a father and his infant son nap together in a single chair, their faint snores echoing in tandem towards the ceiling. Beyond them, flashes blaze as a twenty-member family poses and reposes again for every pictorial combination—first the grandchildren, then their parents. Next, both groups together, followed by sons and daughters-in-laws, until at very last, the grandparents, placed in the center of their genealogical tree, proudly smile in the wrong direction until they’re politely reminded of who “Uncle Doug with the camera” is.

“Hi,” I hear suddenly from beside me, followed by a gentle tap. When I look over, there’s a small, blonde girl standing with an equally blonde doll squeezed to her face.

“Hello,” I respond.

“This is Sophie,” she says. “I got her for Cwifftmas.”

“Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

“What did you get?” She asks.

“I haven’t gotten a present yet.”

“Why not?”

“I think Santa’s waiting for me to get back home.”

“Oh,” she says solemnly, as if it were borderline tragic that I had yet to receive a present. Fortunately, her sadness is only temporary and seconds later she wishes me a sparkling “Merry Cwifftmas!” before she scampers back into the frenzy as quickly as she came.

Left with no other conversations, I reach for my cell phone to see if anyone might have messaged me for the holiday. No one has, but there is a missed call from a “212” number. I start to run through the possibilities but none come to mind—Liz is actually in New York but wouldn’t call from another number, Julie and Matt wouldn’t be at work, and any other friends I can think of would have just texted me. Rather than being left guessing, I hit send.

“Hello?” I ask when an older voice answers.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Frank Healey.”

“How are you, Frank?” I respond uneasily while keeping my voice low for the father and son.

“Good, James. How are you?”

“Not bad,” I answer, wondering if he’d heard about the meeting.

“I heard about what happened in Strafford’s office. Didn’t go well, did it?”

“No, not very.”

“Sure didn’t,” he repeats. Can I be fired over the phone? Is that possible?

“I’m sorry Frank.”

“What’s that? Speak up there, James, it’s a bit noisy. Are you in a bar?”

“No. I’m sorry, I said,” nearly shouting.

“Sorry?” Frank responds. “What for?”

“For going in by myself. Not calling in. For making the firm look bad.”

“James,” he cuts in sternly. Here it comes, I think. My verbal pink slip.

“Yes?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“What’s that?”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” I manage to gasp. “For what?”

“For sticking through it. A lot of kids your age would have buckled and cancelled rather than go toe to toe with Strafford in that situation. That took some guts.”

“Did he call you?”

“Yes, he called, and I spoke to him, and I’m going to make sure we take good care of him. But you shouldn’t spend another minute worrying. What happened was on us, not on you. Strafford knows that. He actually asked about you, believe it or not. He told me he gave it to you pretty good.”

“Yea.”

“Were you nervous?”

“A little bit.”

“Ha. I’ll bet you were. He can be a scary S.O.B, that’s for sure. But I’ll tell you, though, they don’t teach you how to get chewed out like that in school do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Well it’s probably a good thing to experience early. Shouldn’t have happened but truth is you never can see a good lashing coming unless you deserve it. Don’t let it get to you, James.”

“I won’t.”

“Good man,” he starts to say with a chuckle that all of a sudden turns into a full blown bellyaching laugh from the other end of the line.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, regaining his composure. “One more thing I gotta ask you, though. Did Strafford really call you a cub scout?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! You must have soiled yourself! I’m sorry James. I don’t mean to laugh. Maybe that’ll help explain to you why we had Deacon covering Strafford all this time. We needed an even bigger ass to handle him. I just didn’t expect Deacon to go AWOL on me.”

“Did he tell you he was leaving?”

“He sure did. Waited ‘til after he got to Chicago to do it, but he did. I should be apologizing to you, really. The call should have been made, but I guess we figured Deacon would at least have had the sense to fill you in.”

“I guess not.”

“Well, on all our behalves, allow me to apologize.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. But let me tell you something, James. You’re doing a good job. You work hard and it shows you care. That’s all I ever ask for.”

“Thank you Frank, I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. You’re earning it. No need to worry. Now in the meantime, though, have you got a good Christmas planned?”

“Just trying to get home first.”

“Hold on a second, you’re not even back yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good Lord. Are you okay?”

“Doing great, actually.”

“How ‘bout that. Stuck away on Christmas for work. Now we’re really going to make it up to you, aren’t we?”

“I guess I’ll remember you said that.”

“Ha, there you go. Well listen, keep receipts, we’ll make you whole when you get back. Until then, try your best to have a Merry Christmas and we’ll see you Monday morning. Great job James.”

“Thank you Frank.”

“Okay then.”

I listen for the few extra seconds it takes for him to fumble with his phone until it finally clicks off. When it does, I let go a giant sigh of relief. I didn’t blow the deal, I still have a job, Healey might actually like me, and across the way, both the father and son are still fast asleep. I’d done everything I could.

Resting back, I watch the celebrations continue. A few waiters and waitresses from the dining room try their best to manage the lobby overflow, but their ability to cover the room grinds to a halt once it’s discovered that they make perfectly suitable photographers.

“Can we buy you for the night?” Squeals a woman in shoulder pads to a waiter my age. Handing her camera to him with one hand, she pinches his hip with the other to clarify that she’s not entirely kidding.

“Only hourly,” he counters, sending her backwards in hysterics. Miraculously, she falls perfectly into the next family pose while he steps back to join a literal firing squad of camera-armed coworkers. In unison, they shout “Smile!” and the room explodes once again in a bombardment of light, capturing more photos that, years from now, will remind all these relatives that this place meant something and so did they. If they can just smile, in time everything will be remembered well…

And as the soreness from the light spots settles in my eyes, and clarity of vision returns, I can feel my rising tinge of bitterness slowly fade. Everything that I don’t like in front of me is everything that I miss.

I wish we could have that chance just once more. The whole family together in a single shot, smiling at the red light holding until the blinding white flash, because for as much as I want to belittle these other families, I envy them, too.

