Steven, who's always been attuned to how others are feeling, nudges James with his elbow. "What do you say, buddy? You want to be on Thomas's and my team? We could use another man."
My five-year-old son smiles genuinely and glances down at the two Ping-Pong paddles in his hands. "That's okay, Uncle Steven--I'm gonna wait for my daddy. I'll be on his team."
And doesn't that just make me feel like two cents' worth of shit. Because he's completely unaware that I have no intention of showing up.
James's words immediately grab Kate's attention, and she crouches down in front of him. "Honey, remember I told you Daddy had to work tonight? He didn't want to, but he had to. I don't think he's going to be here to play Ping-Pong."
James smiles at her reassuringly. "Yeah, I remember, but he'll come after he's done working. I know he will. He'll make it in time."
Kate's eyes cloud with worry, because she doesn't want our little boy disappointed. Not on Christmas Eve. And sure as hell not because of his father.
"Can I play with you?" she offers. "I play a mean game of Ping-Pong."
James giggles. "Thanks, Mommy, but I want to wait for Daddy."
Kate tries again. "But what if he can't come, honey?"
James gazes back at her calmly, confidently, because he believes every word he's saying. "Daddy told me that 'can't' isn't a real word. That anything someone wants to do badly enough--they'll do. He said 'can't just means they won't,' or that they don't want to. So that's how I know he's coming. Because it's Christmas Eve, and there's nowhere Daddy wants to be more than here with us. So he'll be here."
Guilty pain lances my heart, and I cover it with my hand. I think I might actually fucking cry.
"Ouch," my spirit sister says beside me. "That's gotta hurt. And you thought the mother guilt was bad."
I shake my head. "I'm such a dick. How can I be such a giant asshole and not know it?"
Christmas Alexandra takes pity on me. She pats my shoulder. "You're not really that bad. You're just a little self-absorbed sometimes. You don't see things from others' perspectives--how your actions may affect them."
Back in the apartment, Kate brushes back the locks of James's hair that have fallen over his forehead. "You are the smartest, sweetest little boy ever, you know that?"
He grins. "Yeah, you're pretty lucky."
My wife laughs. Then she kisses his forehead and moves back to the love seat, next to her best friend. She glances worriedly down the hall toward the front door, and there's sharp anger in her tone when she whispers to Delores, "If James gets hurt tonight because of Drew, he and I are going to have a major problem."
Delores nods. But then--maybe Christmas really is magic, because she defends me. Kind of. "Don't give up hope, Katie. Dipshit may actually pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize where he should be. He's come through before when I didn't think he would. So . . . keep the faith. You never know."
Kate sips her wine, looking distinctly uncomforted.
Then the Ping-Pong participants shout loudly as Michael gets the ball past his uncle--scoring the winning point. His father gives him a high five and a hug.
"Well played, sir," Steven congratulates.
"Nice shot," my son calls sincerely.
Then he sighs. And goes back to watching the door.
Though I know he can't hear me, I start to move toward him so I can explain how crucial tonight's conference call is. So he'll understand. But even in my head, the justifications sound pretty fucking hollow.
And I don't get the chance to, anyway. My sister's hand on my shoulder stops me. "Come along--we still have another stop to make."
"So I can feel even worse than I do right now?" I give a sarcastic two-thumbs-up. "Yay."
She takes my hand and I reluctantly follow her out the front door.
And we step seamlessly into my apartment.
There's a fire burning in the living room fireplace but the lights are turned down low. And it's quiet--the only sound to be heard is Kate's singing voice floating softly down the hall from James's bedroom. She does that sometimes--sings him to sleep. At the moment, she's doing a fucktastic rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." I imagine her running her fingers through his soft hair as his eyes grow heavy. Then, when he's finally out--she'll kiss his forehead and smell the still-child-sweet scent of his skin.
"This is later tonight," my sister informs me. "While you're at the office on your video business meeting."
