He who eats alone chokes alone. – Arabian Proverb
Guy
Christmas is one of my favorite days of the year. Not so much because I enjoy it myself, but because there is nothing like witnessing the joy and wonder of Christmas through a child’s eyes.
Emma pokes me in the cheek and lifts her iPad for me to see the display. She’s brought up pictures of breakfast with Santa at Rockefeller Center from last year. It’s a tradition.
“We’re leaving soon,” I tell her. I booked us for the 8:15 time slot, knowing we would be up early already. Neither of the girls can contain their excitement over the holidays. They woke me up at five this morning, jumping on my bed and laughing with eagerness.
They’ve finished opening all their presents and watching them shriek with glee at their gifts fills my chest with the glow of happiness. It’s almost enough to fill up the hole in my heart, but not quite.
I bought her a gift last week. It’s just a silly little thing, an apron that says, Don’t be afraid to take whisks. It’s still under the tree.
After showing me the pictures of Santa last year, Emma scrambles off the couch, grabs Scarlett’s present and chucks it at me. The toss goes wide, but I manage to catch it.
She can’t know who it’s for. Can she? The girls only met Scarlett a couple of times. Then again, it’s not like I bring strangers around. Ever.
I set the present on the coffee table.
Emma comes back next to me on the couch and holds up her iPad again. This time, it’s the video she took of me after my night with Scarlett.
The man in the video grins at his phone like a lovesick fool.
If only he knew. The pain of witnessing my own previous happiness lances through me like a sword in the gut. But I’ve always known the truth, life isn’t about being happy. It’s about being responsible.
If I had only focused on my responsibilities, maybe none of this would have happened.
But then I remember Scarlett—her smell, the way she moves, the way she laughs at herself, the way she takes care of everyone around her and spreads happiness like it’s necessity and not a luxury.
I miss her. The lack of her smile is an ever-present ache in my chest.
I should have fought harder, but the way she was so willing to throw it all away reminded me that love and happiness have never been something within my reach.
But what if it was? What if it still is?
“I know, Emma. I get it. Come on, let’s get ready for Santa.”
Ava helps me get Emma dressed and ready as much as we can manage. Emma is in a goofy mood, grabbing the brush away, poking me in the ear and laughing, and pulling at Ava’s hair, but eventually we are ready to go down to the car.
Breakfast with Santa should be perfect. Two little elves take the girls to meet Santa in the throne room. They get a toy and a personalized ornament. The food is good, brioche French toast, scrambled eggs, pastries and gingerbread men. The setting can’t be better, we’re flanked by glittery angel sculptures and in view of the famous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
But the whole time, even though I put on a brave face, I’m miserable. I’ve been miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself. But I also don’t know how to fix the problem.
When we get home, I put on Mr. Bean in the hopes the girls will sit still long enough to let the food settle before we go swimming.
And then I turn on my phone to check my messages. Nothing.
On the TV, Mr. Bean is at the pool. He’s hanging onto the side of the diving platform for dear life, his brows lifted, eyes wide, lips twitching in terror.
I can relate.
My phone rings and I tug it out of my pocket.
Oliver.
On Christmas? Really? He probably has no idea what day it is. I leave the girls on the couch and walk into the next room.
“What?” I answer.
What happened with Scarlett wasn’t entirely his fault, but I still have the urge to punch him in the face.
“Why is Emma sending me pictures of you looking like someone kicked your puppy?”
Apparently, my brave face isn’t so brave, after all.
“That’s none of your business.”
He sighs. “I know you’re pissed at me, but I do care about your welfare.”
I laugh. “Because I’m the one doing all the work for our project.”
“A project funded almost entirely by me.”
I shake my head at the reminder. “With my name bringing in the customers.” Damn him. If this whole thing fails, he’ll be out nothing. It’s chump change to him. In his world, this is all a game and the people are just chess pieces.
I can’t do this anymore.
“I want to change the deal,” I say.
“Guy. We’ve talked about this.” His tone is calm and condescending, like he’s talking to a recalcitrant child.
“No. You’ve talked about this. Now it’s my turn. I’ll sign the papers on the real estate, except for the north corner. Large enough for a food truck. If you don’t agree, I’m cutting my losses and pulling out of this partnership.” I say partnership like it’s a dirty word.
“You’re bluffing. You can’t do that. We’ve signed contracts. I’ll—”
I hang up on him.
Relief floods through my body in a wave.
This isn’t all about Scarlett, it’s about so much more. It’s about not being under Oliver’s thumb. This partnership won’t work out in the long run if Oliver makes all our decisions, runs rough shod over anything I want to do and throws his financial backing in my face as a means of control.
The project is doomed if we continue on like we have been.
In the end, it’s about being happy. Yes, I want Scarlett in my life and I will do anything to get her back, if she’ll still have me.
But I’ll kill this deal regardless. Either way, she wins.
I might learn how to be happy, eventually, without Scarlett in my life. My days would go on without her. But I want her in it, and if there is any way to make it happen, I’m going for it.
Emma ambles in from the living room and reaches for me, giving me a hug with her jerky gait that’s half-violent in its intensity.
She shows me her iPad again, while hanging on to my arm. It’s a selfie of her and Scarlett they must have taken when she was here for dinner. Emma’s expression is very serious, and she’s focused on something to the side. Scarlett is smiling into the camera, her happy face sending sparks of longing through me. The craving to see her, touch her, make her smile, pounds through me like a physical ache.
“I know,” I tell Emma. “I’ll get her back.”
It takes a while for me to find Granny’s address in Blue Falls, Texas.
It’s going to take even longer to actually get there. But Oliver, surprisingly, helps.
