Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jenna
I go home feeling a mix of emotions—bummed no one told me that the Thursday night meet-up at the Red Arrow doesn’t happen during ChristmasFest, happy I had a nice time talking to Aaron, sad that I inadvertently touched a nerve and made him run off.
Unfortunately, the not-so-happy feelings are kind of dominating, even though I try to hang on to the good feelings of coming to a place with Aaron where we can be friendly with each other.
Bumping into him initially helped alleviate my disappointment that no one came and didn’t bother to tell me it was canceled—yet another reminder that I don’t really belong here.
It was surprising that talking to Aaron made me feel better since he’s one of the ones who consistently makes me feel like I don’t belong—and the women who meet at the Red Arrow are generally friendly and welcoming. Tonight, it was the opposite.
In fact, it almost felt like a first date—at least for a little while.
He bought me a drink and we had get-to-know-you conversation.
Of course, the end kind of ruined that illusion with the way he clammed up and bolted.
Note to self, don’t bring up the situation with his kid and kid’s mom unless you want him to go away.
Despite my mixed emotions, I let go of all of that, reminding myself that the friends I’ve made probably figured I knew already, that they see me as belonging and not as a new-to-town outsider and that’s why they didn’t think to tell me.
And Aaron’s behavior, well, that’s a him problem, not a me problem.
The next morning, though, it all comes rushing back.
Not because of last night, really. That just set the stage.
But as I was eating breakfast, I was scrolling through my socials.
And a picture showed up of my ex, Ian. He’s grinning, has his arm around a beautiful, model-esque woman, and she’s kissing him on the cheek.
Glutton for punishment that I am, I let my spoon clatter into my bowl of cereal, picking up my phone and tapping on his name, looking through all his pictures to see if this is the first time she’s shown up or if I’ve missed something.
It looks like this is the first time he’s posted her.
I scroll back to the picture and read the caption.
The words are all jumbled in my brain, but one blares out at me like it’s screaming—girlfriend.
He has a new girlfriend.
Disgusted, I drop my phone on the table and pick up my spoon, forcing myself to finish my cereal.
It’s fine. This is fine. Of course he has a new girlfriend. He’s off in Michigan living his best life, working on his PhD.
He needs someone else to be his live-in mommy-girlfriend, after all, a mean voice whispers in my head.
Based on our relationship, though, that’s probably not entirely wrong.
It just … it stings. I should be over him.
I really should. It’s been nearly a year since we broke up.
And I guess, I am over him. I wouldn’t take him back if he came crawling and begging on his knees.
It’s just … he tossed me aside like I didn’t matter after living together for years.
And that hurt. A lot. That’s what I’m not over.
It still hurts, and those feelings are all fresh and close to the surface after talking about it last night.
Sure, I tried to play it off like it wasn’t that big of a deal—no serious drama, no cheating.
That’s the reason we’re still mutuals on socials, after all.
It wasn’t a big, messy breakup. He wasn’t even that upset when I announced I was moving out after it was clear I wouldn’t be going to Michigan with him.
Sure, he said I could come if I wanted to.
But that’s the kind of thing you say to your best friend’s little sister when she finds out you’re going to the movies—I guess you can come if you want to—that’s not what you say to your girlfriend of over four years when you’re planning an out-of-state move.
No, it was clear I wasn’t wanted. And realistically, I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten a girlfriend before now.
Probably couldn’t con someone else into doing the things you did for him, that voice whispers again, and I’m not sure if that’s an indictment of his reduced abilities to con a woman into being his mommy-girlfriend or of me for falling for his bullshit in the first place.
Disgusted with myself, both for having fallen into that trap only to be discarded so easily and for being upset he has a new girlfriend now, I finish getting ready for the day.
I have things to do. This is my busiest season, after all.
The town’s busiest season, really. This is my opportunity to prove to everyone here that I am good at my job and hiring me to take over ChristmasFest was the best decision they could make.
But nothing I think or tell myself erases the yawning pit that opened in my stomach the second I saw that picture.
“Cynthia!” I hear someone exclaim and turn to see my predecessor has come in. A couple of local shop owners who have booths in the main space hurry over to greet her, fussing over her and telling her how happy they are to see her.
