Page 12 of Better Not Pout
If it were at all up to me, then I’d skip overall of it. The decorations, the events, the holiday cheer. Christmas as a whole.
“Wells Jude McCoy, are you even listening to me?” My mother’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I press the phone tighter against my ear as I step out onto the sidewalk in front of the bar.
“Yep. I’m listening.”
I glance down at the stack of envelopes in my hand addressed to Sweet Sullivan’s and fight the urge to groan just as I did when I discovered the post office had delivered their mail to my box by mistake.
I’m sure Rosalie Sullivan is going tolovethe fact that I’m going to be hand delivering them back to her, giving her another opportunity to accuse me of stealing mail.
For fuck’s sake.
Whoreturnssomething after stealing it?
“So, you’re going to be here, right?” Mom asks, and I blow out a sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mom.”
I can practically see her smile through the speaker, and a pang hits me directly in the chest, adding to the guilt already piling up inside of me that the last place I want to be is stuck at my family’s cabin for three days, celebrating a holiday that I actually don’t give a shit about. Listening to the constant barrage of questions about “When are you going to settle down and find a good girl, Wells?” and “Isn’t it about time that you gave me some grandkids?”
I’d rather dip my balls in water and stick them to this frozen light pole if that were an alternative option.
“Oh, good. I can’t wait. I’ve already started planning activities, and your sister will email you the itinerary sometimethis week. I’m so excited, honey. It means so much to me that you’re going to be here this year.” Her tone is soft and hesitant, but mostly hopeful in a way that only makes me feel even more guilty.
Last year, I wasn’t in the headspace to do anything but wallow in my self-pity during the holidays, so I stayed home in Vancouver. I knew it disappointed her and made her sad, but I also knew that it was the better option than her seeing me like that.
I didn’t wantanyoneto see me like that.
I put the mail under my arm and turn toward the candy shop. “I know. It’ll be great. I’m glad we’ll all be able to be together for the holidays.”
“Me too, Wells. I love you, honey.”
“Love you too. Talk to you soon.”
We end the call, and I shove my phone back into the front pocket of my jeans with a weary sigh. Regardless of how badly I don’t want to go to the annual McCoy Christmas, I’m doing it for her.
A few years ago, she had a health scare that rattled all of us and shook the core of our family. Even more than when I got injured and my career ended as a result.
It was the first time that it felt real that one day we’re going to have to live without our parents.
The days in the hospital, the follow-up appointments, the fear. It changed things in our family, and somehow, it brought us all closer. And now Mom’sonlyask for Christmas? That we’re all under the same roof for three days, just spending time together.
I can survive a few days of Christmas activities.
I push open the door to Sweet Sullivan’s, the bell above my head jingling loudly as I step over the threshold and shut the door behind me.
Immediately, I’m assaulted by the smell of caramel hanging in the air, saccharine and overwhelming in a way that feels surprisingly comforting. Nostalgic almost. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the last couple of weeks while working on Well + Good. The sweet smell permeates through the walls between our buildings, and my entire bar smells like candy. At first, it annoyed me, mostly because all I could think about after meeting Rosalie Sullivan was how goddamn sweet everything around her seems to be and how she couldn’t be any further from that.
She’s an enigma that I can’t seem to stop thinking about, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t figure out why. What is it about her that’s filling up so much damn space in my head?
I spot her behind the counter, talking to a couple on the other side with a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes. One that feels forced, somehow.
Not that I’ve been paying enough attention around town all of the times I’ve seen her to know what kind of smiles she has.
But then again, this one does not feel like the blinding bright one she gives the kid at Frosty’s when he hands over that disgustingly sweet coffee that she orders.
Or the one that she wears when she’s walking down Main Street with her best friend and they’re giggling about God knows what.
It wasn’t that I noticed everything about her, but this town is the size of a shopping mall—it’s hard to miss anything.