“Okay, look,” he says when he shows up at my apartment, unannounced, the day after Christmas. The day after I ignored all his calls. “I know I’m an asshole. You win. Your fuckable cupcake lady can keep her little section, but that’s it, you don’t get anything else from me.”
“Oliver,” I cut him off with a sharp tone and then point at the girls on the couch.
Emma waves two hands at him, and Ava’s eyes are wide, brows up.
“Sorry for the language, ladies.” He lifts his hands in apology.
I rub my chin. “I’ll forgive you if you let me borrow your private jet.”
His hands come up again, this time in defense. “Woah, woah, woah, there, settle down Casanova. Why do you need my plane?”
“He’s going to get Scarlett back!” Ava yells. “It’s so romantic.”
Oliver grimaces.
“And you can stay here and watch the girls,” I tell him.
His eyes widen in panic. “No way. I’ll take Emma, but that’s it.”
“What?” Ava protests. “What about me?”
“Sorry. It’s just, you talk too much.”
“I was kidding.” I shake my head. “Clara is coming over in the morning to stay with them.”
He sighs. “Good. We can take my plane.” Then he grins at me.
I groan. “Fine. I guess I’ll let you come with me on your plane.”
I can’t believe he agreed at all, to be honest.
I’ve never flown on a private jet before and I’m not sure I could ever go back to first class. It’s efficient and quiet and comfortable and spacious. Sleek gray leather seats, no crowds, and actual decent food.
“Here.” Oliver taps on his cell and leans over the wide space between us to show me. “You can download an app to adjust the window tint and temperature and whatever you want to watch.” He gestures to the flat screen on the wall.
I shake my head. “You see Oliver, this is why you’re a dick.”
He shoves a bite of beluga caviar in his mouth and washes it down with champagne. “What do you mean?” His expression is the picture of innocence.
We land at the private airstrip and still have to drive almost an hour to get to the house. Oliver makes me drive. He probably doesn’t even know how.
The last leg of the trip is never-ending. When we’re finally cruising down a long gravel driveway, my heart is thumping, my palms are sweaty, and I start to wonder if I’m making a huge mistake and she’s going to tell me to go to hell.
“You look like you’re gonna spew,” Oliver says.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He shrugs.
The car comes to a stop and we exit the vehicle, stretching our limbs.
It’s a sprawling ranch-style home with orange shutters, red trim, blue shingles, and a vivid yellow rocking chair on the porch.
We jog up the front steps to the door. There’s a shotgun leaning up against the wall. Is that even legal?
I lift a hand to knock and before my knuckles can hit the wood, it swings open. At the door is an elderly woman with long gray braids, red overalls, and an antique wood pipe in her mouth.
“Gentlemen,” she greets us, talking around the lip of the pipe. A stream of bubbles blows out the bowl. She whoops and Oliver flinches next to me, startled by the piercing sound propelled from the little old lady.
“Granny?” I ask.
She cocks her head at me. “Are you a long-lost grandchild?”
“No. I’m trying to find Scarlett.”
Her eyes flash between me and Oliver and then narrow back on me. “Are you, now?”
“Is she here?”
She sighs and steps back. “I reckon y’all better come in.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m helping Granny change a light bulb in the foyer, while Oliver dusts a fan in the living room.
I’m not even really sure how this all came about. I had begun to explain why I was there, but then Granny went off about her rheumatism and the next thing I knew, we were helping her with chores. I still don’t even know if Scarlett is in the house somewhere, but I doubt it. It’s too quiet.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Granny tells me when I’m stepping down from the short ladder she had set up for me to reach the recessed lighting.
“Can we talk about Scarlett now?” I ask.
“I suppose it’s time. Come on into the kitchen, I made some sweet tea.”
I follow her into the open concept kitchen. There are high ceilings in here, too, along with top of the line stainless steel appliances, a double stove, and dark granite countertops.
I’m impressed.
She hands me a glass of tea. I thank her absently and take a sip.
Damn that’s more than sweet. I have to work to contain my initial, mouth-twisting reaction to the sugar content.
And then I notice the shotgun from the porch is propped against the counter, within reaching distance.
Not my reaching distance, hers.
“What are your intentions with my granddaughter?” Gone is the whimsical little old lady with the bubble pipe, and in her place is someone who might actually murder me.
“Did I mention I brought you a gift?”
One slender brow lifts and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you now?”
“Some champagne. I left it in the car.” Hijacked from Oliver’s plane. Thank God I had the foresight to grab it. I knew meeting Scarlett’s family for the first time necessitated some kind of gift. My parents taught me that much.
She purses her lips and nods at me. “You can get it later. For now, answer the question, young man.”
“My intentions . . .” I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair. “I want to make her smile,” I say finally.
She stares at me in stony silence for a few long seconds and then she grins. “That’s a good answer. A damn good answer. Go get the champagne, my boy.”
I nod and run out to the car. When I come back, Oliver is in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and grimacing at his own cup of sweet tea.
“Did you get the fans dusted?” I ask, enjoying the fact that Oliver had to participate in some kind of manual labor, probably for the first time in his life. I put the champagne in the fridge.
“I did. They actually weren’t very dusty.”
“It’s possible I had someone over earlier this week for cleaning before the holidays,” Granny reveals nonchalantly. “I had a boyfriend named Oliver once,” she adds.
“Did you now?” I ask.
“He was terrible in bed.”
Oliver chokes on his tea and I bark out a laugh.
“Where is Scarlett?” I ask.
Granny sighs. “She’s on her way back from the airport.”
My heart skips a beat and then resumes course, triple time. “She is?”
“She left this morning to head back to the city. But I texted her when you pulled up. She was already on her way back because her flight was cancelled. She and that Fred girl should be here any minute.”
Gravel crunches outside. Without another word, I sprint to the front door.