Page 3 of Not Your Valentine
“Bastard,” Whitney says.
I don’t really care. It’s not like I’m jealous of his new woman—ha!—but I do appreciate my friends calling him “bastard” and other colorful terms.
Still, it does seem unfair. Even though I don’t want a relationship right now, it feels wrong that he’s found himself in a relationship again before me.
After my friends get tired of cussing out Charlie, they jokingly suggest other resolutions for me, such as learning how to play the bagpipes (I’m sure my neighbors would love that), keeping my closet perfectly clean (as if), and no longer spending an hour scrolling through Netflix without actually watching something. (Yes, this is a terrible waste of time and I shouldn’t do so much of it, but I refuse to set resolutions that won’t be kept.)
Last New Year’s Eve, Charlie wanted to go to a club, and for some reason, I agreed to this appalling suggestion, even though I don’t like crowds, dancing, or loud music. Being single and hanging out with friends is definitely an improvement.
I help myself to some cheese, lamenting the fact that the charcuterie chalet is more than half finished, but then Esther heads to the kitchen and returns with another charcuterie chalet—I can’t believe she made two—and another bottle of wine.
Yep, this party is just getting started.
At twelve forty-five, I get on the subway with a bunch of people who are drunker than I am. A few are wearing sparkly accessories, and I can’t say I’m sad to be without a pair of dollar-store glasses with the year on them. And while it’s New Year’s, not Christmas, that hasn’t stopped someone from singing a very off-tune version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Another year, another trip on the TTC.
I’m waiting for the bus when I get a text from Taylor.
Happy New Year! We should hang out soon.
Taylor Li is the only high school friend that I still talk to regularly, and that’s mostly because of his efforts, not mine. He’s really good at keeping in touch with people, even slightly grumpy homebodies like myself, and he always has suggestions for things to do. He knows obscure festivals and new restaurants, whereas I tend to forget every restaurant in Toronto whenever someone asks me where I want to go for dinner, my mind blanking after Swiss Chalet and McDonald’s.
Sure, I say. I’m off work this coming week. The university where I work is closed for two weeks around Christmas and New Year’s. In addition to giving me plenty of time for my nonexistent resolutions, my week off will make it easy to meet him wherever he likes.
He replies with some inexplicable emojis and says he’ll talk to me soon.
I wonder what kind of New Year’s event he’s at right now, and if it includes charcuterie chalets. I also wonder how the hell he manages to keep track of all the people in his life. Not my strong suit, I admit.
As I’m contemplating this, a drunk guy stumbles backward and knocks me on my ass. I try to get up, but my foot can’t find purchase on the ice, and I consider just giving up and lying here for the night. Then I realize that my bed is warmer than this, and I stumble to my feet.
“I’m sooooo sorry,” he slurs.
“It’s okay,” I say.
I think my ass is a touch bruised, but I’m otherwise fine, and it’s not like I see being knocked on my ass at one thirty in the morning on New Year’s as an omen that I’m going to have a shitty year. I don’t believe in signs or messages from the universe.
Finally, the bus arrives, and when I get home, I discover the heat is out.
Well, this really is a great start to the year, but like I said, I don’t believe in signs. This year will, with any luck, be spectacularly uneventful.
Chapter 2
At eleven in the morning, I’m downing coffee and preparing to go to my parents’ house for a late New Year’s Day lunch. My heat is back on, and I haven’t managed to go viral in the first eleven hours of the year, so that’s a plus. I’m also not hungover, but I didn’t expect to be. Three glasses of wine aren’t enough to give me a hangover.
On the downside? My ass is a bit sore, as expected.
After feeding Lucifer (my disapproving goldfish), I get in my car and drive the short distance to my childhood home. As soon as I step inside, my whole family descends on the front hall before I’ve even taken off my boots.
First, there’s my parents. Then my little sister, Shirley.
If you think Helen and Shirley are old-fashioned names, well, my mother’s baby name book was published in 1961. She proudly told me she got it for a nickel at a garage sale.
Shirley, her short black hair longer on top than the sides, looks a bit like Melissa King from Top Chef. She’s accompanied by her fiancée, Bec Schwartz.
“Ah, Helen,” Dad says, “we were about to give up on you!”
He’s joking. I’m all of five minutes late.
