Chapter 5 #2
“You are deeply lying to yourself,” she says as I pull into her driveway.
Ally and Teddy’s little blue Craftsman is Midwest perfection: a low-pitched roof, tapered pillars squatting on chunky stone bases, and a wide porch that runs the length of the house, anchored by a white swing that creaks just enough to be charming.
Boxy windows are framed in crisp white trim, and the front door—rich oak stained Charleston Toffee brown—wears a giant fall wreath Ally grabbed at Costco on a whim.
When you picture the middle-class American dream, this is the house that pops into your head like a Zillow ad.
They’ve poured almost all of their money into it, so it’s a good thing they both have good jobs. Allison does her senior-publicist thing; Teddy crunches numbers for a major accounting firm.
Once inside, I know the drill: shoes off, lined neatly on the striped rug.
I wouldn’t call Allison a neat freak, but if I’d emptied a retirement account to gloss the cherry-stained hardwood floors and restore original 1935 crown moulding, I’d make everyone take off their shoes (maybe even hose off their feet) too.
The only exception to Ally’s neat, clean, don’t-wreck-my-life-savings rule is Tidbit—her and Teddy’s 175-pounds-of-pure-love Saint Bernard. Sometimes I can’t tell if the floors shine from the topcoat or Tidbit’s drool. Either way, these floors are glossy (and slick) as hell.
Tidbit takes a running leap at me, and luckily, I am obsessed with giant Muppets and grew up with brothers. I brace against the couch before he goes full cannonball.
“Bitty boy!” I laugh as I’m knocked back onto the Restoration Hardware cloud couch. (God, this couch even feels like falling backward into the piles of money you spent on it). I scratch behind his ears. Drool commences.
“Tidbit, get down.” A deep voice with the slightest Southern lilt interrupts the slobber-fest.
“Teddy,” Allison says with an exasperated edge. “Can you please let him out until he calms down?”
“Aww, honey, but he loves company!” Teddy says, defensive.
“He also loves squirrels.” Allison’s patience is fraying, and it’d be easier for all of us if Teddy just took the dog outside.
I jump in and grab Tidbit’s collar. He’s thrilled to go on a walk with Auntie Melody to the great picket-fenced-in backyard.
“Come on, baby, let’s get some fresh air,” I say, ruffling his jowls with my free hand.
We detour through the kitchen and make a pit stop at the treat jar, where I snag him a chewbone the size of a human femur.
I open the back door, toss the bone, and step the hell out of the way as Tidbit barrels out, nearly flattening me.
I catch my balance just as my phone buzzes.
Big ol’ knee-jerk eyeroll. The text is simple: hey i need to talk to you.
I shove the phone deep in my back pocket and take a deeper breath.
I cannot do Cassie disappointment this year.
For years, she was my closest sister, my built-in best friend, but her loyalty to the Heralds means I have nothing left to give or say to her.
Back in the living room, Teddy and Ally are settled on the sofa—Ally with some sober-curious red-wine alternative she found on Instagram, Teddy with a Bud Light.
They’re the perfect mix of opposites and somehow totally in sync since high school: both wanting the same college, the same style house, the same number of kids, and the same safe, predictable kind of job.
The difference is in the methods—fourteen to-do lists (Ally) versus a post-it and a prayer (Teddy).
Teddy flips on ESPN, and even though it’s Wednesday night and Teddy is a huge sucker for women’s basketball (which is entirely on brand for his personality), he respectfully mutes it.
Even though I love some WNBA myself (just don’t get me started on the pay discrepancies), there are things to discuss.
Teddy is equal parts gentleman and Chatty Cathy—he’ll never miss a chance to gossip with us, even if that means muting his favorite mid-week athletic showdown.
“So,” he pries, handing me a matching Bud Light, “Allison texted that things are heating up down at the geriatric North Pole.”
I groan and smack Allison’s arm. “Damn, girl, you couldn’t even wait ‘til the car was in the driveway!”
They exchange the look—the happily-coupled look that says their best friend has been single too long and they have the world’s greatest plan to fix that.
“Teddy,” I warn, “you’d hate his guts. Don’t root for this.”
Teddy’s eyes drift to the screen, where the Las Vegas Aces (thanks to A’ja Wilson) are mercilessly laying into their opponent. “Ally said he didn’t even get your insurance info or get pissed that you hit his car.”
“And he shouldn’t have!” Heat rises. “Did she also mention that he parked like a psycho?”
“Were there no other spots?” Teddy asks earnestly. I regret hanging out with people who know me this well.
Ally cuts in, “Of course, there were other spots, but you know how she likes to—”
“Back in.” Teddy nods, finishing her sentence. They exchange that look again—the “how are we ever going to get Melody laid again” look.
“I’m just saying,” Teddy continues, “you hit a good-looking guy’s car in the parking lot of the senior community where you both volunteer. He sounds nice. And he meets your height criteria.”
I shoot eye-missiles at Ally for sharing non-essential information. Yes, Eben is a whole foot taller (and better) than what’s slopped together for women on those “dating” apps.
“I’m guessing Ally didn’t tell you the worst part,” I huff.
Here come those glances again. I’m going to slap them both into next Christmas.
