And, of course, whenhehangs up, it works.
Ugh!
When I met him, I was Jennie’s age.He was older, confident—the kind of man who walks into rooms knowing he is the smartest person there.He became my friend.Supportive.Sweet.So sure about us.Waited for me to be ready to date afterThe One We Don’t Talk About, wooed me.
As a doctor, he didn’t flinch when he saw the port I still had.Promised he knew exactly what he was getting into.He sold me on a version of us that felt safe.Real.Like the kind of future people toast to.And we did.
For a while, I believed we did.
And maybe it wasn’t all fake.
But during our relationship, I learned how to walk on eggshells in my own home, to brace myself for him finding faults in what I did or didn’t do without ever taking accountability for himself, to not laugh too hard because it wasn’t“becoming.”
To not bring up cancer or my fatigue or my fears because I needed to be strong“for my own good.”
And I believed him.I played the part because I helped write the script until the scenes kept changing.Until my role kept shrinking and getting sadder.
And it’s not my job to keep molding myself into someone smaller or shinier (too much one moment, not enough the next), to match whatever version of me made him taller, brighter, the superhero of a story I was never meant to star in.
At least that’s what my therapist says.
Needing a palate cleanser from Chuck, I press play again.
“You’re mine, mi amore.”The narrator’s voice drags thanks to my car’s dying speaker system before catching up to itself, and his deep timbre rumbles through my ancient Honda Civic with crystal clarity.Thank you, universe.
This audiobook may be the only love story in my future.But hey, at least I’ve got my vibrator for orgasms: reliable, rechargeable, really efficient and bullshit-resistant.
Go, me.
An hour later, I’m still lost.My Honda Civic smells of burnt Pop-Tart, the GPS won’t stop recalculating, and through the speakers, Dante has given Catharina three orgasms and a back massage.
I glance down.Still no Spencer Road.Cool, cool, cool.
Right as Dante is about to show Catharina again how much he cares, the ringtone with Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” belts through Bluetooth.
“Eve!”Multiple voices explode through my speakers, startling Dorothy into dachshund parkour against the window despite being securely attached, while Blanche hides underneath her paws.
“You at the B&B?”Poppy asks.
“Any Bigfoot sightings?”Julie adds.
“Or sexy lumberjacks who read poetry?”Harper chimes in.“Also.Send pictures.But be careful.Julie’s picky about pictures.She’s threatening to block me.”
“I will block you,” Julie replies.“You send me one more picture of my brother making you breakfast in a Santa costume and I will erase you from my contacts.”
“He looked good.”
“Gross.That’s my brother.”
“You asked for pictures!”
“Of the Christmas Tree, Harper.The Christmas Tree.”
“Ohhh… I don’t think I should send you picture of his Christmas Tree.It’s a Redwood… if you know what I mean.”
“Delete my number!”
I snort, surprising myself.Apparently, I’m still capable of amusement under layers of cynicism.A Christmas miracle.
