Chapter 33
CHRISTMAS EVE
EBEN
I’m just a man and his rotisserie chicken.
On the couch. With a fork. A beer. College football on TV.
I don’t even know who’s playing. Don’t care. I squint at the score ticker on ESPN. Utah State vs. Florida International? Who gives a shit?
Merry jolly fucking Christmas to me.
I tear off a hunk of chicken and shove it in my mouth. It tastes like sand. I wash it down with a swig of beer that tastes like piss.
I fucked up. Royally.
I’ve tried texting Melody half a dozen times. Called a few times, too. All left on “Read.” No replies. No mercy.
Not that I deserve any.
But I don’t want to be that guy—the clingy boyfriend—or psycho ex. Or, honestly, I don’t even know what I am to her.
What I was.
We’ve only really known each other for a month and been sleeping together for, what, eight days? But somehow, in that time, she turned my whole world inside out. Like a snow globe shaken to hell.
Oh God, not me with the Christmas metaphors.
I spent my teens being a virgin and my twenties doing the hookup thing—bailing before anything got too serious. After what happened between my mom and my asshole dad, I figured it was safer to keep things light. Temporary. No one gets hurt if no one sticks around.
By thirty, even that had lost its shine. I stopped bothering altogether. Played it safe. Stayed solo.
And then along came Melody.
Messy. Gorgeous. Hilarious. Infuriating. The most chaotic person I’ve ever met, and the most caring. And brave. So fucking brave. She walked away from everything—her family, her church, her entire past—for a chance to be herself. No safety net. No one to catch her.
How many people could do that? How many would even try?
Still, she celebrates Christmas with wild abandon—smiling, decorating, volunteering. Wearing that ridiculous Mrs. Claus outfit to bring joy to people she doesn’t even know.
Then she met me, and I dumped kerosene all over that joy and lit it on fire.
And still, she saw past all of it, reached through the wreckage of my past, skimmed my rough edges, and touched something in me no one else ever has.
I glance at my phone again—still nothing.
Buster finally jumps up on the couch, yowling for chicken. I reach over to scratch him behind the ears, but he dodges me, eyes locked on the rotisserie like, No pets until I get snacks, idiot.
“Fine,” I mutter, flicking a piece to the floor. Buster hops down, sniffs it, and looks up like, That’s it?
“You know what? Have at it.” I drop the entire chicken on the ground. His eyes light up like Christmas trees, and he dives in face-first. Honestly, it’s the happiest I’ve seen him in years.
I take a swig of my beer and start flipping channels—the remote snags on one of those creepy stop-motion Christmas movies.
I don’t know why these have always been nightmare fuel for me—maybe it’s the jerky movements.
The bullying. The way everyone gaslights Rudolph into thinking he’s unlovable until he literally saves Christmas to earn basic respect.
I watch Santa shame Rudolph for all of ten seconds before muttering, “Motherfucker,” and changing the channel.
Every narcissistic portrayal of Santa reminds me of my dad.
I land on the local news—apparently, two rival mall Santas went full North Pole Fight Club over “territory.” Perfect.
I sink deeper into the couch and take another sip. The beer’s starting to taste slightly less like piss.
The doorbell rings.
Buster grabs a chunk of chicken in his teeth and bolts upstairs like a raccoon on meth.
“What the fuck?”
My heart leaps—could it be her? Please, dear God, let it be her.
I scramble, nearly dumping my beer all over the coffee table—no time to clean it. I smooth my wrinkled shirt, rake my hair into something pretending to be a style, and bolt for the door.
I fling the door open—and my heart swan-dives off a cliff.
Not who I was hoping for. Not in the slightest.
Mary Lou stands there, sheepish, clutching what looks like a check.
I’m not gonna slam the door in her face. She’s always been kind to me. Too kind, probably. But I can feel the heat rising up my neck as it slowly dawns on me why she’s here.
Ever the intuitive stepmother, Mary Lou raises her hands like she’s approaching a wounded animal.
“Honey,” she says gently, “before you get mad—your daddy—Ronnie sent me. He thought maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come himself.”
“Damn right, it wasn’t.”
“Ebby, I know your dad hasn’t always been the dad you needed. And I understand why you didn’t ask for help with your mama—you figured he’d just let you down again.” She blinks fast. “But I need you to know—he’s all torn up about this. He wants you to have this.”
She holds out the check. I glance at it. Ten thousand dollars. Made out to me.
“I don’t want it,” I say, handing it back. “I don’t want his money. Now or ever.”
She steps closer. “Honey, I want you to listen to me. This is not a gift. It’s not charity. You earned this money. So did your mama. You take this check. And Ronnie told me he is going to cover your mama’s expenses from now on—whatever she needs. It’s a blank check for you and Anne. Got it?“
“We have the money. And I swear to you, you will never owe us a thing. Not a visit. Not a phone call. Nothing.”
I stare down at the check. A lump rises in my throat.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She offers a small smile. “I just want you to know—if you’d like to join us for Christmas, you’re always welcome—no pressure, of course. The door’s always open.”
There’s a stretch of awkward silence before she adds: “And your little lady can come too—what’s her name again?”
I sigh. “Melody.”
“I’ve got presents for you and her waiting under the tree. If you’d like them. If not, I can mail them to you. Or donate them. Whatever you want me to do.”
I don’t say anything for a long time. Just stare at the check. Let it sink in. My dad’s going to take over the bills for my mom. The nightmare is over—assuming he follows through. But the look in Mary Lou’s eyes, the look in my dad’s eyes at the pageant… I think maybe he will.
A weight lifts off my chest—one I didn’t know I was carrying until it slipped away.
“Okay, honey,” she says softly, turning to go. “I’ll see you later—”
“Mary Lou.”
She freezes, turns back, eyes wide and hopeful. “Yeah?”
I swallow hard. “I think I messed up.”
She glances past me into the house, spotting the half-empty beer on the table.
“You got another one of those?” she asks, nodding at it.
My throat tightens with something like relief. I step aside and hold the door.
“Yeah. Come on in.”