A Grumpy Christas
by Corie Rosling
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2019 by Corie Rosling.
All rights reserved worldwide. No portion of this book may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events appearing in this novel are purely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity or resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, places, events or locales are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and is entirely coincidental.
Join Corie’s Mailing List
Be the first to know what’s happening in Corie’s world.
Plus get an exclusive copy of Stormswept Omega.
https://bookhip.com/VAQBNV
Chapter One
Pierce
The irritating sound of metal scraping against metal screeched through the house, sending me sputtering as my tea attempted to go down the wrong way. My peaceful Sunday morning had turned into a cacophony of noises as the house next door received a new owner. Yelling ensued near my front lawn. I continued to ignore it even as my nerves splintered. Reaching for the remote, my thumb pushed the volume button up, sending the dulcet tones of Haley Reinhart to thunderous levels, singing Seven Nation Army as PMJ played in the background. The singer’s voice was sultry, reminiscent of a smoky forties bar in the French Quarter.
I should think about moving, but I wasn’t ready yet. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear Grant’s voice as he laughed and chased Craig down the halls, through the kitchen, and around the great room, finally ending in a pile on the floor as a tickle match ensued. Swallowing thickly as the memories wavered on the edge of my mind, a loud crash pulled me from them as more yelling sprung up outside.
After a few moments, the yelling stopped. The heavy thud of footsteps sounded again as the movers got back to work. I didn’t know who had purchased the house next door. Probably some young couple just starting out. It was that kind of neighborhood, filled with young couples with kids. In many ways, I thought the neighborhood was changing, but that was a lie I told myself. It wasn’t the neighborhood. It was me.
It had been five years since the accident that took my future away in an instant. As I grew older and more recluse, I was becoming that beleaguered old man who yelled at the neighborhood kids to stay off my lawn. Not really. I didn’t yell at anyone and no one ever played on my lawn. Inside, I felt like that old man at times. It scared me to think I was turning into someone like Old Man Paterson who used to live in the old farmhouse down the road from me when I was a kid. Thinking of the mean old man left me shivering at all the times I’d been scared out of my wits as he yelled at me while I walked by on the way home from school. That wasn’t who I wanted to be, but I was still in a fog after all these years, trying to figure out my next steps as I figured out how to live the rest of my life alone.
Forcing those thoughts out of my head, I unlocked the wheels on my chair, pivoting a little before heading into the kitchen. I wasn’t really hungry, but I’d learned to force myself to eat at regular times or I’d forget. Slapping the bread on the table, I added deli meats from the fridge, a little slather of mayo on the bread, followed by slices of Cajun turkey and smoked Gouda. Looking around the pristine kitchen, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cooked. It didn’t seem worth it most days. Not for just me.
Throwing out most of my sandwich, I went to my office to lose myself in my work. At times, it was the only time the memories didn’t swamp me with grief. My focus was on other, more concrete, things, not leaving room for the dark thoughts.
Hours later, the darkened room told me it was well past dinner time. I’d forgotten again. Shaking my head, I wheeled myself past the kitchen toward the front of the house. The moving van was gone when I looked out the window. The streets quiet once again. Streetlights glowed, reflecting off the palm trees as they moved with the gentle breeze. The bird of paradise rustled its long leaves against the side of the house, bringing with it memories of Grant as he planted the small plants. We’d watched them grow up into mature plants which nestled together in an attractive grouping with their bright orange flowers. Craig hadn’t even been born yet.
Another day was over, like a black mark on my soul. The grief never seemed to end. Friends who had loved Grant had stopped dropping by long ago. The few friends who remained had stopped trying to convince me it was time to move on. They kept their visits short, becoming more and more infrequent as time went by. Soon even they would be gone, and where did that leave me? Alone. Always alone.
Maneuvering my chair through the wide hallway, I wheeled into my room. It was early for bed, but what else did I have to do? Standing, I left the wheelchair by the door, hopping my way around the room as I prepared for bed. It didn’t take long to strip off the sweats and Henley I’d been wearing that day. Throwing the dirty clothes in the hamper, I hopped into the bathroom. The water was quick to heat, thanks to the on-demand water reservoir I had installed when we first bought the house. It had been part of the major renovation on the house when Grant and I had first bought it. The handrails I grabbed were a newer addition.
I eased down in the shower chair because hopping in the shower was still something that made me uncomfortable. Living alone
