November 7th
Hollis
Jay
Marv
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Hollis
I’m guessing that’s Marv.
Jay
He has an untraceable flip phone and types in code to throw the bots off.
Hollis
I would expect nothing less.
Marv
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Hollis
Wow.
When Jay texted last night, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do this. On the drive to the address, I listed every single reason to turn around. Aloud. Twice. Most involving Marv, who is either a danger to society or harmlessly insane.
But curiosity and loneliness make a potent cocktail when mixed, because, despite my best efforts, here I am. And, as nervous as I am—as ridiculous as this all feels—something about Jay made me want to show up.
If I hadn’t been a complete soppy mess in a cat costume when we met, I would have sworn there was an undertow of interest in the way he spoke to me.
The way, despite how completely unhinged I must have looked in that bowling alley, when I was speaking, it was as if I was the only person there.
Like he was hanging on to my every word.
Ryan never listened to me like that, magnifying Jay’s behavior even more. Unsettled me even more.
Still, a week with my number, all I got were the instructions in a group text with Marv, leading me to believe I was very much reading into things.
Eyeing a vacant barn—a perfect place to hide a body—I pull the key from the ignition, my knee bouncing maniacally against the steering wheel of my minivan as I chew my lip. What the hell am I doing here?
Jay appears, same absurd antlered hat on his head he was wearing at the bowling alley, and my chest tightens.
This is real.
I’m meeting strange men at a strange place in the name of skipping Christmas.
Jay pulls a large door open on the barn, steps inside before emerging with two horses hitched to a wagon. He looks like one of Santa’s helpers about to head west in a live game of Oregon Trail.
Whatever this is, I can’t do it.
I shove my key back in the ignition, turn it, then remember: home will be worse. It will be empty because my kids are with Ryan. At the Christmas parade I’ve been going to for over a decade. Without me. It hollows me out.
“You can do this, Hollis,” I mutter, yanking the key back out of the ignition and using every ounce of energy to get my body out of the van and moving toward Jay.
“Hello,” I say when I’m next to him, sounding a bit terrified as I eye the horses and him. Because I am. Because only clinically insane people do this.
“Hello,” he mimics with a slight smirk, leaning against the wagon and crossing his arms over his flannel-clad chest, amused spark in his green eyes. “Wasn’t sure if you’d show.”
“Me neither.” A laugh puffs out of me, but I don’t shy away from his gaze. “I hope it’s okay.”
His eyes bounce from the beanie on my head to the laced-up boots on my feet. “Wouldn’t have texted you if it wasn’t.”
“Oh.” What is that supposed to mean? “Okay.”
He adjusts the straps on the horses then does a walk-around inspection of the wagon, whistling the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as he does.
He’s got this rugged I don’t give a damn vibe.
Over his top lip, the most absurd mustache I’ve ever seen in real life and an exact match with the dark hair peeking out from the bottom of his hat.
At the bowling alley, he appeared to be fit, but the thick layers of tonight reveal nothing about his body.
And yet.
Against every traditional standard of which I have ever judged appearances—even with the mustache—he’s attractive.
Despite the stupid hat, maybe even hot.
I eye the two very big horses and the connected wagon covered in red chipped paint. “I didn’t expect horses.” He makes an acknowledging sound mid-whistled tune but offers no information. “Is it safe?”
He puts a thermos and stuffed bag on the bench of the wagon.
“We aren’t going far,” he says with a smirk.
He does that—smirks—constantly. I noticed it last week.
It’s like he’s in on every joke the world has ever told.
There I was having a stage-five freakout about my life in a bowling alley, and he just stood there, amused.
Like the cardboard cutout of Santa holding a bowling ball wasn’t shredding my cat-costumed heart into smithereens.
I glance around, letting it sink in I’m here as I try to figure out how I’m going to spin this for my weekly article.
The Holiday Club was good in theory, but it’s not who I am.
I write about motherhood, and there’s not a child in sight.
Plus, if I’m not celebrating the season with our traditions, I’d rather hide in bed.
Crying. When I sat down at the computer after bowling, I decided I’d tweak my content from last year and reuse it for the magazine, but after years of writing my truth to women readers, I felt like a fraud.
