Alex flips them all the double bird, making them cackle, his mom loudest of everyone, then says to me, soft in my ear, “It sounds like a prescription.”
I turn toward him. “Ooh,yes, that’s it!”
“For erectile dysfunction,” he whispers.
A laugh wheezes out of me. “That sparked my joy!”
“Good.” His gaze settles on my smile. “Because that laugh sparks my joy.”
I clutch his hand beneath the table and force myself to look away, to meet his family’s eyes, these people who hardly know me, so willing to show me love.
Alex threads our fingers together and squeezes. “Happy Day, Ted.”
I glance his way and squeeze back. “Happy Day, Alex.”
When I bend over my cake to blow out the candles, I catch a whiff of sweet-spiced pumpkin, rich-tart cream cheese. A fresh wave of tears threatens to spill. He remembered what I said about pumpkin. He told them. And they made this cake, for me.
I shut my eyes, draw in a breath, then blow out, in one long, grateful gust, every candle on my cake.
CHAPTER 24THEN
December 31, two winters ago
I started therapy the first week of December, and it sucks.
Alex reassured me it gets better, after a while. He said it’s like prep for cooking, arduous and frustrating, seemingly busywork, feeling like too much effort for not enough reward. But you have to do it, because in the end, the meal you sit down to is only as good as everything you put into giving it a strong foundation.
I want to believe him. I’m hoping I won’t have to believe him, that soon I’ll know it for myself. Right now, though, it’s hard.
It probably doesn’t help that this is the busiest, most stressful time of year at work and also the start of cold and flu season, so all month, staff has dropped left and right with various illnesses, and I’ve been constantly scrambling to cover for that. Then, of course, there’s the fact that I just weathered my first divorced Christmas. Usually, I love the holidays. This year, I’ve felt like a Scrooge.
“Another one?” the bartender asks us.
I look to Alex, sitting beside me on the neighboring barstool. He turns to the bartender and says, “Very much, yes.”
I laugh a little. We’re both tipsy. Exhausted. Spent. I drove to Columbus for Christmas mostly out of guilt. My dad hasn’t fully bounced back from the angioplasty, and I pictured my mom stressed by caring for him, doing everything herself, because for some reason, she’d insisted on hosting Christmas, not just Thanksgiving, too. Then my brother texted to say he’d be there. If Matt was coming, I knew I was, too.
Alex had Mia Christmas Eve, at his parents’, where Jen apparently came for a visit that wasn’t too strained. After Mia told them it made her sad they hadn’t been together at Thanksgiving, they decided to make an effort to share the holiday for her. Christmas Day, Alex dropped by his old house and watched Mia open presents, then made a brief appearance at Jen’s parents’, where things were slightly more strained, thanks to Ethan’s presence.
We talked on the phone for hours Christmas Eve and Christmas Day nights, and when I told Alex it was the only good part of the holiday for me, he said, “Yeah, Ted, me, too. Well, with the exception of Mia tearing open her presents. She was feral. And we definitely did a divorce guilt amount of gift giving, so there wasa lotof carnage.”
I laughed when he said that. I think it was the only time I laughed all December, before tonight.
Alex, like me, does not look like he’s been feeling the holiday spirit, either. He’s slumped over the bar, shoulders rounded.
Above us, strung across the ceiling, is truly an astronomical number of colored string lights, and dangling from them, dozens of oversized Christmas ornaments. It’s karaoke night at Bob’s Garage, and a couple on the other side of the room are singing “WhatAre You Doing New Year’s Eve?,” only slightly off key but with so much heart and mutual infatuation it makes me want to throw up. Or throw something.
I glance around and sigh. Everyone around us does not seem to have gotten the memo that it is not the season to be merry.
“Why did we come here again?” I ask.
Alex swings his head my way. “Because we were trying to cheer up and not spend New Year’s Eve wallowing in self-pity?”
“That’s right.” I drop my head on his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s working.”
“It’s not,” he admits.
The bartender slides our whiskey sours right into our hands, giving us a sympathetic glance. “On the house,” he says. “You two look like you could use it.”