Envy them the chance to squeeze everyone they love into a single 8x10. That that’s even possible. Envy them for believing it might always be possible, and will always be possible, until the eventual day when either as a result of tragedy, time, or space, it no longer is. Then, at least, it won’t be so difficult to remember.

But our last picture’s been taken and now I feel so far away.

“Hi,” I hear from my right again. The blonde girl is back and she’s holding a wrapped object out to me.

“What’s this?” I ask, shaking my head to reality.

“A pwesent,” she says, handing over the surprisingly heavy gift. It’s wrapped like a lollipop tied at the bottom with a bow. When I pull at the bow, the paper unfolds itself, revealing one of the lobby’s decorative clocks.

“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim as excitedly as I can make myself look.

“Do you like it?” She asks.

“This is exactly what I asked Santa for.”

“Really?” She shouts, her mouth gaping wide.

“Really,” I assure her. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten. Thank you.”

“You’re welcommme,” she says, balling her hands together in a joined fist and pinning them flat against the same dimpled cheek where Sophie had reigned before. “But I have to go now,” she chirps. “Bye bye.”

“Bye,” I say to the rear of her swishing dress. Turning forward, I find the father across from me awake now. The hair on the back of his head points straight up to where his snores had aimed earlier and he’s looking at me with a half groggy, half shit-eating grin.

“You have any?” He asks.

“No, not yet.”

“Thought so, you look young.”

“One day.”

“One day is right,” he responds, slightly grimacing as he leans forward to stretch out his free arm. “And hard to tell from all of this, but it’ll be the best thing that will ever happen to you.”

“It looks like you’re doing pretty well,” I say, nodding over.

As I do, his still sleeping son brushes his button-sized hand across his face before lying it back down on his dad’s chest.

“You know something?” The dad responds. “I’m doing great.”

He smiles my way and I’m struck by the sincerity in his voice. I start to smile, too. One day is right.

Staring back down at the clock, I realize it’s getting late. I think about Claire and Phil’s invitation and wonder if it would be awkward to accept it and go, especially without Amy, but I’m not sure what other options I have. I’d already spent the first half of Christmas by myself and I’d rather not spend the second half that way if I can avoid it.

“Better return this,” I say, holding up the clock. “Merry Christmas to the both of you.”

“Same to you,” responds the father.

At the front desk, a guest is busy filling out a form so I step beside him and grab the attention of the concierge.

“Not sure where this goes,” I say, slightly embarrassed.

“We’ll take care of it sir,” the concierge responds, very much amused.

“Thanks.”

Upstairs, I flip the room door back and forth to see if Amy might have left a note underneath—she hasn’t. Maneuvering around the red suitcase, I check the landline phone by the bed but the message light never blinks. The day will have to continue without her.

Dumping my things on the dresser, I head straight for the shower so that I can at least look presentable. Afterwards, when I step back into the bedroom, I notice that it’s my cell phone’s red light that’s now blinking.

Finally.

Still in my towel, I race over and hit the messages button.

It’s Deacon. “St marks hotel 2 blocks s of fro the magnum”

I stare at it incredulously for ten seconds before it buzzes twice more in my hand.

“Dont be poon. I know ur still here.”

It’s like seeing a bad situation unfolding, and like Strafford had said, walking towards it anyway. I hate myself for it, but I can’t say no. The fact remains that it’s Christmas and he’s still the closest thing to an actual friend I have in town.

“On my way,” I text back.

• • •

The Magnum is a beefed up and modernized version of The Green Room. Everything here is bigger, newer, and louder. Hardwood floors replace carpeting, three full bars operate to capacity, an entire wall of glass houses thousands of wines, and throughout, an army of waiters bustle through every open space like necktied and vested ants.

I find Deacon at the furthest bar staring down at his phone. The way he’s dressed it looks like he’s skipped Christmas and gone straight to New Year’s.

“Hello Deacon,” I say, taking a seat.

“James, Merry Christmas, here’s a drink,” he replies, handing me his second glass.

“What is it?”

“A drink. Drink it.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. Gin and tonic. A very strong gin and tonic. “So what’s up?” I ask once the bite loosens.

“You tell me. It’s Christmas and you’re still here. You bag that chick?”

“Nah.”

“Fuck it. Don’t let it get you down.”

“Hadn’t really.”

“Good. Can’t get down about that shit.”

“What’s up?” I ask again, somewhat annoyed. “Why the text?”

“Straight to the point, I like that. I’ll tell you what’s up, and I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“What’s that?”

“You and us. Me and you.”

“What’d you figure out?”

“I figured out a lot, actually. That’s why I texted you. Did you like that, by the way, how I just knew you’d still be here and knew you’d come. Damn I’m good. But I get it, kid gets a taste of freedom and can’t help himself. I hear you. Hell, look at me, here I am doing the same thing.”

“Good call,” I mutter, regretting this decision more and more by the second.

“But here’s what it’s come down to. And I’ll tell you about it while we wait, that’s the other reason why you’re here by the way. See those two girls over there, we’ve been eyeing each other for the last half hour but I can’t tell whether they’re either too uptight to, A, come up to the dude sitting by himself at a bar on Christmas, or B, wouldn’t want that same dude coming up to them. They need reassurance. Hence, texting you.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, you don’t even have to move or say anything really. I more or less just need a body. I was even thinking about borrowing one of the maids but that would have been a little too obvious. Anyways, while we wait, here’s what I’ve come up with,” he says, dropping his glass to look up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Let me be honest, James. I don’t get you. You sit there, you’ve got that stupid smile on your face and you don’t say shit. Half the time you make me feel guilty for saying the things I do and the other half of the time I want to give you a good kick in the nuts just so you know what it feels like.

“Which of course gets me to feeling more guilty about it. Then that leads to me having to think about myself which I don’t tend to do but since I have, I’ll share it. I get it. I’m a fucking lunatic. I can’t sleep at night ‘cause I know I should either be out there making money, screwing some girl, or diving headfirst into any sort of fuckjob problem I can make for myself. I can’t sit still. And you know something, I’m okay with that. Sure it means I go from happy to fucking miserable and back again in the blink of an eye, but that’s me and that’s how I’m wired, and it’s cool.

