Chapter 32
WHAT ABOUT THIS one? The man bats some snow off of a Christmas tree, showcasing it like he’s prancing around on a gameshow set in a sequined dress as he reveals the contents of a golden briefcase to a money-hungry contestant.
Cocking my head to the side, I study the sparse branches. Do you have one that’s a little fuller?
The sales guy lets out a frustrated sigh. Listen, I’ve shown you six trees now. If you’re looking for specific proportions, you should just go buy a plastic one.
I’m sorry, I apologize sincerely. I just want it to be perfect.
You’re not gonna find the perfect tree. At least not one that smells like a real pine forest. This is a gorgeous one, no? he says, giving me a hopeful look.
It’s almost eight at night and it’s freezing cold.
Snowflakes float down in abundance, covering New York in a fresh layer of shimmering snow.
The local news called this the coldest December in a decade.
There’s a real sense of Christmas in the air, between the street lanterns and the lights in all the trees, only reinforced by the Christmas music coming from the tree vendor’s stereo.
As I bite my lip, my gaze lands on a tree that’s tucked away behind all the others.
Oh! That’s the one I want! I clap my mittens at the sight of this gorgeous tree with the perfect shape. Full at the bottom, sharp at the top.
Since my breakup with Rudy, I’ve been feeling so incredibly shitty.
It’s like I could burst into tears at any second—which unfortunately has been happening pretty frequently.
When Karen snapped at me the other day because preparations for the Christmas party haven’t exactly been going according to plan, I locked myself in the bathroom for a cry.
And when I went to visit Patrice and she asked me how I was doing, the same thing happened.
In a way, I’m proud of standing my ground and sticking up for myself, but none of that makes this any easier.
Especially because my feelings for Rudy are so much stronger than they ever were for Fedde.
The vendor follows my gaze to the tree that’s barely visible behind all the others, then gives me a guilty look.
Here’s the thing . . . I actually put that one aside for myself, he admits with some hesitation. But doesn’t this tree look great, too? He breaks back into his million-dollar-prize grin, gesturing at the five feet of firewood he’s trying to sell me.
Dammit. Christmas needs to be perfect, just like it is every year. I don’t have Rudy, so I want that tree. I feel my lip start to tremble. Jesus, I’m such an emotional wreck these days.
The man’s eyes go wide. No, no, no, don’t cry, he shouts in a panic as Celine’s So This Is Christmas blasts from the speakers.
I’m not crying, I squeak, trying to swallow my tears. I’m all good. I, uh . . . I’ll just leave. I turn away to avoid embarrassing myself even more. Tears because I can’t find the perfect Christmas tree? Seriously?
No, wait! I hear the man call out behind me. He probably assumes I’m a seasoned negotiator, skilled in advanced manipulation tactics.
I turn to him with an expectant look on my face.
He wavers, then breathes out a heavy sigh. Fine, he concedes. I think you might need it more than I do.
Dragging the tree out from between the others, he plops it down in front of me. It’s stunning. I feel tears sting my eyes again.
You’re not still gonna cry, right? If you are, I can just put it back where it came from. The corner of his mouth pulls up in a gentle tease.
No! No. I . . . I let out a shaky exhale and give him a grateful look. That’s so kind of you, thank you.
When I was buying the tree, I didn’t quite consider how I’d still have to drag it up five flights of stairs by myself before setting it up in my apartment. Hauling it for six blocks already felt like a brutal chore.
Hnnnggg, I groan, hoisting the tree up one step at a time.
I take a little break on each floor to catch my breath.
This thing weighs a ton and I can barely see where I’m going since I’m shorter than the tree and dealing with a face full of needles.
It’s unfortunate my relationship with Rudy met such a poorly timed demise.
His muscle power would have come in pretty handy right about now.
Just two more flights, I encourage myself in a mumble. I can do this.
With all my might, I lug the tree along, ignoring a painful twinge in my bicep. I really should spend a little more time at the gym.
