Ex Games

“He called again,” Lori said, breaking away from the phone to yell something at her kid. When her voice came back, it was with a sigh. “Don’t be mad at him for putting the deal on hold. I’m not, and you know I’d be the first to be pissed about it,” she pointed out, referring to the multi-million dollar contract Mason had promised Vandermark Restaurants. He was supposed to bring my company in as the new group running his hotel’s rooftop lounge. But when a full week passed after St. Lucia without me returning his calls – and without me returning to work – he backed out of the deal and renewed his contract with the existing group. I knew I had no right to be infuriated, but I was.

“You’re too easily bought,” I said to Lori.

“You know that’s not true,” she snorted. “The man did what he could to make up for it, Taylor. You can’t deny that. And I can’t deny that either because I’m home, it’s Christmas and all I can do is stare at the REO for the company party he booked with us. I mean it’s no multi-million dollar contract but it’s still going to make our year. The budget is just fucking obscene. I think it gets me wetter than my husband does.”

“Lori! Jesus, isn’t he home?”

“Yes, but I told him about how much money Mason dropped on a single party with us and even he jizzed his pants. And the fact that we got to charge him a ten grand fee for last minute booking? My God. Just the cherry on the top of my quarterly report sundae.”

I laughed at her but curled my lip over Mason. “Well, I’m glad he gets to throw himself a giant Christmas-slash-New Years party and drown his nonexistent sorrows in hundreds of beautiful women.”

“Stop. The sorrows aren’t nonexistent – there are totally sorrows. Tons of them. He called as much as he did to ask for you, didn’t he? It got to the point where I wasn’t looking forward to hearing from him,” Lori said. “And to be fair, it’s a corporate party. He’s going to be boogying with a bunch of old farts in suits from The Leo Group.”

“And hot receptionists who were kind of mean to me.”

“She wasn’t mean to you, and you’re wallowing,” Lori warned. “Don’t wallow. It makes you bitter and I don’t want you to come back to me all shitty and useless.”

“Thanks,” I snorted, making out the sounds of Lori moving around in her kitchen. “Oh God, I can hear you mixing pancake batter. Should I go let you be with your family on Christmas morning like a normal person?”

“Yes, but before you do, let me tell you that I credit this giant party booking from The Leo Group to you, so you can stop calling my ass every day and making sure I’m not going to fire you. I’m not going to fire you, so just stay out there for a bit longer. We’re fine.” She paused. “It’s for business, anyway. Right?”

“Totally,” I laughed, remembering the excuse she’d used to let me hide out in Vermont for awhile – something about scouting farmhouses to purchase and renovate for future events. It was totally bogus but she didn’t really have a higher-up to report to, so it worked just fine.

“Anyway, the kid’s going crazy on me so I gotta go. But you go… find some way to have a decent Christmas alone,” Lori said. “And don’t cut your ear off or anything.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Van Gogh. He was depressed and he cut his ear off.”

“Ah.” I squinted. “I think I prefer being called Eeyore.”

“Noted. Merry Christmas, T. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Upon hanging up, I did my whole routine of dryly laughing and thinking about how grateful I was to have such a kind but smartass boss in my life. But today, probably thanks to what little Christmas spirit I had, I went beyond that and considered how I wouldn’t have even had her in my life without Mrs. Nolan – the woman who guided my way during my years in Vermont before basically handing me off to Lori the moment I moved to New York. She had ensured I was constantly in capable hands, and I had repaid her by losing contact a few years ago, when I went through the break and then the miscarriage with Aaron. I hadn’t felt up to telling her about everything, and then once enough time passed that I did, I still refrained, ashamed by the sheer amount of her emails I had ignored.

So today, I would fix that.

Rushing to the nightstand, I grabbed the notepad and pen the room provided and brought it to the desk, sitting to write a letter to the woman I had named my son after. I included the parts about him, and about the St. Lucia wedding Aaron called off. And from there, I worked backwards because there was just so much she didn’t know that I desperately wanted her to.

When I finally finished, I had to take a full five minutes to massage the massive cramp from my hand. But it was worth it. I didn’t have Mrs. Nolan’s home address, but I obviously knew where she worked and while she wouldn’t be there today, I still remembered exactly which desk in which classroom was hers.

So throwing on my coat, my scarf and my boots, I headed out.

*

I probably should’ve figured the doors at my old high school would be locked, but I had a vague memory of once being inside the building on Christmas Day. But then I realized I had been with Mrs. Nolan, and she’d had a key.

“Great,” I breathed out after trying the last door to no avail. With snow falling harder now, I slipped the folded letter into my pocket. I still had every intention of getting it to her – I just had to figure out how.

Leaning against the door, I rolled my head back and heaved a sigh, staring up at the feathery snowfall. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to figure out my next move. When I opened them again, they flitted in surprise.

“Hi,” said an equally flustered man in a scarf and knit hat. He was young and handsome and we stared at each other for a moment as I tried to figure out if he was an old classmate. We had to be about the same age. But then I glanced down and saw the slightly ragged, leather briefcase in his hand, a set of keys in the other.

“Oh. Are you a teacher here?” I asked eagerly, watching his startled green eyes dart about my face as if trying to place me as well. It was silent for a bit.

“Yes.” He finally gave his curt answer. Then he stammered a bit and ran his hand through his hair, clearly forgetting he was wearing a cap. Pushing it off, he revealed tousled, almost black waves that got quickly flecked with snowflakes. “Sorry. You just don’t look young enough to be one of my students, but you don’t look old enough to be one of their parents.”

“Oh. Yeah.” My laugh was staccato. “I’m actually a former student here. Seven years ago. I, um…” I pulled out my letter and waved it in front of him. “I have something I want to give to Mrs. Nolan. Need to, actually. Very badly.”