Chapter 22 Jonny
Jonny
SHE’S GONE
When I step in my parents’ front door, Christmas morning hits me like a tidal wave of noise and color. Kids in matching pajamas race between piles of wrapping paper, Bing Crosby croons in the background, and the scent of baking cinnamon rolls fills the air.
It should feel warm and comforting—this is my favorite day of the year. Instead, I’m numb. My mind keeps replaying how it felt to wake up alone. To find a note on my pillow saying Thanks for a beautiful December. To call and call and get no response. To realize that she left without saying goodbye.
That she’s gone.
“Uncle Jonny!” Emma shrieks when she spots me, and then all the nieces and nephews are swarming me, hands tugging at mine, voices overlapping as they tell me what Santa brought them. I try to smile, but my face feels weird, and I’m not sure it’s working.
“Hey, kids,” Annabel says gently, stepping in. “Let’s give Uncle Jonny a second, okay?”
I blink at her. She looks worried. Actually, everyone does. My mom is perched on the arm of Dad’s recliner, fingers laced with his. Kara’s on the couch, Kyle standing behind her. Bianca and Chad sit on the floor amid torn wrapping paper. Every single one of them is watching me.
My brother comes up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You good, man?”
“It’s Christmas morning.” I manage a shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be good?”
Isaac studies me for a second. “Yeah,” he says finally.
Mom catches my eye across the room, her expression full of concern. “Jonny…?”
“Keep unwrapping,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll be right back.”
I make it to the kitchen doorway and stop, pressing my palm to the doorframe like it’s the only thing holding me up. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe.
I’m fine. It’s fine. Shira’s gone, and it’s completely, absolutely, fucking fine.
“You’re moping.”
I turn to see Bianca a few feet away, watching me. “No, I’m not.”
She nods. “Like the time in eighth grade when you got grounded for stealing lip gloss for that girl you liked.”
“Just need a cup of coffee,” I mutter.
“Shira left this morning?” Chad says as he comes over to stand next to his wife, and I nod. “Are y’all going to see each other again?”
Twenty-four hours ago, I would’ve bet on it—some kind of future, however complicated, waiting for us to figure it out. But now? Feels like she already gave me her answer, and I’d be an idiot not to take the hint.
So I shrug. “Probably not.”
“Wait, you just let her leave?” Bianca asks, sounding incredulous.
Not really up to me. My jaw clenches, and my voice comes out flat: “Drop it, B.”
Of course, I know damn well she’s not going to drop it.
She’s studying me with her eyes narrowed, like she’s mentally drafting the longest sisterly lecture of all time.
Over in the living room, the kids have gone back to playing with their toys, but the adults have all stopped their conversation, watching us while trying to look like they’re not.
Bianca sighs, shaking her head. “Well, it was bound to happen anyway. I heard she was dating someone back in Chicago, but he wanted to take a break when she came here.”
I glare at her. “And you’re telling me this now because…?”
“Because she’s probably going to get back together with him once she gets home.”
It’s like a bucket of ice hits me. “The fuck? Are you serious?”
She shrugs. “That’s what I heard.”
The room tilts. All of a sudden, it makes a horrible kind of sense—this really was just an interlude for her, a vacation from her real life.
I can see it in my mind: Shira rolling her bags through Midway Airport, coming outside to see some guy waiting at arrivals.
Some fucking asshole moron who clearly doesn’t deserve her, because why would anyone want a “break” from a woman like her?
I imagine her eyes lighting up when she spots him, those big brown eyes I already miss so much it hurts, and my stomach bottoms out.
Jealousy, devastation, regret—it all crashes into me so hard I almost choke.
“That can’t—I can’t—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My voice cracks on the last word.
I’m breathing too fast, chest heaving. I can’t stop imagining it: Shira running to him, putting her arms around him. Kissing him. And then my brain decides to really torture me as it jumps forward through the years. Wedding dress. Picket fence. Babies.
I want to throw up. Or punch a hole in the wall. Or both.
I’m not sure who I hate more—this nameless, faceless guy, or myself. Because I’m the fucking asshole moron. I let her leave. I let her slip out of my hands, and now she’s going to slip right back into his.
“I’m kidding, Jonny,” Bianca says softly.
