He wraps his arms around me and squeezes, and when he whispers, “I’ve missed you, kiddo,” everything breaks loose.
Mom awww s and shhhh s as I sob into Dad’s shirt. She thinks this display is because I’ve missed them. She gets teary and says she’s missed me, too. Dad shuffles nervously as he pats my back. He never was good at dealing with emotion.
By the time we collect my luggage and get to the car, I’m beyond drained. The trip back to Aberdeen passes in a hazy blur.
When we get home, I go straight to my room and get ready for bed. As I brush my teeth, Christmas carols echo up the stairs, along with my mother’s out-of-tune voice.
She loves Christmas.
Usually I do, too, but not this year.
It’s only when I crawl into my childhood bed that I find relief in deep, desolate unconsciousness.
The next morning, I zombie-walk downstairs.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart!”
I get hugs and a large box. The hugs make me feel claustrophobic. The box contains a leather-bound copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. It’s beautiful, but I have an immediate urge to tear out Romeo and Juliet and throw it in the fire. That play will forever remind me of my first lead role. And the first time Ethan kissed me. It was backstage on the second day of rehearsals. He told me he wasn’t capable of being my Romeo. That if he tried to play the romantic lead, he’d choke and take me down with him. I should have listened.
I put the book down and thank my parents. My smile feels sickeningly fake, but they don’t seem to notice.
I give Mom perfume. Dad gets a detective novel. They both hug me, happy with their daughter even if they’re not speaking to each other.
When I’ve had my fill of Tofurky and nutloaf, I claim I have a headache and go upstairs. My room is small, yet the space around me screams its emptiness. Like I’m too shriveled to fill it.
I unpack the rest of my bag, and when I find a small package at the bottom, the room gets a lot smaller.
I don’t know why I brought it with me. Maybe because I didn’t know what else to do. I peel off the too-bright paper and stare at the leather cover for a long time. I was going to give it to Ethan yesterday, but I got sidetracked by him breaking up with me. I was so excited when I bought it. My first gift for my first boyfriend. I was worried he’d think it was lame.
Turns out, his Christmas gift was the last thing I should have been concerned about.
I flick open the empty journal and run my fingers along the lines that should be filled with his thoughts.
Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. Make it the place I pour out all toxic emotions.
I pick up a pen and try to write. Nothing happens.
I close my eyes, but all I get is a cavalcade of Holt. Kissing me. Holding my hand.
I wrap my arms around myself to stop the pain.
God, I miss him.
Being away from him is one thing. Being emotionally severed from him is another. Both together are unbearable.
My last thread of self-control snaps. I grab my phone.
He said he wanted to be friends, right? I draft five texts before settling on one that sounds casual enough to be friendly.
As soon as I hit send, I want to take it back.
I spend the next hour in purgatory, waiting for him to reply.
The hour after that I spend making up excuses as to why he hasn’t.
The hour after that I feel more stupid than I ever have in my entire life. So ridiculous, and pathetic, and viciously dumb. I cry hot tears, and my chest nearly cracks with the effort to stay silent so my parents don’t hear.
I throw my phone on the floor and try to sleep.
A tiny masochistic part of me keeps waking during the night to check if he’s texted.
When morning breaks, he still hasn’t.
“Cassie?”
Go away, Mom.
“Sweetheart, come on.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“It’s two
Mom awww s and shhhh s as I sob into Dad’s shirt. She thinks this display is because I’ve missed them. She gets teary and says she’s missed me, too. Dad shuffles nervously as he pats my back. He never was good at dealing with emotion.
By the time we collect my luggage and get to the car, I’m beyond drained. The trip back to Aberdeen passes in a hazy blur.
When we get home, I go straight to my room and get ready for bed. As I brush my teeth, Christmas carols echo up the stairs, along with my mother’s out-of-tune voice.
She loves Christmas.
Usually I do, too, but not this year.
It’s only when I crawl into my childhood bed that I find relief in deep, desolate unconsciousness.
The next morning, I zombie-walk downstairs.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart!”
I get hugs and a large box. The hugs make me feel claustrophobic. The box contains a leather-bound copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. It’s beautiful, but I have an immediate urge to tear out Romeo and Juliet and throw it in the fire. That play will forever remind me of my first lead role. And the first time Ethan kissed me. It was backstage on the second day of rehearsals. He told me he wasn’t capable of being my Romeo. That if he tried to play the romantic lead, he’d choke and take me down with him. I should have listened.
I put the book down and thank my parents. My smile feels sickeningly fake, but they don’t seem to notice.
I give Mom perfume. Dad gets a detective novel. They both hug me, happy with their daughter even if they’re not speaking to each other.
When I’ve had my fill of Tofurky and nutloaf, I claim I have a headache and go upstairs. My room is small, yet the space around me screams its emptiness. Like I’m too shriveled to fill it.
I unpack the rest of my bag, and when I find a small package at the bottom, the room gets a lot smaller.
I don’t know why I brought it with me. Maybe because I didn’t know what else to do. I peel off the too-bright paper and stare at the leather cover for a long time. I was going to give it to Ethan yesterday, but I got sidetracked by him breaking up with me. I was so excited when I bought it. My first gift for my first boyfriend. I was worried he’d think it was lame.
Turns out, his Christmas gift was the last thing I should have been concerned about.
I flick open the empty journal and run my fingers along the lines that should be filled with his thoughts.
Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. Make it the place I pour out all toxic emotions.
I pick up a pen and try to write. Nothing happens.
I close my eyes, but all I get is a cavalcade of Holt. Kissing me. Holding my hand.
I wrap my arms around myself to stop the pain.
God, I miss him.
Being away from him is one thing. Being emotionally severed from him is another. Both together are unbearable.
My last thread of self-control snaps. I grab my phone.
He said he wanted to be friends, right? I draft five texts before settling on one that sounds casual enough to be friendly.
As soon as I hit send, I want to take it back.
I spend the next hour in purgatory, waiting for him to reply.
The hour after that I spend making up excuses as to why he hasn’t.
The hour after that I feel more stupid than I ever have in my entire life. So ridiculous, and pathetic, and viciously dumb. I cry hot tears, and my chest nearly cracks with the effort to stay silent so my parents don’t hear.
I throw my phone on the floor and try to sleep.
A tiny masochistic part of me keeps waking during the night to check if he’s texted.
When morning breaks, he still hasn’t.
“Cassie?”
Go away, Mom.
“Sweetheart, come on.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“It’s two
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