“So basically, what I’m trying to say is, despite the fact that we’re on two entirely different planets, and you’re probably killing my chances with these girls, I say you run with it. Fuck all that advice I gave you. You may be a lot of things, but you’re not stupid. I get it. You’ve got it figured out in that lock box of yours. Go and do what you want and don’t let assholes like me try and tell you what to do. You don’t need my advice. Well, most of it. You do need to get laid, but the rest you’ve got covered, I think.”

By the end of his speech he isn’t even looking my direction. Apparently I’m serving my purpose because one of the girls finally begins to return his stare.

“Why’d you leave me hanging with Strafford?” I ask before he can jump ship.

“It was a fucked up thing to do. But so was what Frank did to me, had to get back. I knew you’d get through it, though. You’re a dipshit, but you’re a capable dipshit. Trial by fire’s good for you, I just added a little kerosene is all. Besides, you’re in tight with Frank now, you can thank me later.”

Suddenly, a guy in a corduroy blazer walks up to Deacon’s girls, kissing them both before stopping to stand with his back to us, blocking Deacon’s view.

“Dammit,” he says, “should’ve moved faster.” He tries to groan but it comes up as a half-belch. Afterwards, he dumps his head into his hands, stretching his face.

“Fucking Magnum on fucking Christmas. How embarrassing.”

“Not where you wanted to be headed?” I ask.

“Headed? Good Lord, if only I knew. We’re all headed somewhere, right?” He lifts his glass up as if to drink to the notion.

Away from us, the guy and just one of the girls step away from their table, leaving the second girl behind. Deacon’s eyes light up, he’s found his opening.

“To hell or die trying,” he says, not missing a beat. “Wait here.”

He steps casually up to the girl, spreading his feet wide in front of her and tipping his chin back. I can’t hear his first line but it’s undoubtedly as grotesque as his stance. I’m about to leave him to his charms when the other girl comes back with two guys trailing now—the same one in corduroy from before, but also another that looks like he could be the starting center for the Blackhawks.

Deacon doesn’t see them as they walk up and he for sure doesn’t see the bruiser’s fist fly straight towards his ear. The hit manages to flip Deacon straight across the bolted down table so that his arms dangle from the other side.

“Jealous much?” Says Deacon’s would-have-been girl to her apparent boyfriend.

He scoffs and drags her away, the other couple following. Left behind, Deacon’s sliding from the tabletop like a carcass on a windshield. I give him thirty seconds to soak it in before strolling over.

“Bender not bent, right?” I say.

“Ahhhhh ha ha, Jamesie, you’re finally catching on,” he growls while a slight trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. He lifts his head up just enough to inspect the trickle before resting it again. Everyone around us is watching.

“That’s right,” he spits to himself, “let me bleed while you all smile and finger yourselves.”

A manager walks up with ice wrapped in a napkin, asking Deacon if he’s okay.

“Thought the steak was a little charred, but otherwise, great job Otto.”

“Sir, I’m going to help you out here, but if you give me lip, you’ll be using snow on that cut instead.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Sorry, man. Thanks. Really.”

“Okay,” the manager says to me now, “I’ll be over there, watching your friend mind you, but I’ll be right there if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I say as politely as possible, hating having to defend this.

Deacon’s staring up at the ceiling now, trying to keep the blood down.

“Jamesie, Jamesie, Jamesie. You’re too good for this shit. Get the fuck out of here, do better. I’m no Santa Claus.”

“That’s true. You’ll probably look more like Rudolph tomorrow.”

“Don’t be funny, James. You’re not. Now get out of here, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Course I’m sure. It’s what I do, Jamesie. That’s why people like me. That’s why you like me. While everyone else goes the speed limit, I turn right, hit the gas, and aim for trees.”

Top notch, Deacon, I think, trying to forgive him for the things he doesn’t know. I stand up to leave as fresh blood starts to seep from his nose.

“Good luck to you,” I say.

“Fuck luck,” he gurgles.

• • •

Outside the restaurant, I finally pull up Claire’s number. At this point, I don’t even feel awkward about dialing. There’s a shortage of good people in the world. When you happen to find some, it’s worth spending time with them.

“Claire’s line,” Phil answers.

“Phil, it’s James Haskins from the airport.”

“James. What’s going on buddy? Claire was just asking when you’d call.”

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“Hardly, bud. You coming over?”

“If you’re still having your party.”

“Of course we are. Get on over here quick, there’s a few of us here already. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“Just bring yourself, we’ve got you covered. We’re rich now, right? Five hundred big ones.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, 625 West Ontario. 18H. Double time it.”

“Thanks.”

Their building is a high rise by the river with small balconies protruding from each apartment on up. Downstairs, I tell the doorman I’m visiting the Weirs in 18H.

“Weirs, huh? Why they got to invite everyone but me?”

“That’s not right.”

“It sure ain’t. Tell them that when you get up there. And also, remind Big Phil Weir that he’d better pay up tomorrow when my Bengals beat up his Ravens.”

“I will, thanks.”

“No. Thank you, my man. Elevators are right behind here, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say, heading around the corner.

“Make sure you tell him twice!” He shouts again from behind me. “Phil gets very forgetful when his teams start losing.”

“Twice!” I shout back.

“Ha. Phil Weir baby. Dude’s a trip!”

The elevator has a TV. On it, a newsman makes a point about the snow accumulation by showing a family out for a walk, the young daughter’s head barely reaching the snow’s crest. As the doors reopen, they cut to a shot of her disappearing into a snow tunnel she’d made.

18H is just across the hall. I knock twice and within seconds Claire swings open the door wearing a sweatshirt with a giant reindeer on it.

“James! Thanks for coming!”

“Thanks for having me.”

“Where’s Amy?” She asks.

“Couldn’t make it,” is all I can think to say. She looks at me kind of funny, how could Amy not make it is the obvious question, but she holds off and smiles.

