“What’s with people today? Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“This gift is time sensitive.” Her eyes flick to the open duffel bag on my bed and the mound of discarded clothes next to it. “What are you doing?”
“Oh.” I pause, suddenly unsure how to approach this. I assumed she was working all week and wouldn’t care if I left after Christmas. Other than our annual Christmas Eve trip to ZooLights, we don’t have elaborate traditions. But now that she has the week off, I’m less confident that she’ll let me go. New Year’s Eve is already the most depressing day on the calendar—even worse than Valentine’s Day, which allows for the moral high ground of spouting phrases like “manufactured” and “Hallmark holiday.” If I’m gone, what will she do?
“Where’s my present?” I ask. She takes the bait and pulls an envelope out of her pocket, waving it back and forth with a grin. I tear the envelope open, expecting to see a couple of twenty-dollar bills, and am stunned to see a plane ticket to New York City.
My heart sputters. “What? How? When? How?” We don’t ever have extra money, especially at Christmas. Every year Mom buys a real tree because I love the smell, and there are always a few presents underneath, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever received. Better than the year she found an almost-new stand mixer at a garage sale.
“I won a contest at work. One week off and two tickets to New York City for Christmas. No one will admit it, but I think the odds may have been tipped in my favor. The nurses know how badly I wanted to win for you.” She clasps her hands together in front of her mouth, anticipating my reaction.
“When do we leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
New York. My eyes stray to the brightest glittery city on my wall. “Where are we staying?”
Mom smiles again, but I sense a shadow of hesitation in it. Of course. Here comes the part where she breaks the news that the only place we can afford to stay is a rented cell on Rikers Island. “Do you remember my old friend Tyson?”
“No?”
“Sure you do.” She clears a spot on the edge of my bed to sit. “His family visited for spring break that one time. We went to a Diamondbacks game, remember?”
“Kind of. His wife spent the whole time complaining about the sun? And the kid, like, inhaled that popcorn we were supposed to share.”
She nods. “Tyson and Jenna divorced last year; she moved out of the city, but Tyson and the ‘kid’—now a Columbia student—have an apartment in Manhattan. We’ll be staying with them!”
“Won’t that be awkward?” Sleeping on a random couch is a long way from my fantasy New York trip. I don’t need five-star hotels. Far from it. But I also don’t want to get stuck playing Secret Santa with strangers. Here’s a candle from the airport gift shop. Hope you like it!
“No! I promise it won’t be. Tyson’s excited. To be honest, I’ve been wanting to visit him. He was recently diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and this will be a good distraction for Harrison and him.”
“Harrison?”
“The popcorn thief.”
“I don’t know—” I hesitate, my eyes scanning my walls. This trip has potential disaster written all over it. I don’t care what Mom says, spending Christmas with strangers will never not be awkward. On the other hand, I might never have enough money to travel to any of the cities on my wall, New York included.
“Don’t change your mind now! You’re mostly packed already. What ruined the surprise?”
“Wait. What?” I snap out of my daydreams of snowy carriage rides in Central Park. Mom gestures to the mound of clothes next to us.
Fitz.
Fitz and the cabin.
Fitz and the cabin and the letter.
Oh no. “Fitz invited me to his cabin for the break.”
Mom’s face softens and a look of understanding dawns on her features. “You want to go.”
“No! I mean, I did, but this is New York.” I wave the ticket in front of my face. “I can’t—I mean, are the tickets transferable?”
She shakes her head. Because of course. Because I can’t ever have anything good without it also being terrible.
“I don’t talk much about you and Fitz,” she says, choosing her words carefully.
My face flames.
Please don’t say it.
“But it’s clear as day that you’re in love with him.”
“I’m not!”
She raises her eyebrows, and I don’t have it in me to argue.
“He’s important to you, and I can see why. He’s charming and handsome and thoughtful—”
“Mom.”
“He’s also showy and dramatic, but you love who you love. If you want to spend Christmas with him, I won’t stop you from going. I’ll miss you, but at least I’ll have New York to distract me.”
“It’s not Christmas. They invited me up the day after.”
She purses her lips, considering this development. “I’m sure your dad would be happy to have you until then.”
I hate to say it, but Christmas with my dad is another plus to the New York column. I know he loves me, but he’s a bit high-strung, and being around him winds me tighter than I already am. Mom’s personality is much more chill. When it comes to keeping SIM under control, that balance is important.
The first few years after the divorce, I was shuffled back and forth for holidays. But when Dad got remarried, he either stopped asking me to come for Christmas, or Mom stopped offering to send me. It’s undetermined. All I know is that the thought of Mom alone on Christmas is too sad for words.
“I don’t know.” I pick at a hole forming in the knee of my jeans. “Going to New York has always been my dream. One of them, anyway.” Even if this is the dream-lite version.
What about the letter? SIM demands. Stupid SIM.
Williams with Fitz.
Or New York for Christmas.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Not this time, Sweets. You’re smart and beautiful and sensitive and—”
“Mom!” I sag under the weight of her compliment avalanche.
“You’ll figure it out.” She kisses the top of my head and stands to leave.
“What if I don’t?”
She gazes at me thoughtfully. “I know making decisions is hard for you, but I still have the number for that therapist—”
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out on my own.”
She frowns as she squeezes my hand in her own. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I won’t, but I nod anyway. Seeing a therapist? For this? It’d be a waste of everyone’s time, and especially Mom’s money.
Despair creeps into my chest, filling my lungs. It’s too much. I can’t choose. If I go with my mom, I get to travel, but I leave the letter with Fitz. And honestly? I’m not sure if I’ll even enjoy New York, knowing that Fitz is in possession of the letter that could blow up our relationship.
If Fitz were here, he’d walk me through one of his games, the ones he uses when I’m spiraling out of control. But he’s not here, and I have a decision to make. I set my alarm for an early wake-up and text Clover to pick me up in the morning. I need to clear my head, which means I need yeast. And since I won’t have the car, it looks like I’ll be joining Clover at goat yoga.