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But the over-full backpack and duffle are both heavy and awkward. I have to roll over on my side and wiggle out of all the straps before I can sit up and examine the damage.
The tree is partly inside and partly in the hall. John’s sleek hardwood floors are covered with a fine dusting of needles. Almost enough to look like an entry rug. But I know the real victim of this crime of clumsiness is the box of ornaments, which I end up kicking over, adding broken pieces to the piles of needles.
My careful wrapping preserved only a single ornament. Once I prop up the tree—because I forgot a tree stand—I hang the one red ball from a branch near the middle.
“You’re a survivor,” I tell the shiny ball, which only reflects a distorted image of myself back. “One of a kind. Go, you!”
But the moment I secure it to the branch, the ornament separates from the hook and the ball shatters on the ground in front of me.
“Really?” I say, glaring down at the shiny red shards. “You’d rather die with your friends than live alone? Suit yourself. I take back the nice things I said.”
I back up carefully, not wanting to pull a John McClane withDie Hardbloodied feet, but I step on shards anyway, wincing as they slice into my heel.
My dumb brother and his no shoes in the apartment rule! I’m going to wear shoes now just to spite him and walk all over his apartment, stomping my shoeseverywherein his ultra-modern, ultra-pristine loft!
As soon as I dislodge the pieces of ornament, that is.
This turns out to be more challenging than I expected, and involves me dumping out half my duffle bag in the living room until I locate tweezers. Now, John’s pristine apartment is covered in evergreen needles, my belongings strewn over the entry hall, and smears of blood from the small cuts that bled a surprisingly large amount.
“Gotcha!” I say, pulling out the last tiny red shard from my heel.
I drop it unceremoniously on the table, wondering if I should toss it in the trash or mount it in a decorative frame. Definitely the trash. Along with all the other pieces of ornaments and needles. .
But I’ll do it later. I yawn, suddenly exhausted.
I’m worn out from all of the emotional heaviness of Christmas still hanging over my shoulders like a weighted blanket.
Every year, there’s a bitterness mixed with the sweetness of my very favorite season. Christmas comes with a reminder of the loved ones missing and the holes left in their absence. My grandparents, all gone too soon. My father, even sooner.
And this year without John. As much as he drives me batty with his overprotectiveness, it wasn’t the same with my brother on video chat instead of in the room to tease me in person.
It’s such a cliché—the melancholy on holidays stemming from loss. But then, clichés are clichés for a reason.
Add in my utter disappointment in Mason’s—I mean,John’s—gift and now, the process of moving, and I’m feeling like my mom’s Christmas turkey—stuffed and overcooked. Emotionally speaking.
Which is why I decide to take a nap. Before unpacking. Before cleaning up the blood or the remnants of ornaments. One more problem for Later Chelsea. She’s going to be a busy girl!
John would have a complete cow if he were here. A whole herd of cows. He’s the neatest of neat freaks, as evidenced by this pristine, modern space. There’s something super satisfying about being the person who comes in and messes up his apartment when he’s too far away to do anything about it. It’s the home equivalent of giving him a noogie.
“Take this, John,” I say, punching down one of his throw pillows, all of which look like they were picked by a designer and not by my brother. They also are about as hard as cinder blocks. “This is what you get for always meddling in my life and also leaving us for Christmas.”
And then, I proceed to take an angry nap on his expensive couch.
* * *
“Hey.” A deep voice breaks into the lovely dream I was having about a tropical island with pink flamingos and … a bunch of hockey players in full gear doing a popular TikTok dance?
The beach and flamingos and hockey players disappear.
“Noooo. Not yet,” I grumble, snuggling down deeper, trying to reenter the dream.
A hand touches me, shaking gently. Then a little harder.
“A few more minutes,” I say, not ready to wake up for … what am I waking up for? What day is it? Am I late for work?
And why do my eyelids feel so heavy?
Awareness slams into me, and my eyes fly open. I’m in John’s apartment, taking a nap.