“She told me he hates Christmas, but—”
“There are no buts at the end of that sentence!” I explode. “I cannot go out with someone who hates Christmas. You know this.”
I look between them, and a very whiny voice I don’t recognize emerges. “I gave up everything for this holiday.”
Ally’s look is sympathetic, but not having it. “That’s not exactly how that went down, Mel.”
She’s right. If I claim I left a cult knowing I’d be cut off by my parents simply for Christmas, I’d be agreeing with my mom—and I can’t let that happen.
“Honestly, the best thing I can do is convince him to like Christmas—for his own good.” I sip my beer and sink into the cushions. This couch is eating me alive.
“Don’t you think that feels kind of culty?” Ally asks. “I mean, ten years ago you were knocking on doors trying to get people not to celebrate Christmas, and now you want to do the same thing—for the opposite cause.”
“This is not the same thing at all," I say. “Nobody’s putting me up to this. This time, the genius idea is entirely my own.”
Luckily, if something even borders on a social good time, Teddy is the first to party in my corner.
Ally looks to him for help, but Party Teddy has already taken over; he’s imagining all the ways to sell Christmas to my future Grinch, and, apparently, how their best friend needs to catch a dick.
I’m not sure how I feel about this elevated level of desperation, but I do welcome help on Project Christmas-is-the-Fucking-Best.
Teddy starts pacing, voice two octaves higher, talking so fast it sounds like he’s auctioning off the living room.
“First, we take him to the Winter Wonderland pop-up bar. Get a couple of snowman sangrias into this boy and karaoke some jazzy holiday classics.” He breaks into song.
“I’m… dreaming of a whiiite… Christmas!”
Oh my God, he’s singing.
“Honey,” Allison tries…
Teddy can’t stop, “Then ice skating and movies at Reagan Park. You get an hour of free skate, followed by a Christmas movie of the week, with free popcorn and hot chocolate. We could all go. I hope they’re showing Elf.” He rubs his hands together, barely containing himself.
“Teddy—” I try, but he’s a runaway train.
I glance at the TV as the Aces hit a three-pointer, and the crowd erupts. Teddy is as gone as the rest of this game—deep in the never-gonna-happen fantasy of all the Christmas double dates the four of us will go on.
“Teddy!” I finally shout.
He startles out of his reverie about his new Christmastime bromance.
“Dude, do you want to date him or something? Because that’s fine.
But you’re missing one thing—I hate this guy.
And I’m pretty sure he hates me. So as fun as sipping snowman sangrias with real-life Scrooge sounds, it’s never going to happen.
I’m going to show him up and then show myself out. You know what I mean?”
“No,” Ally says. “That’s a weird thing to say. We don’t know what that means. At all.”
“It means save your breath. I’m in it to prove Eben wrong on principle. And even if he ends up ‘liking’ Christmas, it’ll be because he was forced—and that’s not sexy. I don’t want Christmas at gunpoint. That’s like Christmas communism.”
I deliver the last line like I’ve really done something here.
Ally raises an eyebrow and sits up. “So, let me get this straight.”
Uh-oh. I hate it when Allison starts a sentence (directed at me—it’s fantastic when directed at someone else) with 'Let me get this straight.' It means I’ve said something that doesn't add up in her extremely logical, cross-referencing-the-news-for-a-living brain. She’s about to point out all the flaws, and nine times out of ten, she’s right. I brace.
“You meet a gorgeous guy who, like Teddy says, checks the height box, has the face card that could overdraw all the accounts, doesn't care that you basically Carrie Underwooded the side of this car, spends his free time working with old people and dealing with that Missy woman—for free. And you’re telling me that if he finally comes around on the one hang-up you have—a weird but I guess, legit hang-up—you still aren’t going to want to fuck his brains into the mattress? ”
“No,” I say defiantly, chin tipped to the sky.
Teddy laughs and looks at Ally. “Hey, hon, we should bet money on this. When we win, we can put it toward the new Viking fridge.”
Good luck, buddy. Even if they win a bet against me, they’re still getting one of those my-Sims-are-broke fridges.
Allison sighs. “Your problem isn’t this man.”
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“Your problem is that you're completely emotionally unavailable.”
Ouch.
Someone please hand me some aloe. Ally just took a flamethrower to my psyche.
“I’m very available!” I argue. (God, here comes that whiny voice again. Who is she?)
“Your calendar being free and your heart being open are two very different things,” Teddy counters.
Every now and then, Teddy goes from a sports-loving social butterfly with wild hand gestures and an ice-cold brewsky to Teddy-fucking-Socrates.
I go quiet because I know he’s right. To survive a cult, you keep everyone at arm’s length—especially in Heaven’s Heralds, where tattling wasn’t just encouraged but rewarded.
Letting people in always came with risks.
Unfortunately, the skills that kept me relatively out of harm’s way (and boyfriend-free) in the cult are the same ones that helped me survive the loss of my family once I got out.
“I’ll work on the emotional-availability thing,” I say, standing to leave.
I don’t sound convincing, even to myself.
Ally and Teddy watch me with matching concern.
“No, you won’t,” Allison says with a sad smile. “But I love you anyway.”