“Aw, that’s too bad. We’ll still have fun, though. Hey Phil!” She yells towards the kitchen.

“Yea, babe?”

“James is here!”

“What’s up James!”

“How’s it going?” I ask, walking in.

“Awesome man, come here and grab a brew or wine or whatever you’d like.”

He opens the fridge for me and I grab a beer.

“Does your family drink on Christmas?”

“Not much.”

“Ours does. Have two.” He pushes a second bottle towards my stomach and I take it.

“I’ll be right out. Babe, you want to introduce him to everyone?”

“Come with me,” Claire says, rolling me out through another door into their living room. “Everybody, this is James,” she says, interrupting a conversation.

I get a sweeping “Hey,” “Hello,” “What’s up.”

“James, this is Tina and her boyfriend Derrick.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“And over here we have Becky, Tom, and Casey. Here, take a seat. We’ll be out in a minute.”

Claire heads back to the kitchen while I drop down on the ottoman beside the couch and try to make sense of the ongoing conversation.

“Is she still seeing that guy?”

“I think so.”

“I wish she’d stayed with Doug. He was good to her.”

“She gets bored too easily.”

“Who’s this?”

“Jackie.”

“Ugh, she’s the worst.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s awful. When you have a conversation with her, she’ll ask you a question and before you can answer it, she answers it for you.”

“She does do that. He’s right.”

“Where’s Carter?”

“K.C. with his brother, I think.”

“Is he the one that lost his eye in a bar fight?”

“That’s Joyner’s brother.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“Joyner’s brother got caught in the middle of a bar fight, some dude was wearing this bulging class ring or something, caught him just right, knocked the eye out. They couldn’t fix it. Now he’s got a patch.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yea, no kidding. Speaking of which, I ever show you my dart wound?”

“Your what?”

“Dead serious. ‘Nother bar fight story. Back in Cleveland, this asshole starts hitting on my buddy’s girl, one thing leads to another and in no time we’ve got five or six of us fighting in the middle this place. You know, it’s bad, but at that point nothing worse than your average fight. Then all of a sudden, I feel this friggin’ thing stab me in my side—I think someone’s got a bottle or something, right? I look down and I’ve got a friggin dart in me. Then the guy I’m going at it with backs up and starts screaming, too. Turns out he just took one in the base of the neck. So then we both look over to see these two pricks who weren’t even involved had just started throwing these darts into the brawl.”

“Are you serious? They could have killed someone.”

“No kidding.”

“What’d you do to them?”

“Nothing. It was actually pretty cool, ‘cause the second that happened, the group of us that were fighting all sort of banded together ready to flat out murder these two, right. The bartender, who’s built like a pro linebacker, sees all this, runs over and literally just pile drives both of them to the ground, then turns around and basically makes it a point that if any of us go near those two we’ve got hell to pay ourselves. Then he picks them up, drags them out, and stands at the door to make sure none of us follow.”

“He just let them go?”

“He had to. He couldn’t leave them there, there would have been a riot.”

“I would have ran out of there and beat their asses.”

“Casey, you’re barely five feet tall.”

“I’ve got some fight in me.”

“Ha, Casey, you remember that time at Ringo’s when those two married guys were hitting on us and you told the one guy that if he kept talking to you you’d stab him with your heels?”

“You did that?”

“He was forty-five, married, reeked of cigars, and kept grabbing my shoulder. He had it coming.”

“How’s Greg?”

“He’s alright. He went home to Minneapolis. It’s cool, though, we screwed in the shower right before he left so I know he’s good.” She looks at me for the first time now and sees that I had turned slightly red in the face. “Sorry,” she says.

“So what about you,” one of the girls says to me, Becky, I think. All their faces turn in my direction now. “We heard you gave up your seat so a family could get home, that’s pretty cool.”

“Yea.”

“Your family all together in New York?”

“Yea, New Jersey.”

“First Christmas by yourself?”

“Yea.”

“How’s it feel?”

“A little weird, I guess.”

“The first Christmas away is always weird.”

“I remember mine. I was twenty-three, had just moved to Milwaukee, didn’t know a soul. Ended up drinking two bottles of wine by myself and watched an entire season of Party of Five.”

“That’s funny. I watched the Back to the Future trilogy one time.”

“I still have your copy of that.”

“Really? When did I give it to you?”

“Months ago, it was over Labor Day—the night Janice threw up in your kitchen.”

“Oh God, that was horrendous. You could see these little pieces of lettuce everywhere.”

Just like that, the conversation drifts comfortably away from me again. I sit back and let them take it where they please—through all the names and faces I’d never heard of doing things in places I’d never been.

“What the hell are Phil and Claire doing?” Tom shouts a few minutes later. “Hey Phil, take the apron off, you’re not fooling anyone.”

“Almost done.”

“What’d you make, Rice-a-Roni again?”

“San Francisco fucking treat!” Claire shouts.

“You guys come up with any resolutions?” Asks Casey.

“Same as every year, look like a supermodel and win the lottery,” Becky says.

“I thought you were a supermodel.”

“Fuck off, Tom.”

“My parents got me French tapes,” Casey says.

“Tu es un bouffon,” Tom says.

“What?”

“I said ‘You have nice eyes.’”

“You speak French?”

“Un peu. Very little.”

“Alright, Frenchie, you make a resolution?”

“Same as every year. Look like a supermodel and don’t get gonorrhea.”

“Way to aim high.”

“Thank you.”

“James, you got one?” Becky asks.

“Jeez, leave the kid alone,” Tom says.

“What, he probably won’t bring up gonorrhea, at least.”

“Do it, James. Say you want to avoid gonorrhea.”

“Honestly, haven’t thought about it yet,” I say, as Claire walks in.

“Thought about what?” She asks.

“We’re discussing resolutions. Your turn Claire.”

