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The morning after the nightclub, I stare bleary eyed into my fridge, assessing the contents for their potential as a hangover cure. My head pounds, making it hard to focus, and all I can see are fruits and veggies. I groan and slam the door shut, wincing at the clinking of the bottles in the door smashing together. I don’t need fibre and other healthy stuff this morning. I need something greasy, and I need it fast.
Not that I am actually in any condition to cook for myself. It is moments like this that it is really clear how much being single sucks. If Greg was here, I could lounge in bed with the curtains closed, while he fetched me ibuprofen for my headache and whipped me up some eggs and bacon to deal with the nausea.
Not that Greg ever once made me breakfast during our marriage. It didn’t matter though, because I enjoyed cooking for him. Besides, if Greg were here, I wouldn’t have a hangover. Or at least, I would have a completely different kind. Nausea bubbles up in my throat, and I shove it and thoughts of Greg down. I can’t let myself puke in my kitchen, and I can’t let everything remind me of what I am missing with Greg.
I have a great life. I have an amazing job—Mia Grady notwithstanding—and I have three fabulous kids.
Wait! I think as gleefully as I can with a hangover this severe. I have kids. Jake can make breakfast. As quickly as the thought comes, I clamp down hard on it. What kind of mother would wake her ten-year-old son up to make hangover food?
One more point against me. I am pretty sure that Julia doesn’t even get hangovers—not nasty ones like this anyway—never mind actually considering getting a kid to take care of her while she is recovering. No, she would take them on a fabulous trip to Mexico.
This might be my rock bottom right here.
Then, because this morning isn’t already crappy enough, it hits me. Jake isn’t even here. He, of course, is at his dad’s house, because I needed a babysitter so that I could go out for my forty-fifth birthday and get smashed like a college kid.
My chest tightens. I miss being married so much. When you are married, there is always somebody there to hold your hair when you puke. I shudder at the realization that I haven’t washed my hair yet, and there is a very good chance it has vomit in it.
Last night did not end on one of my finer moments.
I should have gone with my first instinct not to go to the nightclub. I knew I was too emotionally fragile in the aftermath of the complete wreckage of my marriage for the nightclub to turn into anything other than a train wreck. Yes, I know I am being dramatic about the whole situation and leaving out that there was an entire divorce before yesterday, but this is my life, and I can make it into a drama if I want to. Because, even on a good day, watching young, nubile bodies shimmy and shake in their barely-there outfits while the men watch entranced would be enough to shove me over an emotional cliff.
And yesterday was definitely not a good day.
Last night’s timeline is a little fuzzy, but I am pretty sure that I was at the nightclub for less than ten minutes before I downed my second tequila shot. It might even have been Charlotte’s. I paid for it last night—puking enough to last the rest of my forties—and I am still paying for it today.
Learning that you never have to do tequila shots is one of those pieces of wisdoms that you are supposed to glean by the time you hit middle age. Turns out that proper usage of alcohol is just one more place where I am failing at adulting.
Something soft rubs against my leg, and I look down to find my brown tabby cat, Tigger, winding between my legs. My other two cats are skittish and would never get this close to my feet when I am standing. But Tigger doesn’t care. If I am in the kitchen, then he is right there.
He lets out a meow, soft and mournful, asking for food. I bend to stroke him on the head, promising I will get him his favourite wet food in just a moment. He isn’t satisfied with my promises and continues mewing at me.
“Fine,” I say more curtly than is fair. I grab a can of cat food out of the cupboard, yanking the lid off. A movement outside catches my eye, and I glance out the window over my sink, which just happens to face my neighbour’s place.
I freeze, letting the metal lid clatter onto the counter as I witness the scene on my neighbour’s front step. Greg—my Greg—pulls Julia into his arms and gives her the kind of knee melting kiss he used to give me. A mix of rage and devastation swirls up through me, threatening to release my inner crazy. What is he even doing there this early in the morning? He isn’t supposed to be bringing Jake back until the afternoon.
I shove down the thought. I can’t think about it. My mind is in too dark of a place to be trusted with it.
I can almost hear Julia titter sweetly from where I am standing in my kitchen—wearing nothing but my ratty bathrobe, my puke hair pulled up in a messy bun, and who knows what kind of damage on my face from the makeup that I was too drunk to take off last night—as she receives my ex-husband’s kiss.
Even at this time of the morning, Julia is perfectly put together and Christmassy in a holly green skirt that stops mid thigh and a red cashmere sweater that clings to her curves. The deep V neckline reveals just the right amount of perky boob.
