Chapter 2 - Noelle
Picking at my dry slice of turkey breast, I glance around the table at my family and realize I’m the only single person at our annual family holiday dinner.
Last year, I had Brian with me, and the year before that, it was Ruben.
I think three years ago it was Jamal, or maybe it was Dylan.
I don’t remember which one I dated that year.
My luck with boyfriends in the past five years has been horrible, and I’m starting to wonder whether I’m the problem in these relationships, not the men.
Deep down, I know it’s not me. I’m actually not picky.
I basically expect them to not sleep with any of my friends, have a job, pay their bills on time, be kind to people and animals, and occasionally dominate me in the bedroom.
It’s a bonus if they’re willing to let me sometimes domme them, but not a requirement.
None of the last four guys fit all those requirements and none of the breakups were because they weren’t willing to dominate me in the bedroom.
Dom guys are decently easy to find, but the not sleeping with my friends, having a stable job, or being kind to people have been too much of an ask—at least all three at once.
So I’m on a self-imposed dating hiatus for a bit while I get my head in the right space.
As if on cue, my mom pipes up in the casual tone of voice she uses when she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t care what the answer is. “Noelle, who are you dating these days?”
The eleven other people at the table fall silent, and my face flushes as nine pairs of eyes bore into my soul. My sister’s twin babies continue sitting in their travel highchairs and gumming on the teething toys she’s given them to keep them quiet.
I shift in my seat and smooth down my short white skirt before answering. “No one. I’m taking a break from dating.”
My mother tsks and passes a basket of rolls to my father—who hadn’t asked for them but takes them without complaint—before continuing. “I assumed in that outfit, you were meeting up with someone after dinner.”
I glance down at my tight, sparkly blue V-neck sweater that showcases the cleavage from my ample bosom. A ball of anxiety forms in my stomach and I cross my ankles, tucking one tall white boot behind the other. Is my mom slut-shaming me?
I shrug at her. “No, not meeting anyone. I just felt like dressing up.”
My mom harrumphs and the awkward silence deepens until my older brother rescues me and questions our dad about the new boat he plans on buying.
That signals to everyone that they can chatter again, and most of the tension drains from me until I catch the eye of my uncle Bill down at the other end of the table.
He’s got a creepy glint in his eye and drops his gaze down to my chest and licks his lips.
Ewww, yuck. My mom’s older brother always gave me sleazy vibes and this confirms he hasn’t changed.
His wife, sitting right next to him, eats her food with gusto, not paying attention to anything else.
I try to ignore my uncle and finish my meal, but his continued gaze makes me lose my appetite.
I only pick at my food and don’t eat what’s on my plate.
As soon as people finish eating, I jump up and offer to help clean so I can surreptitiously clear my half-full plate into the trash.
My brother and his wife help as well, and it doesn’t take long before the kitchen is mostly in order.
I’m about to wander out and join everyone else, but my uncle is in the doorway to the family room and currently not looking in my direction. I’d have to squeeze past him to get into the room, and I don’t want to deal with him, so I duck down a side hallway and head upstairs instead.
I moved out seven years ago, but my parents’ house was built in the 1940s and they’ve lived here their entire marriage.
It has a lot of interesting secret areas that I explored as a kid.
Which as an adult, I know aren’t really that secret, but our house was magical to grow up in.
Weird random cupboards and various closets that seemed to have little purpose were perfect spots to play hide and seek in.
Since this is my childhood home, I know every hidey hole and head straight for my parents’ walk-in closet.
Their closet was always my favorite hiding spot for a couple of reasons.
The laundry room is downstairs right off the family room.
My parents have a small square trapdoor on the floor of their closet that is a laundry chute that drops into a basket on the floor of the laundry room.
As long as the laundry room door isn’t closed, you can hear people talking in the family room.
It was the perfect spy location whenever my brother had friends over and they were all in the family room.
Then when we got older, I could listen to him and his girlfriend making out.
He unknowingly provided most of my sexual education.
I also love the smell of their closet because it’s all cedar.
Cedar closets lose their wood scent over time, but my parents recently had their closet sanded and refinished, so I know the scent will be strong again.
When I crack open the door, the pleasant aroma drifts over me and I instantly know I’m safe, like I did as a child.
I use the flashlight on my cell phone instead of turning on the overhead light to avoid illuminating the room in case the overhead light shines down into the laundry room.
Slipping into the room, I latch the door behind me and crawl into the far corner behind my mother’s dresses.
The laundry room door downstairs is open, so I settle in and listen to my family gossip about any family member not here tonight.
At one point, my uncle breaks in and asks where I went, and my mom says maybe I went for a walk.
I snicker at her words. Thank God I went with my instinct and came up here instead.
In the rush around the holidays, I haven’t been sleeping great lately and the closet is toasty warm so I get drowsy.
My straight brown hair is in a long braid down my back, so I drape my braid over my shoulder and press my back to the wall, wedging myself into the corner so I can rest my head against the adjoining wall.
I close my eyes briefly and tell myself I’ll just relax them for a moment, and before I know it, I’m dozing.
A loud laugh from downstairs startles me awake. I’m disorientated and shake my head to clear the mental fog. Part of the closet wall next to me is glowing in a rectangular shape, as if a light is coming from behind one panel. What the fuck is this?
I tentatively press on the panel and it swings open at the softest touch, revealing a well-lit cobblestone path among snow-covered fir trees. My first thought was ‘Holy fuck, I must still be asleep,’ followed closely by ‘Shit, I think I read the Chronicles of Narnia too many times as a kid.’
I crouch down and crawl through the hole and straighten up onto the path.
The closet door panel closes behind me, sealing shut any trace of it, and it disappears into a snow-covered mound.
My mouth goes dry and my pulses quickens when I realize I don’t know how to leave this place, but then I remember it’s a dream.
Fuck it, let’s explore my crazy dream world.
I turn around and head down the path, but pause when I come to a weathered wooden sign that says, “Welcome to the Winter Wonderland. Enjoy your stay.”