Just six more steps and then . . . With an ominous crack, I feel the wooden tread splinter beneath my shoes.
I’m too stunned to make a leap for the next step, so my Christmas tree and I sink through the patch of wood rot I’ve been successfully avoiding for months.
It takes me a few seconds to fully grasp what just happened.
Fuck! I shout. Big mistake—I get an immediate mouthful of pine needles as a punishment for swearing.
I splutter, spitting out little bits of bark and needles as I grip the banister.
The stabbing pain in my backside tells me I’ll be spending the night with a mirror and tweezers, removing splinters from my ass.
I try to pull myself up to no avail. I’m completely stuck. How the hell am I going to get out of this? A few seconds pass as I try to come up with a solution to free myself from this sticky situation, but I’ve got nothing. Turning my head away from the needles, I call out as loud as I can.
Help! Hello? Anybody?!
I really hope Kidney Karl isn’t home.
Help! I shout again.
I hear a door open on the floor above, followed by a shocked, Emma? What happened?
I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of that voice. Kidney Karl would honestly have been a better option.
There’s a series of hurried footsteps on the stairs before Rudy’s face comes into view.
He has dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping much lately.
His hair, usually tousled in an intentional way, now just looks like a mess.
And somehow he still looks gorgeous—in stark contrast to my own appearance.
I’m scared to imagine the state I’m in right now, with pine needles in my hair and scratches all over my face.
Not to mention the puffy bags under my eyes.
Shit.
Isn’t there some unwritten rule that states you can only ever run into your ex when you’re looking flawless?
So when he sees you, he can’t help but wonder, What the hell was I thinking, letting her go?
A rule that you can’t compound your humiliation by sinking through a rotten staircase all the way down to your butt with a Christmas tree in tow?
My excessive snacking over the past few days was probably my saving grace.
The added volume in my derrière ultimately prevented me from ending up on the next floor down.
Come on, Rudy says. He sounds truly concerned. Wrapping his strong hands around my forearms, he pulls me up with remarkable ease.
Are you okay? He asks, his eyes darting all over my body, looking for injuries. My tights are ripped and I have some scratches on my legs from the splintered wood, but I’m basically unharmed.
I’m okay, thanks, I reply, my voice shaky as I stare at the tree still dangling through the staircase, a few of its branches askew.
Rudy bends over, grabs the tree, and pulls it up from the hole. I cover my mouth in shock. There’s barely anything left of the perfect tree I carried into the building just moments ago. Tears spring to my eyes.
Rudy moves like he’s about to wrap an arm around me, but then reconsiders. Biting his lip, he gestures at the stairs.
Let’s get up there. I’m not sure how stable the rest of this is, now that there’s a crucial piece missing in the middle.
When we reach my door, he leans the tree against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets.
He’s stalling. I wonder what’s going through his mind.
He looks like there’s so much he wants to say, but he’s hesitating, like he can’t seem to find the right words.
After a few deep breaths, he seems ready to talk, but the only sound from his lips is a softly muttered, I’m sorry.
He obviously isn’t just talking about my most recent acquisition: this poor evergreen that’s going to need some serious tree surgery to ever be able to fulfill its destiny as a Christmas tree.
I offer him a stiff nod before sliding my key in the lock. Just as I’m about to open my door, Rudy clears his throat.
Emma, he begins, sounding unsteady.
I glance over my shoulder with an expectant look.
Here it comes.
He awkwardly runs a hand through his hair and looks straight at me before continuing. I . . . You, uh . . .
But then he heaves a frustrated sigh, as if he’s driving even himself up the wall. Shaking his head, he drops his gaze.
You have a good night, he finally says. If there’s anything you need, you know where to find me.
He disappears into his apartment and I walk into mine. I place the sad tree up against the wall and flop down on the couch, where I can stare at the broken limbs of my formerly perfect Christmas tree.
I hate Christmas.