Tangle of Tinsel

“Why can’t we be again?” She places her palms against my chest. “Don’t you miss the power and prestige? You can just dip a toe back into life in New York with me while you live here full time.”

“That’s the last thing I want, Laurene. I left for a reason. I’m happy here. Going back holds no appeal.” I grip her forearms, removing her hands.

“You just forgot how good we made each other feel. Sex and friendship.”

Knock, knock. We turn to see Romy peer out.

“We’re going to have apple pie and coffee if the two of you are interested.” Spinning around, she rushes off.

I shove Laurene away, and she stumbles.

“Why are you here, Laurene?”

“Daddy threatened to cut me off if I don’t settle down,” she whines. “Daddy’s always liked you, and we got along so well, I figured we could just renew our arrangement.”

“Except I’m not interested.”

She hisses, “If it wasn’t for her, you would’ve been.”

“No. We want different things. I’m finished being your smokescreen so Daddy can keep cash in your coffers.”

“You don’t even care what happens to me, do you?”

“I get the feeling you’ll be just fine.” Her drama isn’t going to affect me any longer.

She smooths the hair away from her face. “I can’t go back in there now.”

“You can do what you want. I never turn down a slice of apple pie.” And I have a woman to explain all this to. Returning inside, my stomach plummets.

“Where’s Romy?” I glance toward the bathroom.

“She had to go home,” my mother answers with a tone that implies the word ‘dumbass’.

“Where’s your guest?” Dad asks.

“Enjoying the view.”

I can’t leave things l

ike this. Laurene reenters, and I swear under my breath. Had I been alone, I’d have gone after her.

THE BROWN SWEATER LOOKS like Candyland threw up on it. Bright-colored ribbons, gumdrops, and candy canes work together with white felt to create a gingerbread bonanza. Ollie gave me so much shit about my cop-out sweater last year I had to come correct this time. Caught between Laurene’s lame come-ons and ignored texts with Romy, my joy flatlined. Seeing the ridiculous picture I make in this getup helps. Running a brush through my hair, I walk from my bathroom and out of my room.

“What in the name of Chris Kringle are you wearing?”

“My contest-winning ugly sweater.”

“Is this some strange Vermont tradition? You dress up, take a selfie, and compete with all your friends?”

I roll my eyes. “No. I go to a party and try to one-up my friends in person.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slump. “So you’re leaving?”

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Her cheeks pinken, and she scowls.

“You’re welcome to join me if you really want to, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it, and I’m not planning on babysitting you or leaving early if you get sick of being there.”