Like picking at a scab, I wondered what my parents were doing right now. If the family was gathered around the huge tree with hundreds of glittering lights and gifts tastefully wrapped in expensive paper. Mom would be playing her Bing Crosby and Dad would be on the phone with Tokyo or London, arguing about oil futures until someone lured him away with brandy and a cigar.
I set the basket down and turned my phone back on. A string of texts and three missed calls from Miller and Ronan waited. None from Seattle. None from River.
I turned the phone off and left it off.
I took a shower as hot as I could stand to drive out the cold that had settled into my bones, then dressed in pajama pants, a long-sleeved undershirt, another shirt on top of that, and my robe. The fire roared and I turned the thermostat up to eighty.
With Beatriz’s cookies and the rest of Reg’s Scotch, I settled on the couch. A Christmas Story was playing on its endless Christmas Day loop. The storm outside raged harder, rain lashing the windows. Lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder that made the house shake. I ate a little, drank a lot, and time slipped out from under me. The movie played over and over; the scenes shuffling around like a deck of cards. I couldn’t keep straight if I were watching the same movie, or if it had begun again.
Judging by how dark it was outside, night had fallen (#science). At some point, I must’ve gotten up to use the bathroom but didn’t make it back to bed. My old friend, the hardwood floor, welcomed me back.
“This is where I live now,” I said, chuckling. “I live on the floor.”
Thunder shook the house, pounding, as if trying to bang the door down. I thought I heard someone call my name.
“Holden?”
The storm is talking to me.
“Holden, are you there?”
River.
He pounded on the door, hard and insistent. “Holden, open the door.”
“This is a new development,” I murmured, my stupid heart begging me to let him in.
I can’t. I can’t let him in…
The pounding became a slower, more forceful bang. Once, twice, and then the door slammed open, bringing with it the sound of rain and heavy footsteps.
“Jesus, it’s an oven in here,” River muttered, then he was kneeling beside me, his face floating across my blurred vision. Rainwater coursed down his jacket and made his dark hair hang over his forehead.
“You broke the door down?” I asked. “My hero…”
“Are you okay? Christ, I’ve been calling for hours.”
“Why?”
“Why…? Why?” He glanced around, shaking his head. “Because…what the hell are you doing?”
“The room is spinning so I’m holding the floor down.”
River sat heavily beside me with an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing? Drinking yourself stupid on Christmas? Where are your aunt and uncle?”
“Seattle. With my parents.”
“They left you alone?”
“I told them to go.”
His eyes darkened, his voice tinged with anger. “You shouldn’t…do this. You shouldn’t hurt yourself like this. And they shouldn’t have fucking left.”
“There you go again,” I said, chest aching. “Always saying things you have no business saying.”
“Come on.”
His strong arms went around me and hauled me to my feet. I sagged against him and lifted my heavy, alcohol-soaked head. My bleary eyes scanned his face, wanting to preserve every detail.