“I’m done with them,” she says. “They always come out opposite of what I want. Five or six years ago, I said I’d lose ten pounds. I ended up gaining ten. The next year, I said I’d learn to play the piano and two days after I bought a keyboard I spilled wine on it and broke it. A year later, I was all down on myself after breaking up with Tim and promised myself I wouldn’t date anyone for six months—fortunately, it lucked out and I met Phil. So that one was good. And then finally, two years ago, I said I was going to work really hard at work and try and get promoted. Then Phil got this job which paid ten times more, so I ended up quitting. Again, not bad, just opposite. Ever since, I said I’m taking the stress out of it and not doing one.”

“You should come up with an anti-resolution,” Becky says.

“As soon as I do that, though, I’ll jinx it.”

“So Becky,” Tom cuts in, “what you’re saying is that you think Claire should say she’s going to try to get gonorrhea so she in fact does not.”

“What the hell, dude?” Phil says, entering the room.

“Phil, this is for your own good,” Tom fires back.

“I bet. Food’s ready.”

Everyone jumps towards the kitchen while I follow behind. Their two-seated dinner table is covered with pastas and salads and desserts.

“Oh my god, you actually did make Rice-a-Roni again.”

“Hell yea, I did!” Claire shouts.

“Phil, she’s obsessed,” says Tom.

“I’ll eat it,” Derrick says, speaking for the first time, I realize.

“Thank you, Derrick.”

“Shouldn’t we let everyone else eat first?” Tina says. “He’ll eat it all.”

“Why you got to do that, Tina?”

“Am I wrong? You eat everything.”

“So?”

“You’re going to get fat.”

“I don’t care.”

“Chow down, Derrick,” Phil says.

With paper plates filled, we each stand in whichever nook we can find. It reminds me of old reunions with our cousins, back when Julie and I were kids. We were the youngest there, too, but nobody ever seemed to notice. They’d go on about whatever was happening in their lives just the same—the things they were doing, the conversations they were having—and it was like having a glimpse ten years into our own futures. Now maybe this is me in ten years again—on my own in some random city, with a strange new assortment of friends and all the grown-up banter that’s worth sharing.

“Anyone need a smoke?” Phil shouts out afterwards. The guys all bolt for the balcony. I stay inside to help Claire clean up.

“Want another drink?” She asks.

“Please.”

“Here you go. I’m so happy you could make it. I was feeling terrible thinking about you all stuck alone at the hotel.”

“Yea, it wasn’t much fun. How long you guys been out here?” I ask to change the subject.

“Just over a year and half. We got married in May, moved in June. Goes quick.”

“I bet. How’d you meet?”

“Well, as I’m sure you figured out by now, I’m from San Fran, so I was already living there and he ended up getting a job there right out of grad school. We met at a bar one night and a year later we were married.”

“So why Chicago?”

“It was a good middle spot. Halfway from San Fran and New York. We wanted something different, you know, a chance to do something totally on our own. Chicago came up for him at work and we jumped at it.”

“You happy you did?”

“Sure, yea. I don’t think he wanted to stay in California so I think he’s happy about that. It’s been nice starting out on our own, too. In San Fran, my parents were only an hour away so they’d be coming over all the time. This kind of lets us do our own thing, you know?”

“James!” Phil calls from the balcony. “Bring some beers out here!”

“You’d better go,” Claire says. She already has a six-pack in hand for me.

“Thanks.”

I step outside to where the three of them are packed side by side on folding chairs. Phil has a small space heater running beside him.

“Dude, why you got to hit on my wife like that?” Phil asks.

“What?” I say, caught off guard.

“I’m just fucking with you. If you’re going to do dishes, you can move in if you want.”

“Jake, gimme a beer,” Derrick says.

“Derrick, it’s James,” Tom says. “Not Jake, not Jimmy. James, like the peach.”

“Whatever, pass me a beer.”

“Tom, hand peach boy a cigar,” says Phil.

“You ever smoke a cigar?” Tom asks.

“Yea.”

“You ever smoke anything else?” He says, leaning disturbingly close to me.

“Like what?”

“You tell me,” he says with wild eyes.

“Give him a break,” Phil says.

“Ah, this is F’ing great,” Tom says. “Merry-F’ing-Christmas boys.”

A brutish wave of “yeaahhs” follows. The smoke drifts through the snow-pocked mesh screen, out into the open air eighteen stories up, where a torrent of white falls as silently as swirling moths. It’s like watching a hurricane of white with the mute button on.

“I’m going in, I’m fucking freezing,” Derrick groans, putting his cigar out.

“Pussy,” Tom says.

“Suck a dick.”

“Alright James, here we go,” says Phil. “Down these on three. One. Two. Go.”

He tips his head straight back and the bottle clears in under three seconds. I try to keep pace but end up spilling halfway through.

“He really is a Peach,” Tom jokes.

Back inside, Phil’s countdown has set the tone. He starts a game of Kings which quickly morphs into Indian Poker and then onto High-Card/Low-Card, each game requiring less and less skill and more and more drinking. It’s all the things I’d done in college but with an added touch of nostalgia. At thirty years on up, this is their rare time of no responsibility, when the word “waterfall” can make a night and their collective worries from the weeks and months prior can be put aside in exchange for that fleeting chance to be twenty-one again.

I begin to make the connections between everyone. How Casey dated Luke, who was Becky’s roommate, and how the two became best friends out of it. Or that Tina works with Claire. Everyone claims to be the first to know Tom but no one can prove it. “I’m the first friend people make in Chicago,” he says. “Call me Buddy Tom. Or, as some people prefer, I-think-I-met-you-when-you-woke-up-in-my-living-room-and-you-suggested-we-might-as-well-grab-a-wet-brunch Tom.”

They’re all like a small group of vagabonds, rounded up in some commonality. At some point they all set out on their own and that’s led them here, to this apartment and these games. In many ways, it’s not ideal—it’s clear they all feel like they have somewhere more important to be tonight (“My Dad hasn’t called yet,” Casey says) and their various dreams haven’t pieced together like they may have or could have (“Never should have left Cleveland,” laments Tom). But tonight, it all fits. Whether it’s because they know they can’t be alone or not, it’s nice to know they don’t have to be. Tonight they would have one another and tonight I was happy to be included with them.

