Mom gives me the eye. “She did not.”
“They had a nice, long chat,” Alyssa says. “Didn’t you Molly?”
“You didn’t!” my mother yelps, because Alyssa is evil, and my mother is not dumb.
“No!” I lie. “We just caught up. And get this: he’s a divorce attorney.”
She narrows her eyes into slits. “He isn’t.”
“Yep. A partner at some big firm.”
“See. I was right not to trust him,” she says. “To think he could do that when he saw what happened to you.”
I don’t disagree that it’s kind of a weird life choice, since I was a walking case of divorce trauma for four straight years. But whatever. Seth’s career is not my business. Even if I have thought about him a somewhat alarming number of times since we saw each other.
A very small part of me was tempted to email him to ask if he was going to be here this month. But I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about our trajectory. Bet or not, his assertion that we’ll sleep together again implies he thought that night could be more than a fling—that he read it as a meaningful beat in a romance narrative that will have an ongoing arc.
It wasn’t.
I don’t fraternize romantically with nice people. I’m not built for it.
And I don’t want to hurt him again.
Alyssa yawns, apologizes for yawning, and yawns again. “I think that’s our cue,” Ryland says. Everyone stands up and half an hour of hugs, last-minute asides, holiday wishes, inside jokes, and more hugs commences. When everyone’s gone, my mom kisses me good night and goes up to bed.
I go to the kitchen and check my phone, which I left to charge while we were out on the boat.
There’s a missed call and two texts from my father.
Dad: Hey tootsie.
(He knows I detest being called tootsie.)
Dad: I need a rain check on tomorrow. Call me.
I was supposed to go to his house at eleven for brunch with him and his (fourth) wife, Celeste. Canceling Christmas is ice-cold, even for him.
Not that this is surprising. He’s the kind of parent you always have to call first (unlike my mom, who would happily call me five times a day if she thought I’d pick up), and the kind of human who thinks nothing of flaking on long-term plans, or, for that matter, marriages. He’s been this way since I was a teenager, and for the most part I don’t take it personally.
But blowing me off on the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ is a new one.
I don’t call him back, because if I do, he will hear the dismay in my voice. Instead, I send him a text.
Molly: What’s up?
There’s a flurry of typing bubbles, which I guess is a compliment. Usually, it takes him days to reply.
Dad: Celeste is sick and I feel a little under the weather too—can’t do tomorrow.
Dad: Let’s try for drinks on the 26th instead.
Try for drinks? I am this man’s only child.
Molly: I’m leaving on the 26th
Molly: My flight’s at 8am
Dad: OK—I’ll be in LA next month for meetings. I’ll take you to dinner.
How lovely.
Part of me wants to call and yell at him to, like, at least pretend he is disappointed by this. But if he knows I’m angry, he’ll just be defensive, and that will make me angrier, and I’ll start crying, and hate myself for crying, and he’ll tell me I’m being childish, and I’ll hang up on him.
Speaking speculatively, of course.
So I just type “ok.”
Dad: Merry xmas!
I don’t reply. Suddenly, I’m gripped with anxiety. Nothing triggers me like my father’s rejections.
I consider waking up my mother to commiserate with me on what an incurable asshole he is—her favorite subject outside of real estate prices—but then I’ll end up ruminating all night.
I don’t want to think about him; I want someone to hold me and make me forget.
Fuck it, I think.
I pull up my email and search for Seth’s address.