A few seconds later, the song ends and Kate comes walking down the hall. Her hair is pulled up and she's wearing a dark green silk nightshirt that accentuates the green flecks in her eyes. With white socks, because hardwood floors are freaking freezing in the winter.
In her hands, Kate holds a bottle of wine and a single glass. She uncorks it on the coffee table and pours a double serving into the glass. Then she opens the hall closet and sticks her head inside. As she rummages around, pulling out baseball bats and ski jackets that I astutely used to camouflage the presents inside, the back of her nightgown starts to ride up, and the "Ho, ho, ho" written across the ass of her red panties peeks out.
I tilt my head for a better angle of the luscious sight.
Addiction is an illness. But there are times--like this one--that it's an enjoyable one. I can't help myself, and if I'm being honest, I don't really want to.
Alexandra frowns at me. "Focus, please."
I clear my throat and nod.
Eventually, Kate succeeds in dragging out two boxes that are longer than she is.
She opens them, lays out all the pieces neatly, and settles herself among them on the floor. She takes a sip of her wine, opens the instruction manual, and gives herself a pep talk.
"If Drew wants to work, he can work. I got this covered. How hard could it be?"
We should pause here briefly and think about that statement. How hard can putting a child's toy together really be?
Past experience tells me--pretty fucking hard. If you have kids, you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't get it. Clear illustrations, simple direct steps--is that really too goddamn much to ask for? And don't get me started on the packaging. I realize that shoplifting is a drain on stores, but is it necessary to wrap every single fucking component in plastic, wire, and industrial-strength tape? The only people that deters are the parents trying to put it together.
I've wondered who makes that call at the toy companies. Who decides which pieces get tied down and at what potency. Whoever it is--I bet he was bullied in high school. Or maybe he was poor and didn't get to play with any toys when he was a kid. So now--every day--he takes his sick, twisted revenge by making it as difficult as humanly possible for anyone to put together a toy that should be a piece of fucking cake.
I feel better now that I got that off my chest. Thanks.
So, back to Kate: fifteen minutes after getting started, she's got all of three pieces put together on James's bicycle.
She picks up the instructions and turns them sideways. Then she holds them upright and tries turning her head sideways.
"Are you kidding me?" she yells at the paper, flinging it to the ground. Then she speaks threateningly to the bike parts as she tries to force them to connect. "Just. Go. In. You. Bastard!"
When that doesn't work, she takes a breath and a sip of wine. She brushes the wisps of hair that've escaped her bun away from her face. Then she picks up a blue metal rod. "You are component A. You need to be inserted into component B's hole. Work with me, here."
And now she's back to shoving.
I squat down next to her. "It looks like rod A is too well endowed for B's hole. Maybe they need some lube."
If she could hear me, Kate would chuckle. And she'd look at me like I was the cleverest man in the world.
But she can't. So she just continues to grit her teeth and struggle with the metal bars.
Until her hand slips.
And her finger gets pinched between two pieces of steel.
With
a curse, Kate drops the bike pieces and flaps her hand, trying to shake the pain away. Then she puts her finger in her mouth.
It's something I would've done if I were here. Sucked her finger until it was all better. Then I would've gotten her a Band-Aid or ice.
Once her finger is probably just a dull throb, Kate rubs her forehead. She looks tired.
And sad.
And for the first time tonight, I wish I'd chosen differently. It's not only because I feel guilty--though I do. But if I could go back, I'd be here with her right now. And it would be a shitload more enjoyable for both of us.
Kate picks up her glass of wine, eyes the red liquid, then holds it up unhappily. "Merry Christmas, Kate."
And I'm done.
I don't want to watch this anymore. I don't want to know that my actions have hurt the feelings of the two people who mean the most to me.
Because I'm a guy. And to the great annoyance of women everywhere--guys are doers. We don't just listen to you babble about your problems; we tell you how to fix them.
And we never understand why you get pissed off about that. Why you just want us to be a "sounding board" or a "good listener." What the fuck is the point of sounding off if you're not going to do anything about it?