In time, the conversation morphs into its own game. Two seconds for use of names, four seconds for swearing, Jeopardy answers in place of questions, drinking with the opposite hand…and so the rules grow until the drinking turns obscene. It’s after Derrick’s forced to drink the rest of his bottle for merely pointing at someone that Tina pulls the plug and hikes him up to leave. Afterwards, Becky asks if Tina had said anything all night other than commenting on Derrick’s eating.

“Derrick didn’t say much more. Why do we hang out with them again?”

“So we can all hear Derrick call you a dick,” Phil shouts to Tom.

“Ha. You’re a funny guy, Phil,” Tom replies, turning on the TV. He goes straight to the Cavs/Knicks game. This was supposed to be the game Matt would have taken me to.

My phone starts to buzz. I’m having a good time, Deacon can go F himself, I think.

Lizard.

The name hits me like a freight train. I race my way back to the porch, nearly tripping over Tom before tugging twice at the sliding door like an idiot until I realize it’s locked.

“Hello?” I say from outside once the door is safely shut behind me.

“Hi James.”

In two words, everything melts. All the strength I’d built up in four months, all the nerves I thought I had, melting on an icy balcony.

“I was thinking about your mom the other day,” she starts to say, her voice trickling through me where bones once were. I have to sit down. “The time you all had the football game and she basically kidnapped me to go shopping. She bought me that necklace with the snowflake on it.”

“I remember,” I say, as my welling eyes dart around, trying to find a snowflake on the screen that might match the one on the necklace.

“Do you know why she bought it?” Liz asks.

A large flake hits—as large as the necklace’s, only slightly fuller, a touch more complex, landing as softly from fifteen thousand feet as a kiss on the cheek.

“No,” I manage to say.

“Because she told me how happy I made you.”

Oh, Liz.

“I want you to know you made me happy, too.”

The levies break. Four months of dry heaving, all I needed was her voice.

“I’m never far if you need me,” she continues.

Every day, Liz.

“I’m sorry,” she says, still searching for me.

“Why?” I finally respond.

“For needing more time.”

It’s too much. I bang the screen, sending the flake somersaulting back into anonymity, where it can land again on someone else’s porch.

“When’s it enough, Liz? When is it too much time?”

“I don’t know.”

“When I’m sitting on a random balcony on Christmas and you’re calling to tell me about a piece of jewelry?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either. But I do know I should be home right now. I should be home right now with Julie, and with Matt, and with you. Instead, I’m all by myself and I’m freezing and in a minute I’ve got to go explain to a group of strangers who started calling me Peach an hour ago why I just started crying on their balcony.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Liz, we don’t have anything to be sorry about anymore. Sorry’s for when you still have one another to be sorry to. Sorry’s for when you’re willing to talk to that person face to face to say it. I haven’t seen your face in four months and as much as I can’t admit it, we haven’t had one another in longer.”

Whisps of wind in one ear, silence in the other.

“Liz,” I say, leaning my head between my knees.

“Yes,” she says finally.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Another gust blows through the screens, she hears it.

“You should go inside,” she says.

“That’s it?”

“Maybe we can meet up when you get back?”

“You know I’ve never been a maybe.”

“I know.”

“Should I wait for you to call?” I ask.

“I’ll call.”

“Okay. I’ll wait.”

And then our conversation waits. Me listening to the intermittent static of her breath against the microphone and she likely doing the same of mine—my breath and the filtered Chicago wind sweeping across the mouthpiece together instead of words.

“I’m going to sleep now,” she says eventually. “Goodnight James.”

“Goodnight Liz.”

The phone clicks.

I can’t stand to go inside right away, so I stay seated, watching the cascade of white until my embarrassment’s as numb as my extremities.

When I do, it’s just Tom sitting on the couch staring at the TV. He’s since flipped to watching Red Christmas with feigned interest. On the screen, Holly Chestnut’s begun her climactic attack on the Miller household. Tom doesn’t seem to notice when I sit down at the opposite end of the couch.

Holly runs, jumps, and slices away to the pulse of Trans-Siberian Orchestra as my skin burns from the indoor heat.

During a commercial, Phil appears in the doorway leading to the kitchen and stops to press his forehead against the side panel.

“Happy Christmas,” he blurts out between heavy breaths, hiccupping a few times like he might throw up.

“James!” He yells a minute later, lifting his head. “You did good,” he finishes, bobbing his head back down. “Fuck me, I’ll be right back.” He crosses the kitchen and seconds later I hear him slam onto a bed out of sight.

Back on TV, it’s the final scene by the Christmas tree. A mortally wounded Holly lies at its base while Mr. Miller compassionately returns to help see her through. Sweet and childlike, she reaches towards a hanging ornament and asks him if he remembers what happens every time a bell rings.

“Sure I do,” replies Mr. Miller, placing a loving hand across her cheek. “An—”

Boom! The house and half the neighborhood explode in an enormous ball of red.

“I had a girl once,” Tom explains once the credits start to roll.

I wait for him to add something more but he doesn’t. When the last commercial hits, he stands up to leave.

“Take it easy, Peach,” he says, keeping his eyes on the screen until he’s opened door. He walks out without ever grabbing a coat.

The room is empty now. I feel like I should leave but I want to thank Phil and Claire for having me. Well, Claire, at least. Phil’s a lost cause. I find her sitting at the kitchen table, head against her arm, with a glass of water beside her.

“Last one left?” She asks.

“Yea.”

“Did you have fun?”

“I did.”

“Sorry we were in and out there at the end,” she says, taking a sip of water.

“Is he all right?” I ask.

“Yea, he’s fine. Won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Thanks for coming, though.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“Of course. It was nice to have company over for once,” she adds, shaking her glass. “Want some?”

“Please.” She stands up as I take a seat on the opposite end of the table.

“How do you like living together?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“It’s great for the most part. I get to be with Phil all of the time which is nice.”

