Page 15 of Season's Schemings
“Because you should’ve been there, too.” Mom’s voice rises slightly. “I was the only person at the lunch without her children present. But fortunately, Alicia Plumlee has invited us again for Christmas this year, so you and Jaxon can make up for your no-shows then.”
“What?” I stop dead in my tracks, almost causing an entire family of German tourists in matching anoraks to fall like dominoes.
“Schiesse!” one of the blond giants exclaims as he springs left with surprising grace for such a substantial man.
“Sorry, sorry. My bad,” I mumble as the rest of the colorful anoraks scatter around me. I address my mom again, “What do you mean she’s invited us for Christmas?”
“I mean she’s invited us for Christmas,” Mom repeats with exasperation. “The same way she’s invited us for years. I’m not sure how much clearer I can make myself.”
“I assumed that since Adam and I aren’t together anymore…” I trail off, realizing that I have, of course, made an ass out of myself by assuming anything when it comes to my mother. I clear my throat. “You said no… right, Mom?”
Silence.
“Mom?” My voice sounds vaguely strangled.
“I said we'd be delighted.” Mom sniffs. “Why would I say no to Christmas in Aspen? It’s tradition for us by now. What else would we do?”
“Um, maybenotgo on a vacation to my ex’s family cabin for the holidays!?”
“We were friends with Alicia and Paul before you dated Adam,” Mom argues.
“Well, then I hope you and Richard have a lovely time, but I will not be attending.” No matter how warm the Vegas air currently is, I feel cold from the inside out on this positively frosty phone call.
“Indeed you will be.” Mom’s response is calm. Measured. “You dated Adam for over a decade, and obviously, he was lacking for something in your relationship. So what you need to do is turn up and show him that you’ve changed.” She pauses for a moment to take a long, labored breath. “Prove that you’re not wallowing in misery without him. I mean, you must have lost at least ten pounds since the breakup. Couple that with a new haircut and some highlights—I’ll happily book you in with Pablo, my treat—and you’ll be able to make him reconsider, at the very least. I’d like this tonotbe the last time we get to enjoy the Plumlee cabin for the holidays.”
Ahhh. This isn’t just any regular guilt trip call…
This is avengeancecall.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say, surprisingly evenly. “You’re saying that it’smyfault that Adam dumped me on national television and that it’s thereforemyobligation to win that absolute douchebag back?”
“No,” my mother replies curtly and I breathe a short sigh of relief. Until she adds, “I mean, not in as many words. I’d never use language like that.”
I almost laugh—more so at the fact that I gave her the benefit of the doubt than anything else. My mother would put a Disney stepmother to shame. “I have to go, Mom.”
“Only five weeks ‘til Christmas!” She adopts a falsely cheery tone, like the argument we just had was fabricated in my own mind.
I hang up. Then, because clearly all sense and reason has left the building, I kick a trashcan.
A metal trashcan.
Owfreakingouch.
I rub my throbbing foot and swear. So much for walking up and down the Strip this evening. My mother has managed to ruin my better-than-expected, first-time-solo Thanksgiving celebrations with a quick ten-minute phone call.
Because somehow, since our breakup, I have been sleeping on a couch and making yogurt parfaits for hockey players, while Adam has gotten the perfect job, the perfect woman, and the support of my own dear mother. And I now get the privilege of watching him get all cozy with his new fiancee over the holidays.
Schiesse,indeed.
With a sigh, I hobble off towards my hotel. If I can’t take in the sights of Vegas tonight, I can sure as hell drown my sorrows in the hotel bar.
* * *
“Mmm.”
I take a big gulp of my third Lover’s Leap cocktail (ironic, I know, but the bartender assured me it was less full of love and mostly full of tequila) and sigh happily. My body feels pleasantly warm right now despite the hotel’s powerful air conditioning. And my poor trashcan foot is more tingly than sore.
“That’s good,” I draw out the S like a snake. I take a few more gulps ‘til I’ve drained half the glass. “Even better than the last one.”