No wonder Greg is marrying her. The truth is that I let myself go. I was too busy looking after everybody else to take care of me. I was too busy running our kids around town to have time to shop for a sexy new robe or go to the gym to sculpt my body into something that could actually pull off anything sexier than terry cloth.
I need to look away. Just like I should have walked away yesterday. But I am unable to tear my eyes away from the romantic scene unfolding in front of me. As much as it hurts, I can’t stop watching.
Then Julia leans down and kisses Jake on his cheek. My stomach flips over, and anger and something I can’t identify shoots through me. I was so focussed on Greg that I didn’t even notice my son. She might have stolen Greg, but Jake is mine, and she can’t have him.
I rip myself away. I can’t watch. About six months ago, Jake entered that wonderful stage where boys decide it is too embarrassing to get kisses from their mothers. He has been spurning my kisses for months, and yet there he is, happily receiving one from Miss Julia Homewrecker.
Okay, so I have no actual proof that Julia and Greg got up to anything nefarious before our divorce. I hadn’t even moved to this neighbourhood yet, but it is everything that women like her stand for that is messing me up.
I bolt through the house, abandoning Tigger’s food on the counter, searching for my purse. I need to talk to my daughters. I need to hear them confirm they are still coming over for Christmas. Finally, I find it by the front door where I abandoned it when I came stumbling in last night. I paw through it, desperately trying to find my phone, praying it will have enough battery left that I can make the call.
I dial Lillian first. She is more of a morning person than Abigail and much more likely to be awake. Although, who knows? Neither of my daughters have reached that wonderful stage in a woman’s life where you wake up early no matter how late you were up the night before or how much you had to drink. Just another one of those amazing, middle-aged mother bonuses.
“Mom,” Lillian says cheerfully. “I was just about to call you and tell you the amazing news.”
I grimace. Her cheerfulness is like a hammer against my headache. “Oh, that's great, honey,” I say distractedly. I need to get this thing off my chest before I hear whatever exciting news she is bursting to tell me. “I was just phoning to confirm our Christmas plans.” This day is not going to go down as one of my parenting wins, but I am too lost in my own desperation to stop myself from talking over her. “Greg is getting remarried, and Jake is going with his dad for the honeymoon, so it’s just us girls. We have a chance to do something really special.”
“Um... Mom...”
A fist grips my heart. I don’t actually need to hear what Lillian has to say to know that I am not going to like it. I have been her mother for twenty-three years. I know she is about to disappoint me.
“So, Mom, there’s been a change of plans,” she says rapidly, like maybe if she just gets it out it will go easier. “Dad offered to get ski packages for us for the holidays, and Abigail and I were hoping we can swap Christmases.”
My head pounds, the anxiety coursing through me making the hangover ten thousand times worse. I wouldn’t be able to deal with this appropriately if I was at my best, and today, I am a wreck. Whatever I say next is guaranteed to be the wrong thing.
“No. You’re not going.”
“But, Mom—”
“No. Nothing you can say is going to convince me. Did you hear what I said? I’m already losing Jake over the holidays. You girls are coming.”
There is a long pause on the other end of the phone, and I can sense Lillian trying to gather herself to deal with my irrationality. On another day, I would make it easy for her, but I just don’t have it in me.
“Mom.” It feels like she is choosing her words carefully, and it makes my already aching heart throb with regret. “I know you’re upset about Greg. But it shouldn’t be a surprise. They’ve been engaged for a while now. Abigail and I are going skiing with Dad. I know it’s upsetting for you, but we’re adults. It’s our choice.”
I sink to the floor, pulling my knees up to my chest, wrapping one arm around them to pull them in tight. The other hand clutches my phone like it’s a lifeline. I was the only one who didn’t know.
Don’t do this to me, I silently beg. But I have just enough control over myself to know that I can’t do that to my daughter.
“I know,” I choke out. “Sorry. I’m a little off this morning.”
“So, your birthday party went well then?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” she says with a brightness that, even over the phone, I can tell is false. “We’ll have some fun Sunday night at dinner when we celebrate as a family.”
I have hurt her, and I will have to make it up to her later. I am her mother, and I should be happy that she is getting to experience exciting things. And I am. I just need a moment to get past my own disaster.