“Hard at all?”

“The day to day stuff isn’t so bad. You learn to deal with the quirks and habits pretty quickly. It’s the stuff outside of one another that’s hard.”

“Like what?”

“You really want to be bothered with this?” She asks, placing a filled glass beside me.

“Sure,” I respond, realizing listening is easier.

“Let me ask you a question. Do you think it’s possible for a couple to be lonely together? Like it’s possible to box one another in and there’s nothing else?”

“Why not?”

“Sometimes I feel like we’ve done that here.”

“At least you have it,” I say, thinking of Amy, thinking of Liz.

“Yea, I guess.” She starts to look towards the bedroom and laughs. “I wanted to beat the crap out of Phil earlier for getting trashed. But you’re right. In twenty minutes, I’m going to lie right beside him, rub my hand in his hair, kiss his shoulder, and love the fact I’m beside him—even if he is splayed out like a corpse. He’s my corpse.”

She turns her head and sends a tired smile towards the darkness of the bedroom where Phil lies.

“You know Amy?” I ask, feeling the contagiousness of opening up spreading.

“Yea?”

“We just met, actually. We flew in together three days ago. Now I don’t even know where she is.”

“Was that her on the phone?”

I start to laugh to myself. “No, that was another girl.”

Claire starts to laugh, as well. “Look at you, two cities, two girls.”

“Not intentional.”

“Sounds like they both got you down, too.”

“A little.”

“Then I guess you just have to find the one that lifts you back up.”

While I try to decide who that might be, Claire starts to yawn.

“I’d better go,” I say.

She’s about to say she’s sorry when a second yawn waves through. It makes the decision for both of us.

“Thanks again for coming, James,” she says. “Seriously, if you ever make it back here, let us know, we’d love to have you.”

“Thanks, I will. Ditto New York.”

She stands up as I do, too.

“It’s okay, I can let myself out.”

“Okay, but James?”

“Yea?”

“When they both come around, be nice to them for me.”

“I will.”

She looks pleased that I mean it and moves in for a hug.

“Bye James.”

“Thanks again, Claire.”

• • •

This time, when the cold hits me on the sidewalk, I welcome it like a sort of farewell blast. One day I’ll return when it’s warmer, but for now I’m happy to have seen the worst Chicago could bring.

It’s been a strange trip, for sure, but things aren’t so bad. I’d grown up enough to realize that Deacon was a douche, at least. He was right about work, though. He’d probably helped me out there.

I’m also happy to be heading back home in the morning. I know I’ve only been away for a few days, but it’s obvious that I’ve been checked out for much longer. It’s time to check back in, make myself present again, and quit worrying about where the rust collects. Left to the elements and given enough time, eventually everything will rust. Maybe that’s just nature’s way of saying it’s time to build again.

At the hotel, the doorman wishes me a goodnight as I enter the golden lobby for very likely the last time. Let this be a taste of what’s to come, I think. Not the luxury, but the open door to what can be attained. To what can be built. For once, I realize, I’m the guest of my own merits, not the guest of my family on some vacation. I definitely haven’t earned this yet, this lavishness, but I did make it here on my own. I earned this chance. Now let me earn it some more. Let me build my own buildings and empires and dreams so that, one day, I can walk back through these doors with the confidence that I belong.

The thoughts of grandeur quickly fade when the elevator shuts without a diving body. As much as I’m ready to move on from this trip, one last rush of excitement might have been nice. Instead, it’s only my tired reflection in the door and the count up to fourteen by the panel. When the elevator swings open, I give one last consideration to staying in and going downstairs, to The Green Room maybe, or someplace else, but there has to be a time when enough is enough. There’s always plenty of adventure in New York if you’re looking.

The hallway is empty and each room I pass seems more silent than the next. I wonder what signs of life are hidden behind each. Perhaps a businesswoman playing tent, escaping to someplace else she’s been before; or a young boy positioned between the curtains and glass of a windowsill, rebuilding the evening skyline as he sees fit. Hopefully, behind any of these great white doors, there’s even a pair of travelers, who having only just met, decided to stay with one another for tonight just because. Why shouldn’t someone else have that chance?

I turn the corner. Amy’s sitting beside the door with her chin on her knees. She looks up long enough for me to tell that she’d been crying, too, and then puts her head down again without speaking. I feel like she has something to say, so I lower myself beside her and wait.

“Why’d you invite me to stay here?” She asks finally.

“I wanted to be with you.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to hear that from someone when you’re not sure if you want the same?”

“Guess not.”

“I’m probably letting you down, aren’t I?”

“Why would you be letting me down?”

“Here you are, on this big, exciting trip. You’ve met the girl, you’re staying with the girl, and a snowstorm strikes and you’re stuck with the girl. It’s all built perfectly, but then you can’t have the girl.”

“I can’t?”

Thankfully she laughs. “No, no you can’t.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“‘Cause it’s just four days. Then you’re gone and so am I. You’d wake up next week wanting this to have meant something but it wouldn’t.”

“And if it were to be more?”

“It can’t be any more than this.”

“But we both live in New York.”

She nearly replies but turns her face away instead, setting us in silence except for the drone of the heater above. I wonder if I had pushed it too far, been too casual. Maybe this was a fling and nothing more. I want to tell her that that would be okay with me, to drop any expectations. Just so long as we could remain friends, at least. Just so long as I could take her to a small pub like Corrib again, sit alone together towards the back and waste an evening away by candlelight, leaving our more innocent decisions to chance.

The ding of the elevator around the bend breaks the silence and when the door opens, a screeching laugh follows.

“He should have bought a pair of stilts!” I hear a woman shriek.

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” answers her companion.

“Sugar, it was like David the Gnome dancing with Big Foot. He couldn’t even put his hands around her neck!”

The woman’s laughing grows louder and louder and less and less echoed. I begin to worry that they’ll reach us and see Amy in tears. When I look her way, though, she doesn’t budge. For her, at least, this isn’t a night for shame.