The words barely register. The entire room is a blur, and my heart’s a jackhammer against my ribs. “What?”
“I’m kidding,” she repeats. “But you should’ve seen your face.”
The details of the room slide back into focus: the Christmas tree, wrapping paper all over the floor, and my older sister smirking like we’re kids again, and she just ate my dessert.
I lunge toward her, forgetting momentarily that I’ve got six inches and more than fifty pounds on her—
“Whoa there,” Chad says, stepping between us with his hand on my chest. “That’s my wife. Back off.”
I stop instantly, breathing hard; of course, I’m not going to tackle her. Even if I really, really want to.
“You’re my least favorite sister,” I growl, pointing at her.
Over from the couch, Kara pumps her fist. “Yes!”
“And you…” Chad turns to Bianca. “I love you, but that was a shitty thing to do.”
She puts a hand on her hip, staring straight at me. “Or was it brilliant? Because you know how you feel about her now, right?”
I pause, running a hand down my face. How do I feel?
Well, my ribs feel like they’ve splintered. My heart feels like it’s bruised all over. My eyes are stinging, my stomach is churning, and my throat is so tight and swollen I’m not sure I could force a single word out.
When I look up again, Bianca’s staring at me, her face softening. “Oh. You’re in love with her,” she whispers, almost like she can’t believe it herself.
I swallow past the thick lump in my throat, forcing out the truth I’ve been avoiding for days. “Yeah.”
My mother gasps softly.
The room goes quiet, then Annabel stands and says, “Does she know that?”
I shake my head.
“The question is,” Isaac says, putting an arm around his wife, “what are you going to do about it?”
I look past them at the rest of the room.
My mom and sisters have tears in their eyes, Kyle and Chad are giving me nods of solidarity, and Dad’s just stroking his beard, as if he knew it all along.
Even the little kids are watching. My family: loud, messy, chaotic, but mine.
For so long, I’ve felt like the odd one out, but the truth is, they’ve been in my corner all along.
Maybe they don’t fully understand me, and they sure as shit won’t ever stop teasing me…
but they love me unconditionally. Always have.
Just took a few weeks of actually sticking around for me to recognize it.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten up. “I need to talk to her. Face to face, before she leaves. Just hope I can get there in time.”
Isaac nods, satisfied.
“Well, start movin’,” Dad booms from his recliner. “You’re burnin’ daylight, for God’s sake.”
Bianca opens her mouth, ready to scold Dad for language, then sighs and holds up her hand before I can even state the obvious.
“I know,” she says, then smiles at me. “Go get your girl.”
The entire way to the airport, I drive twenty over the speed limit, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
There’s no traffic, thank Christ (literally, thank you baby Jesus and everyone celebrating your birth by staying the fuck home), and I’m sending up frantic prayers that I don’t blow past some highway patrolman who’s got a chip on his shoulder because he got stuck working Christmas morning.
Please, God, Santa, whoever’s on shift up there—just let me make it in time.
My eyes keep jerking to the clock on the dash, watching the minutes flick by.
She had to return the rental car, then she’ll have to check her bags.
Hopefully, I’ll catch her before she goes through security, but even if I don’t, I have a plan B: buy a ticket on her flight.
Or the next one after that, or the next one after that.
And if all else fails, I’ve got a plan C: charter a goddamn plane to Chicago.
Finally, I pull up to the departures area of the terminal and screech to a stop, not even bothering with short-term parking. Hardly anyone’s around, and what’s the worst that can happen? The truck gets impounded? I’ll deal with that later.
I hop out of the truck and slam the door shut, heading for the automatic doors—
“Jonny!”
I turn. And there she is, about thirty yards down the empty sidewalk with her suitcase, just outside another set of automatic doors.
“Shira?” I call, starting in her direction.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she shouts back.
Probably not the ideal response, given what I’m planning to say to her, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter. All I want is a chance to tell her how I feel. She can decide what she wants to do with it.
“I need to talk to you,” I say, my heart rate quickening as I get closer. “Last night? What you said about how holidays can’t last forever, or they won’t be special?”
She nods, confused.
I stop about six feet away from her. “That’s bullshit.”
It comes out sharper than I mean, and her eyebrows jump. Guess I’m not winning any awards for romantic speeches this morning.