I want to say hi also, but I can tell they’ll be at least a few minutes, so I do a lap, checking the decor and trees, noting that the line to see Santa is longer today than yesterday—not what I would’ve expected on a weekday, but I suppose people could be taking the day off to try to beat the weekend crowds.
They look like they have plenty of space in their cordoned line, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye on that tomorrow.
I adjust a few bows and ornaments that have been knocked askew, check the moisture levels of the potted trees and look around for excessive needle loss, but they all look pretty good.
The ones that were drinking too much coffee haven’t lost as many needles today, so I think they’ll recover.
I nod and smile at a few of the vendors who aren’t in the middle of helping customers, then make my way back around to where Cynthia is still chatting with two of the women who are on the committee.
None of them even notice me, but surely they’ll have to get back to their booths soon, so I stop to look at a display of hand thrown pottery.
There are mugs and bowls and plates, including the most adorable plate for leaving cookies for Santa.
“Oh, that’s perfect for this kind of thing,” I comment, running a finger along the rim.
I don’t need it, but if I had kids? I’d snap it up in a heartbeat.
“It’s one of my best sellers,” Lydia says, smiling at me. “I always make a ton of them in the lead up to this event, but I just put out one or two at a time.” She leans in close. “It makes people feel special if they think they’re getting the last one.”
“Smart.” I take in the mugs with a deep eggplant glaze dripping down their sides.
They’re fatter in the center than at the top or bottom, and I really like them.
“Would you hold one of these for me? I’ll come back at the end of the day to pay for it.
I really love them.” The image of me drinking my morning coffee out of it all winter is too much to resist. It’ll be my early Christmas present to myself.
“Of course!” Lydia says. “Pick out the one you want, and I’ll put a sticky note on it with your name on it.”
“Perfect.” I pick one of the mugs and hand it to her. “I really appreciate it. Your work is beautiful. I’m excited to get it home and use it.”
She gives me a big smile as she writes my name on a small sticky note, attaching it to the mug with a flourish, then lifting the tablecloth covering the shelf she uses for a checkout stand and stashing it safely there. “It’ll be waiting for you.”
“Thanks again, Lydia!” I move back to the front of the booth to see if Cynthia’s still there.
She and the other two women—Karen and Rebecca—have drifted a little closer to Lydia’s booth. “It’s shameful,” Karen’s saying, “the way she’s come in and tried to take over everything like we haven’t been doing this for decades!”
“She wants to revamp the way we vet vendors,” Rebecca adds. “It’ll make the application so much longer. And she said that everyone will have to reapply every year! We’ve never done it that way. If you were in, you were in. Barring bad behavior of course.”
That yawning pit in my stomach opens wider, cold settling in my limbs.
“She seems to have added some nice touches,” Cynthia says in a placating voice. “I really like the potted trees. I tried to convince Aaron to do them a couple years ago, and he wasn’t having it.”
Karen scoffs. “She’s paying him for them. She said she knew that he charged more than he does for cut trees, so she’s paying the difference so he’s not losing money.”
“Oh, that was smart,” Cynthia says, and the coldness recedes a little. At least Cynthia’s defending me. Kinda. “And about the vendor situation, there’s a committee for a reason. She can’t just unilaterally change everything.”
“She would if she could,” Rebecca says darkly. “You should’ve heard all the changes she suggested. Once you were officially retired, she couldn’t wait to undo all the years of work we’ve put it in!”
“I’m sure that’s not—”
“You weren’t there, Cyn,” Karen adds. “It was like she thought she was starting a whole new event from scratch. And these photo setups? What’s even the point of them? Aren’t Santa photos good enough anymore?”
“I’ve seen people post their pictures from those,” Rebecca says, sounding like she’s grudgingly acknowledging I might have one or two okay ideas. “They do look cute. And they probably help spread the word. As far as word of mouth marketing goes, they’re not terrible.”
But Karen’s not mollified. I can’t listen to any more of this, though. I want to just melt into the decor and disappear, but I can’t. If I step out, will they notice me? Will they realize I could hear all their bitching? Will they care?