Tigger nudges his way onto my lap, and I stroke his head, struggling to find my equilibrium, even as my eyes stray to the tree in the corner of the living room. It is decorated with a mix of ornaments made by my kids and artsy decorations I have picked up at craft fairs over the years. Yesterday, it was beautiful. Today, it is just a glaring reminder that I am not getting my Christmas wish. Maybe I will take it down when Jake leaves with his dad on Sunday night.
“Yeah, it’ll be great, honey.” I force the words out between my frozen lips. I might be melting down again, but I am still Lillian’s mother. Normally, the idea of having a birthday celebration with my kids would bring me joy, but today it just makes me sad. Greg will not be there. It is going to feel more like a funeral for our family than a party.
“Don’t worry about Christmas, Mom. It will all work out. We’ll video chat and everything. I promise. And it’s better this way. It means that next year we’ll all be there together instead of Jake ending up on a different year from us. You’ll see.”
I try to listen as she babbles on about the exciting things her dad has planned for her. But I really can’t focus. When the call finally ends, I let the hand holding my phone drop to the floor. Except for the headache and the slightly nauseated feeling in my stomach, I am completely numb.
Tigger purrs in my lap, oblivious to my inner turmoil. My other two cats watch warily from the couch, bracing themselves to bolt if I move too quickly.
Kelsey was right. I am spending Christmas alone.
––––––––
TWO HOURS LATER, I am still lying on the floor, curled in the fetal position, when my phone wakes me.
“Ruby! I was not expecting you to be out of bed this morning.”
“Wow.” I wince at the shrill volume of her voice. “You’re awfully chipper this morning.”
Charlotte’s melodic laughter sweeps across the phone, making me wince again. She obviously was more careful about how much she drank last night than I was. Of course, I remember drinking at least two of her drinks, so maybe this really is more about me being out of control than her being able to moderate her alcohol intake while navigating the nightclub jungle.
“Sorry. I can't help it. I just confirmed with my parents that I’m not going on the cruise. And it felt so unbelievably freeing.”
“So, you're really going with Kelsey?” Even with a serious hangover, I am still leery of any plan that Kelsey comes up with.
“Oh yes,” Charlotte says more enthusiastically than I can handle. “I was dreading going on that cruise. Her plan basically saved me. But the bigger question is how are you this morning? I mean, besides the obvious.”
I groan and hug my legs tighter, tipping Tigger onto the floor. He glares at me, then strides away to join his sisters on the couch, leaving me sitting on the floor like a fool.
After I got off the phone with Lillian, I made the mistake of calling Abigail and trying to convince her to choose me. Turns out she is more resolute than her sister. They are going to Greg and Julia’s wedding, then they are going skiing with their dad. There is nothing I can offer that will compete.
“Actually,” I say, my voice trembling. “I'm not doing too good.”
“What happened? Do I need to kick Greg’s ass?” All of Charlotte’s cheerfulness comes to a screeching halt.
I try to smile at the vision of Charlotte taking down Greg—dealing with jerks is more Marisol’s area—but I just can't seem to bring it up from the depths. The last twenty-four hours have been too much, and I have got nothing left.
“Probably.” The tears start to leak out of the corners of my eyes. “But it’s me that’s the problem, not him. I’m the one nobody wants to be with.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lillian and Abigail are going on a ski trip with Fred, and I'm spending Christmas alone.” I completely crumble. I tip over on my side, pulling my knees tight to my chest in the fetal position. “Yesterday, I thought everything was turning around,” I croak. “But I was delusional. Everything is a mess.”
“I'm on my way over.” Charlotte says in her no nonsense, this-is-the-way-it-is-going-to-happen voice. The one she uses at work when she is really serious.
And she is serious. I can hear her getting ready in the background. I know I should protest and tell her not to come. But I just don't have it in me, and I want her here.
“You're not spending Christmas alone. You’re coming with us.”
“I can't,” I sob. “Christmas is all about my family. And if they’re not there, then it's not Christmas.”
There is a shift in the call's quality as Charlotte’s phone connects to the Bluetooth in her vehicle. “I'll be there soon, but I'm hanging up on you now. Don’t go anywhere. I'm going to grab some of those donuts you love. And I'm going to call Kelsey. You’re spending Christmas with us.”
The call disconnects, and I let the phone fall to the floor. I pull my knees tighter against me and let the sobs loose. Charlotte is going to do everything she can to fix this, but she can’t. All I want for Christmas is for my family to be together again.
Instead, I am spending Christmas in Christmas Cove with my mostly single, middle-aged friends. What a nightmare.