So I'm going back to my office, and then I'm going to haul ass home to help Kate assemble James's presents. And I'm going to wake up my son and tell him I'm sorry. That I'll play Ping-Pong with him every damn day if it makes him happy.
I stand up and look into the eyes of my big sister. Almost like she can read my mind, she says, "Okay. Let's go, then."
Alexandra holds my hand and we walk to the elevators outside my apartment door. We step inside and they close behind us. When they reopen, we're on the fortieth floor of my office building. And all the decorations--the music, the snow--are gone now.
Outside my closed office door, I turn toward my sister.
"Thank you, Alexandra. Really, this time."
She smiles. "Do you know what life is, Drew?"
"A cosmic joke?"
She snorts. "No. Life is a memory. Sure, we enjoy the moments as they come, but for many, time goes by too fast to truly appreciate those moments as they happen. It's only later, when we remember them, that they become precious to us. A life well lived is one where the good memories outweigh the bad."
I rub the back of my neck. "That's kind of depressing."
"It doesn't have to be." She shakes her head softly. "Never pass up the opportunity to make a beautiful memory, Drew."
Then she kisses my cheek and disappears.
chapter 5
After Alexandra is gone, I wait.
My guardian angel said there'd be three spirits visiting me, and I have a feeling I'm not going to wake up from this dream until bachelorette number three gets her turn.
When nothing happens, I try to help things along. "Hello? Anybody here? You win--I feel really fucking guilty. I'm going to cancel my conference and go home now. Happy?"
The only answer I receive is silence.
I take one last glance around, then open my office door and step inside.
And I'm blinded by flashing green and red lights. A pounding electric guitar version of "Jingle Bells" pierces my eardrums while a white foggy mist clouds my vision of the room. Out from behind my desk steps a tall creature whose face is obscured by a flowing red satin hooded robe.
Suddenly, the flashing lights disappear and the music cuts off.
I wouldn't say I'm scared . . . but intimidated fits nicely. "Are you . . . are you the spirit of Christmas future?"
I don't expect an answer. In the movie, the last, most frightening spirit never talks. If it pulls the hood back, I suppose it'll have a black hole where its face should be--maybe a skeleton head. I brace myself as hands with long red nails reach for the hood and reveal the countenance beneath it.
Did I think this was a dream? Nope. It's a nightmare.
Because standing before me, grinning evilly, is none other than Delores Warren, the ever-present pain in my ass.
"That's me," she proclaims. "The biggest, baddest Christmas spirit there ever was."
I hold out my hand to shield my view. "Can you put the hood back up?"
She glares. "Ha-ha, asswipe. I wouldn't be making jokes if I were you, seeing as how you've screwed up. Again."
I cross my arms. "I guess that means you're taking me to the future. Show me my grave, and how no one gives a shit that I'm dead because of my selfish ways?"
She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. "That's Ebenezer's gig--he's always been an emo-bastard." Delores fingers the pearl brooch at the neck of her robe as she asks, "Have you ever wondered how your life would've turned out if you and Kate had never met?"
"Not really."
I was never big on philosophy. Waste of time, as far as I'm concerned. Besides, Kate and I did meet, so the would've, could've, should've doesn't apply.
"Well, I have," she says. "I always suspected Katie would've been better off without you. So we're not going to the future. I'm going to show you this night as it would be if Kate had never come to New York, and never fell victim to your man-whore charms."
Is that something you want to see?
Because I'm not interested. Because . . . if Delores is right, and Kate really is better off without me? That knowledge would break my fucking heart like nothing else ever could.
I shake my head. "No, thanks. I'll sit this one out."
Her green eyes gleam. Almost menacingly. "Lucky for me, you don't have a choice in the matter."
With that, she spins toward me, the red cloak billowing around us. I feel her hand on my arm and the whole world shifts--falls--then comes to a jerking stop, like the end of a roller-coaster ride.
I look around. We've landed back in the outer hallway of my sister's condo. The door is open and a version of me stands in the doorway, saying good-bye to his family inside. He seems a little more worn around the edges--but still one hell of a good-looking guy.
