When he doesn’t continue right away, I prod, “Yes?”
He clears his throat. “Deirdre and I were thinking the three of us could get together on Christmas Eve. That way, she and I would be free to spend Christmas Day with her parents.”
My gut reaction is to easily agree to this arrangement, but before I do, it hits me: that leaves me alone on Christmas.
My millisecond’s hesitation makes him rush on, “I mean, if that’s okay with you. You know what? Never mind. That’s not going to work, is it? Well, is it?”
“Uh…” A picture of myself, sitting alone in my house, listening to carols on the radio station that plays them 24/7 from Halloween until the day after Christmas, drinking hot tea, and wrapped in one of the many hideous afghans our grandmother crocheted when she was still alive and had nothing better to do all day in the nursing home flashes through my head, and I barely choke out the “Okay” that was trying its damnedest to stick in my throat.
It’s not okay. But neither is spending the day with Greg and Deirdre. So, he might as well make his fiancée and her family happy.
“Are you sure? I feel bad that you’ll be alone on the actual day.”
“Who says I will be?” I retort lightly. Before he can press me for details, though, I ask, “What time do you want to get together on Christmas Eve?”
“Seven. At my place. We’ll have dinner, exchange gifts, and play a game.”
This isn’t a rough plan, either. He means those things will happen. In that order. I’ll be out the door and on my way home by ten, my gifts in one hand and a wrapped plate of leftovers in the other. It’ll be gloriously scripted and non-spontaneous. No surprises.
Greg and Deirdre are—How do I say this diplomatically? Ah, screw diplomatic—anal retentive. Both of them. Type-A bookends. God help their future children.
“Sounds… fun,” I say weakly.
“We plan for it to be.”
“Then it will be.”
If he senses the snark in my tone, he doesn’t call me on it.
“Hey, listen. The traffic’s starting to move,” I say, staring at the stationary license plate at eye level on the back of the enormous SUV in front of me. With that lie, I make plans to watch the Chiefs game at his house on Sunday, as usual, and hang up.
“Ho-ho-holy shit, this Christmas is going to blow,” I declare to nobody.
I finally make it home after the snarl that turned my twenty-minute commute into a nearly hour-long nightmare. Dispensing with my shoes and my bra is Priority Number One. Then, with a contented sigh, I greet the man of the house.
“Howdy, Jason. Or are we Matt tonight? Either way, it’s been a day. Where’s my drink? How many times do I have to tell you to have that ready for me when I walk through the door? Honestly. You may be a crack spy, but you’re a shit fake-husband-slash-sex-slave.” Winking on my way past the last picture, I pat its wooden frame. “Only kidding. I love ya.”
I don’t talk to all of the framed movie posters on my walls. It just seems rude to ignore Matt, since he watches me take off my bra every day—with the exception of Bourne Number Three, who’s a gentleman and keeps his back turned.
My poster collection is the only personal touch I’ve added to the living room’s otherwise bland decor, with its stormy-gray walls and white molding. Light-blocking, white, wooden blinds cover the windows. Maroon embroidered sheers hang in front of them on pewter rods. The window dressing has one primary job: block out light during my weekend movie marathons. Privacy is a bonus. Not that I do anything in here that requires it.
I bought the matching microsuede couch and armless chair with ottoman in a slightly lighter gray than the walls but still dark enough to hide my clumsy food (okay, wine) spills. My dining area holds a lovely set that includes a table, chairs, and china hutch—empty of any fine china, mind you—but I prefer to eat in front of the television, unless I have company.
The place is generic, temporary, and noncommittal, like something from a box store circular. Or a timeshare condo that has to appeal to many different tastes. That’s intentional. I didn’t expect to be here long, so when making interior design decisions, I played it safe. I basically staged it, figuring it could be sale-ready in a matter of hours. All I have to do is take down my posters, and voilà!
That is, if I hadn’t lost my nerve.
Over the years, the wall hangings have covered more and more of the gray. I’ve bought or salvaged them from stores and cinemas, and they’re in every room, including the bathrooms.
“It’s impossible to go with Patrick Swayze checking me out,” Greg complained once after using the toilet.
I’d laughed. “Too bad. Johnny, Baby, and I have meaningful conversations during bubble baths.”
Not really. But that tidbit served to annoy my brother and make him think I’m even flakier than I am, which was the goal. Actually, I don’t normally keep the Dirty Dancing poster in the bathroom. When Greg’s expected, I change out the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon print that better fits with the cherry blossom shower curtain. Because I like to see my big brother squirm.
He deserves it—not just for abandoning me at Christmas.
At that mental reminder, I sigh again, this time not-so-contentedly, and plod down the hallway to my bedroom, where I peel off my work clothes, drop them in a pile next to the bed, stare at them for a second, then reconsider and hang up the stuff that’s still technically clean but will become hopelessly wrinkled in that heap. My bra goes on top of my dresser (isn’t that where they