By the time the couple turns the corner, the woman’s laughing is like a crashing symbol by our ears. They’re middle aged and round. He has a red sweater on beneath a wool sport coat while she’s dressed in black, carrying her heels as she walks. Seeing Amy and me, the woman cuts off her laughter with an “Ahem” followed by an “Excuse us,” as she pulls her heels towards her mouth to keep from bursting again. Her husband keeps his head down, masking his embarrassment away from me and Amy in particular.

I feel like we’re in the clear once they’re ten feet past us, but suddenly the woman grumbles out, “Dang it,” digs her stocking-wrapped heel into the carpet, and swings a U-turn in our direction. Reaching us, she bends down so close that her great big chest nearly falls on us like a pair of pillows. Up close she looks like my old sixth grade English teacher. Smells like her, too, doused in lilac perfume.

“I understand it’s none of my business,” she says, “but you two are much too young and beautiful to be crying outside in the hallway of a hotel at two A.M. Now unless you two are cousins, go in there, have a good poke, and the rest of it will take care of itself in the morning. That I promise you.”

“Oh, hell, Kathleen, what are you telling them?”

“Everything they ought to know in life, sugar.”

She jerks back with her hands on her hips and trots towards her husband who’s shaking his head.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says.

“Oh, I know I am, sugar,” she says, smacking him in the rear as she passes him. Seconds later, their door shuts and it’s quiet again.

I think we’re in for another long pause when Amy comes to life, finally looking my way with a wry smile below dripping mascara.

“You want to poke me?”

I’m too embarrassed to laugh, and more than a bit ashamed by her stained cheeks, so I hide my head between my crouched knees and listen to the drone of the buzzing vent. When I finally look up, Amy’s facing straight ahead, examining the flower pattern across the thin hallway.

A few minutes later, she begins, “Does it make sense to you, that you could live in a place for two years, and the whole time feel like you’re missing out on something? Like, maybe there’s a hundred thousand people around you that have it figured out, but you haven’t. You go by them every day, they’re all living their daily lives and it seems like they’re happy with it, that they’ve made a home of it, but somehow you aren’t happy and you haven’t made a home of it?

“I tried to make it home here. I really did. I tried so hard. But I couldn’t. I don’t know if I did something or if I didn’t do something I should have. But I couldn’t do it.

“It seems so easy to think that you live in a place, and because of that, it’s home. Just automatically like that. But then you realize you have no ties to the place, nothing you wake up to saying ‘This is where I belong.’

“It’s like when you find a place to rent, you’re renting the city with it, too. There’s a start date and eventually you know there’s an end date. When you never own it or invest yourself in something, you never really get attached. You fall into some sort of pattern and you don’t let it get to you because there’s always a way out. Maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, the lease will finish up and there will be someplace else. Someplace new you can call home.

“Well, that’s what it’s like for me here. When I come back, it’s sort of like I have to, just because this is where I’m supposed to be today. This is where I’m supposed to be because this is where my bed is and this is where they’re paying me to show up on Monday morning. But even when that happens, everything seems so distant. Like none of it belongs to me, like I’m some sort of tourist.

“And I try to look down on that idea and not accept it. I know I should be making it a home, or at least trying to believe it is. That’s the only way I’ll ever give myself a chance. Otherwise I’m just passing time.

“So that’s where I was the other night on the plane, trying to tell myself that I’m really coming back to a place I could finally call home. Practically tricking my mind into believing this is where I want to be.

“And then you’re there. And you make it fresh. You make it new again. And I basically get the chance to show you around, like all of a sudden, this is my town, like it’s my home. Only this time, I get to experience it with you, and everything’s fresh and new and exciting because I’ve been there and I can share it with you. And yet it’s all some sort of fantasy. It’s the hotel room, and the blizzard, and it’s me keeping a lie. But it felt so good. It felt so good to be part of something and proud of something. To live some adventure outside of the day to day. It felt so good. I couldn’t let it go.” She looks my way now. “I guess what I mean to say is that I’m sorry if I’ve led you on, but I couldn’t help it.”

I don’t know what to believe but I realize at this moment it doesn’t matter. All I can do is say the only thing that’s true.

“If it makes you feel any better, even if it doesn’t add up to anything, they were four of the best days I can remember.”

“Were they?”

“How could they not be? Like you said, I had the city, the room, and the girl. Maybe not in the end, I guess, but I had you at least, for four days in Chicago. Nothing can take that away.”

“You can have me tonight, you know. It’s only fair.”

She’s not kidding now. For the first time, her heavy lashes part and through teary lenses, her magnified eyes open wide as ever towards mine. She only sees me.

I sit still, unsure of how to respond. Over four days I’d intoxicated myself with the idea of what we could or might become. Never did I imagine what would occur if we were ever to be, what would happen if the angel I’d built up suddenly offered herself through a broken trail of mascara.

To make her point or to edge me along, she dangles a hand in front of me, the hint of a smile awakening in the corner of her mouth.

“She’ll be everything you’ll ever need,” an old friend once promised. Taking her hand, I realize just how right he was.

Standing first, I lift her towards me. She rises light as air. Lighter for opening up, even lighter with the hope of another.

That was the rule, wasn’t it? “Find the one that lifts you back up.”

The key card clicks and I lead her inside. She turns off the light either by instinct or expectation. In place, a million needles of city light pierce through the closed sun curtain.

We stop in the middle of the room, past the bed and before the sofa. Past the separate histories that brought us here and before the afters of tomorrow.

“Arrive at that destination,” sang the lyric, so simply. When all the travel stops, and you find yourself exactly where you want to be, that’s when the dreams start coming true.

I pull her closer, chasing that fading perfume again. She leans her face in towards mine, the back of her neck arched upwards and lips spread apart. I tilt my own neck the same way, catching her forehead with a soft kiss before resting my cheek against its side.

“First this,” I say. “Just this.”

As I wrap my arms around her, her head falls to my shoulder. Together, we step in line to a soundless beat—two travelers embraced high in a glowing city.