Filthy Scrooge

I woke to a slamming sound. Was that my head? It felt like my head. I stood up and weaved. Christ, I might still be drunk.

I looked down at my shirt. A wide golden stain spread across my chest and under my arm. I sniffed and turned my head. Sweat and whisky—oh, yeah, that was pretty.

Another house shuddering thump came from the door.

“Fuck off!”

“Don’t make me kick in this door.”

The baritone was familiar. “Joe?”

“Who else would it be?”

“It’s not the twenty—fuck.” It most certainly was the twenty-sixth. Joe was back to pick my ass up. The store needed me. No matter how badly I wanted to say fuck off to Christmas—and the after Christmas returns—for another few days, I had responsibilities.

I gripped the back of my couch as I moved from the den into the living room. My cabin was an open floor plan and Joe’s steel-toed boot against the door reverberated through the damn house. I climbed the step to the foyer and opened the door. I held a hand up at the fiery ball of death in the sky. “You’re early.”

“No, I’m late.” He stomped his feet inside the door. “And you look like shit. Usually you’re at least sober by now.” He gave a sniff. “You smell like a distillery.”

“Yeah, well it was a rough one this year.”

“Go take a shower.”

“No lecture?”

“You wouldn’t remember it.”

The disgust in his voice reset the anger in my gut, as well a

s the hunger. I’m not sure I’d eaten since we got back from town on Christmas Eve. We’d dumped the bags and ended up in bed, and then she’d gone away.

Anger was exhausting. I’d drowned it out at least three times last night and twice after she left. Christmas Day was a blur, as it usually was, but this was even worse than how I’d reacted after Sheridan.

Then again, the first Christmas I’d mostly burned through anger. I’d chopped enough wood for an entire year before I cooled down. By then, I had work to keep me busy. I’d just shut everything out. It worked.

Until now.

Until her.

“Let me grab food and a shower.” I stopped in the kitchen to slap together a turkey sandwich. I inhaled it as I climbed the stairs two at a time. A bit clearer headed by the time I finished a shower, I was able to gather clothes together and toss them into the laundry. I had clothes here just for these instances. When I needed an escape—whether it was spring, summer, or the dead of winter—I was covered.

I glanced at myself in the mirror over my dresser and swore. No wonder Joe gave me shit when he walked in. I looked like I’d been on a ten-day bender.

I gripped the edge of the drawer and noticed it was open. I tucked back in a shirt and frowned at the black and pewter box. I hadn’t been back to my bedroom since she’d left. Even as drunk as I’d been, I couldn’t face the bed. Her cinnamon and vanilla scent clung to everything, including me.

I traced my thumb along the edge and opened it. The song was haunting and sad, the tones less tinny than a traditional music box. Music boxes meant little girls and pink ballerinas in my world, not this dark and heavy box.

The detail was gorgeous. Years of buying for retail had given me a good eye for most things. I closed it and the silence of the room seemed even louder. Beside it were two tiny figurines.

The Grinch.

One with the wide, sly grin of the childhood classic cartoon I remembered, and the other with his little dog and the softer side at the end of the story. I knew it well. I’d loved Christmas for far too long not to recognize it.

Not to mention the fact that the movie played in nearly every store I owned.

I bowed my head. She’d left them. There was no other explanation. When she’d had time to shop I didn’t know, but it was as obvious as a hammer to the forehead.

Not quite the Scrooge she called me on more than one occasion, but the meaning was clear.