Fake. I decided to write my truth and my fingers obliged, openly confessing to the keyboard that I was going into this season broken.
The week that followed wasn’t as bleak as I expected.
When I picked the kids up Monday afternoon, it was like a switch flipped and the situation became significantly less dire.
Though there weren’t the usual holiday songs or decorations surrounding us, I stopped crying.
I took them to school and made dinner every night.
We played board games and did homework. I almost forgot about Christmas.
“How was the tree lighting? And the costume contest?” I had asked over Sloppy Joes.
“They plugged the lights in like they always do,” said Ava in her seven-year-old toothless voice.
“Was the star on top?” I asked.
They all nodded, bored.
“What about the costume contest?” I pressed. “Who won?”
“The mayor dressed as Santa,” Owen said flatly. “Like every year.”
“Isn’t that funny?” I laughed. “He wins every year.”
Owen shrugged, talking around a mouthful of food. “Seems pointless to have a contest, doesn’t it?”
I looked at him. Blinked.
“It’s not pointless,” I argued. “It’s tradition.”
They all started talking about something else.
But today? Today I knew I was dropping the kids off this morning only for them to get picked up by Ryan who would take them to the Christmas parade. I cried in the car line until the school resource officer tapped on my window to make sure I was okay to drive.
I told him everything; he told me I was stopping the flow of traffic.
Here’s the thing people don’t tell you about getting divorced: It’s humiliating.
Humiliating to tell people you couldn’t hack it as a wife.
Humiliating to tell people your husband stepped out on you because you clearly couldn’t keep him satisfied.
Humiliating to know that the man you thought you’d love forever based the custody schedule on what would hurt you the most.
Aside from the humiliation, it just fucking sucks.
When I found myself pouring a glass of wine with lunch to drown out the pain of missing the first Christmas parade with my kids in my decade of motherhood, I knew I’d show up tonight. I had to. If for no other reason than to fill the Christmas tree–sized hole in my heart.
A slamming door turns my head.
Marv strolls toward us from his creepy box truck, his eyes pinging around the sky in earnest. He’s wearing sweatpants, a puffy coat, and sandals over socks.
On his head: a set of large headphones.
In his hands: a walkie-talkie and antenna.
He is a complete weirdo.
“Hello, Hollis,” he says with a too-loud voice as he approaches. “Brought my ham radio.” He climbs directly into the back of the wagon, raising his eyebrows as he gestures at me with his equipment. “Speak without censorship.”
I look back at Jay; his mustache twitches.
Knowing he wants to smile makes me fight one.
Where Ryan is a doctor and looks like one—sharp, clean, expensive—Jay is his polar opposite with a mustache and coat lined in frayed edges. Ryan is a polished fancy suit, Jay is a pair of blue jeans, worn to perfection.
I eye the antler-adorned hat on his head; Jay is as far from my ex-husband as it gets.
“Hollis?” Jay asks, smirk on his face as I blink. Twice. “I asked if you’re warm enough.”
“Right,” I say, cheeks scorching; I was staring. I pat my jacket as if to remind myself I’m wearing it. It’s late and the sun is setting. Even though it’s bone-deep cold, my nerves are buzzing; I doubt I’ll notice. “I’m fine.”
He helps me into the wagon where he and I sit on the bench at the front.
With a slight slap of the reins, the horses lurch down the trail.
The wheels moan as we move, and the muffled clip-clop of the hooves and Marv’s random mutters form a mismatched symphony.
For the first few minutes, neither Jay nor I say anything.
“You have a wagon,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “And horses.”
He looks at me, reins loose in his hands. “I have a friend with a wagon and horses. He runs rides out here every year. Lets me and Marv take it out before it all kicks off in mid-November.”
I eye his hat. “Does every Holiday Club meeting involve you wearing that hat?”
“No.” The trail curves from a grassy field into a wall of trees as the horses clod us into the shadows, and his mouth curves into a smirk. “But the ladies love it.”
“I doubt that,” I say dryly.
“Oh really?” He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “Why’s that?”