"So this me made it to Christmas Eve dinner?" I ask.
"Without a wife and kid taking up your time, you were able to get the conference with Hawaii done earlier." Then Delores points at the other me. "Notice the crow's-feet. Since he didn't settle down with Kate, there's a few more years of hard partying under his belt--and his eyes. But, sorry to say, no one's kicking you out of her bed yet."
I wave my hand, quieting her annoying commentary so I can hear the conversation going on at the door.
"You're sure you don't want to stay the night?" Alexandra asks. "You could wake up with us, open presents--nothing makes Christmas feel more like Christmas than kids getting up at the crack of dawn."
Kateless Drew hugs Mackenzie and Thomas, then kisses Alexandra on the cheek. "Sounds tempting, but I'm good."
His mother clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "I hate the idea of you being all alone."
He smirks. "Then you have nothing to worry about, Mom. I hardly ever spend the entire night alone."
Steven chuckles and taps Drew's fist.
His mom rolls her eyes. "It's Christmas Eve, don't be vulgar."
Drew shakes his father's hand. "See you guys tomorrow."
With that, he leaves. But he doesn't go home.
He walks a few blocks until he comes to the most dependable pickup spot in any city. The place responsible for more sexual encounters than a highway rest stop bathroom.
A hotel bar.
While he stands at the entry, scanning for prospects, I do the same. It's been awhile for me, but spotting the easy pickings is like riding a bike--a skill you never really forget.
Our eyes settle on a forty-something redhead in phenomenal shape, sitting alone at a corner table. Drew orders two drinks from the bartender--a Jack and Coke for himself, and whatever the lady is having.
Then he makes his move.
"Mind if I join you?" he asks her with a smile.
After her eyes shamelessly undress him, she nods. "Please." He sets her dr
ink in front of her and she thanks him.
He assumes she's at the hotel because she doesn't actually live in New York. So he asks, "Are you visiting the city for business or pleasure?"
She sips her drink and licks her lip provocatively. "Originally, business--I'm in real estate. But now it seems I'll be multitasking."
Drew winks. "I'm an excellent multitasker. I'm able to give my attention to many different areas at once. I'd love to demonstrate that talent for you sometime."
Redhead smiles wider. Then she says, "Mistletoe."
"Pardon?"
She points above them. "My hotel room has mistletoe printed on the sheets, in honor of the holiday season. How would you feel about kissing me under it?"
Drew chuckles. "I believe that's a holiday tradition that should always be observed." They finish their drinks, then stand. Ever the gentleman, Drew motions with his hand. "After you."
And together they head upstairs.
The redhead's room is actually a suite. Delores and I sit on the couch in the common area while the other version of myself and the redhead get busy in the bedroom.
From what I can hear--which is a lot--Redhead is quite flexible.
"Uh . . . fuck."
"Oh . . . oh . . . oh."
"Shit . . . yes!"
"Oh . . . yeah."
"That's it . . . yes . . . more . . . make me your bitch."
"Jesus . . ."
And on it goes.
For an hour.
Then two.
From the couch, I stare at the ceiling. And think about repainting the home office.
Delores glares at me. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
I squint as I consider her question. "Not as much as I thought I would. I mean, it's not really me, so I have nothing to feel guilty about. But still . . ."
Hearing any version of myself banging the hell out of a woman who isn't Kate is just . . . bizarre. In a disturbing kind of way. Not a turn-on.
After a high-pitched scream and a roaring grunt, the noise from the bedroom quiets down. Until . . .
"Mmm . . ."
"Oh . . ."
"Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . ."
Delores throws up her hands. "Now this is just fucking ridiculous."
I shrug unapologetically. "Picasso had his clay, Rembrandt had his brushes--I have my cock. Every true artist has a favorite tool. And you can't rush fine art."
"Yes, yes, yes . . ."
"Oh fuck . . ."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm fast-forwarding."