Page 62 of False Start

"In Cory's defense," Adam begins, "he's been way more tolerable since the wedding. I think I even saw him smile at family dinner a few weeks ago."

"Fuck you, man," I snort.

"But that wasweeksago," Noah continues like I never spoke. "Since then, he's been moping around like someone kicked his puppy."

"Did something happen, bro?" Adam asks. His face is so earnest. I want to tell him. Want to share the burden of this all-consuming heartbreak. But he's a newlywed, and Maya and I were just starting to get over our beef. Better for everyone to keep thinking I'm a miserable asshole.

"Just work stuff," I lie. "It feels like I'll never get a promotion, no matter how hard I work." Which is, sadly, true. Noah puts his hand on my shoulder.

"You should leave that place. Every time you talk about it, you're either complaining or telling us about some wild shit that legit sounds like hazing."

"And go where?" I challenge. "The pay is insane, even as a grunt."

"But you could do the same thing somewhere else, right?" Adam asks hopefully. "Somewhere you don't get passed up for a promotion every year?"

"Maybe," I hedge. "Lets catch up with Damon."

I jog ahead while Noah and Adam lag behind, likely talking shit about me. They're the biggest gossips of all of us.

I don't want to talk about work. I don't want to talk about Denise. I just want to get through the holidays and hope the new year brings some fresh distractions.

Chapter twenty-six

Denise

Thetrainpullstoa stop, and the tightness in the pit of my stomach intensifies. Through the window, the familiar sign greets me.

WELCOME TO

Mount Vernon

Home of

Fleetwood Neighborhood Association

There aren't many people on the platform when I exit. Everyone's probably already sitting down for Christmas dinner. Asking each other about school or work. Getting tipsy off grandma's eggnog.That used to be me.

Back when I was welcome, I'd be helping Mom baste the turkey one last time, or maybe checking out the game with Dad. Christmases were always good for Andre; he and I used to joke it was our annual Christmas miracle. Some years, it was the only good day in the middle of a month-long low. For whatever reason, the holiday just put him in a good mood.

We'd wake up early—often before the sun was up—to open presents. Dad didn't allow lists or hints; we just had to use what we knew about each other to try to pick the perfect gift. Then we'd take pictures in the matching pajamas Mom insisted we wear before getting started on Christmas dinner. Mom went all out every year, making fish, poultry, beef and pork, along with enough sides to feed a small army. Meanwhile, Andre would be the DJ, playing all the classics and trying to steal tastes of everything behind Mom's back.

Now, I take the turn off Fleetwood Avenue towards North Fulton Avenuealone. Mom and Dad aren't waiting for me. Andre isn't setting the table. The only presents I get these days are from my girls, when we do our annual "Friendsmas" dinner the week before.

Or wedid. Things are still tense with Maya, so it was just Tiff and I exchanging gifts over drinks. She bought me a sketchbook embossed with my initials and a really nice set of pastels. I bought her several items from her Sephora wish list, plus a box set of "Three's Company" as a gag gift. She just rolled her eyes.

It was low key, but nice. Even though I could tell Tiffany was bummed that we weren't all together, and that she had to play referee between two grown women. I gave her Maya's gift—a gold bangle inlaid with blue topaz; her birthstone—to take when she saw her. It was personalized, so I couldn't return it, and we'd avoided each other any time we were at the center.

Cancelling "Friendsmas" had been a hard pill to swallow. Work was on break and, with no other plans, I spent my nights procrastinating on my designs and wondering whether Cory would've gotten me something if we were still together. For goodness' sake, it's beenweeksand I'm still not over it. I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment.

That would certainly explain why I still visit home, despite never receiving an invitation from my parents. I still take the train past the Bronx to the Fleetwood stop. Still walk the fifteen minutes in the cold and slush to peek through their window and see what their life is like without me.Do they still do the big spread? Do they have people over now that their kids are gone?

The first couple years after Andre…left, they didn't do anything at all. I came home to a house with no decorations and the curtains drawn. They were home,—their cars were in the driveway like always—but they clearly weren't celebrating. There wasn't anything for themtocelebrate.

But the past few years have been different.

One year, the house was decorated, but Dad's car was gone. From what I could tell while shivering in the bushes, they weren't home.Maybe they went on vacation?

Another year, I saw Ms. Edith, our next-door neighbor, ringing their doorbell. Music was playing when Mom opened the door, and she was wearing the holly and ivy apron she used to wear every Christmas. I hid behind Mr. Flemming's mailbox and cried, watching Mom hug a neighbor while I couldn't remember the last time she'd hugged me.

---