Chapter 32
CHRISTMAS EVE
Igroan and roll out of bed, pop a few Motrin, and drag my ass to the shower. My body aches. My legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.
The shower is surprisingly rejuvenating. I stand under the hot water until the steam turns the bathroom into a sauna—until my skin is practically burning. Until I feel—if not better, then at least clean.
When I finally get out, I wrap myself in a towel and shuffle back to my room. I sit down in front of my closet and sigh.
What does one wear for Depressed Girl Christmas?
Or maybe Grieving Girl Christmas—that one has some nice alliteration.
A Very Heartbroken Holiday.
You know what? Screw this D-list Hallmark movie. I might be alone, but that doesn’t mean I have to be lonely. Christmas doesn’t need fixing—I do. And I can make the best of this holiday, with or without a family, a best friend, or a man.
Besides, my sexy holiday drawer has never made me cry. Or feel unwanted.
I dig out my favorite holiday dress—a short satin slip with a cowl neck in holly-berry red. I shrug into it, slide on sheer black tights, and toe into my patent heels like I’m about to crash a Christmas party and take my heartbreak out on someone else’s face under the mistletoe.
I give myself a blowout. Reapply makeup. Stare down my reflection like we’re about to go to war.
In the kitchen, I wait for my phone to recharge just enough to order a huge holiday feast—tipping the shopper extra because it’s Christmas-fucking-Eve.
It takes two hours, and when the groceries finally arrive, I discover that half of my order has been refunded.
That’s what I get for waiting until the last minute.
I drag the bags inside and hoist the turkey onto the counter.
I ordered a small one, but apparently everyone’s spending Christmas alone—because all they had left was a twenty-pound bird.
Dear God.
I’ve never cooked a turkey before, but there’s a first time for everything.
I panic-google and commit to the cold-water thaw. It’s an excruciating process: ten hours of dunking and changing the water every thirty minutes. I forget about half the swaps, which I consider a win.
I make boxed stuffing with pantry scraps and mashed potatoes with margarine and 2% milk—because, of course, they were out of butter. The whole thing feels like a test I forgot to study for.
It’s something like 5 p.m. before I give up on the thawing and decide it’s time to season the turkey. A few sad shakes of salt, pepper, maybe paprika? I don’t know. I’m guessing. Hoping. Praying. Doing the sign of the cross, even though I’m not Catholic (my grandmother was, so it counts, right?).
I wrestle the bird into the oven and set the time for five hours, checking every twenty minutes like I’m waiting for it to start singing carols with me. Five hours turn to six. Then seven.
When I finally take it out and try to carve it, the damn thing is still raw.
I stare at it for a long moment before having a good, ugly cry. I hiccup, grab my phone, and dial up my favorite Chinese takeout. Thank God someone answers. I order nearly everything on the menu.
If I’m going to spend Christmas Eve alone, in my favorite party dress, with a ruined turkey and a heartbreak hangover, I might as well have fried rice.
I plop onto the couch in full formalwear and flip through channels until I land on the claymation Rudolph—the one I’ve probably watched dozens of times over the last six years.
It’s mid-scene, right in the middle of “We’re a Couple of Misfits.” They’re singing about how I feel exactly—Why am I such a misfit? I’m not just a nitwit—and usually that song would make me smile.
Tonight, it hits too close.
Because Rudolph the red-nosed reject and Hermey the elf who just wants to be a dentist? At least they have each other.
I keep flipping.
Eventually, I stop on the local news. There’s an active crime scene at a bar across town. I kick off my heels and settle in.
It shouldn’t make me feel better to know that someone out there is probably having an even worse Christmas than I am—but it does. Not a good look, I know. But right now, anything that dulls the ache of despair is a welcome distraction.
“Oh, wow,” I mutter at the TV as the anchor cuts to a high-speed chase barreling down I-75. I lean forward, fully invested in the chaos.
A knock at the door interrupts my doomwatching.
Yay, food. That was fast—thank God, because I’m starving and emotionally unstable.
I drag myself to the door, undo the deadbolt, and open it with the joy of a woman greeting dumplings and spring rolls.
But it’s not dumplings.
Before my brain can process, I slam the door shut again.
There’s a pause. Then a muffled voice through the wood:
“Melody, please. Open up. I need to talk to you.”
I freeze.
It’s too late to pretend I’m not home. She knows. And if I know her at all, she’ll camp out in the hallway until I let her in. She was always the most stubborn of all of us.
I let out a long, exhausted sigh and crack the door open just enough to see her face.
“What do you want, Cassie?”
“I like your wreath,” she says.
I slam the door shut again, heart pounding.
The wreath.
I forgot about the fucking wreath. Forgot she saw it—along with the string lights, the poinsettias, the cartwheeling Santa on my stupid doormat.
Then it hits me.
What did she just say?
I crack the door again. “What?”
“I said I like your wreath.”
I swing it open wider, breathless, on the verge of a menty b—but what else is new? My brows knit in confusion. Is she mocking me? Pointing it out to shame me? But no—she’s standing there, eyes glassy, lips trembling. Her hazel eyes—so much like mine—are wide and hopeful.
“Cassie,” I whisper, voice catching. “What did you fucking say to me?”
She tucks a piece of her short, fluffy auburn hair behind her ear. Her hands shake. Tears spill over—hers and mine.
Still, I wait. I need to hear it again.
She draws a shaky breath. “I like—no. You know what?” Her voice cracks. “I fucking love your Christmas wreath, Melody.”
And that’s it.
I throw my arms around her.