Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

I spent all day Saturday combing through my storage unit for decorations I could rework into a new theme that felt fresh and cheerful, which turned out to be less of a challenge than I’d thought.

Every year, I put out a few classic pieces—like the light-up Santa for my nonworking fireplace—but then I came up with a unique theme so each party would be memorable.

Last year, the theme was “winter palace” complete with glowing icicles and light-up igloo bricks stacked up around the inside of my front door so when someone entered my apartment, it was like walking out of an igloo and into a Christmas wonderland. I covered all of my furniture in white and had several snowflake lightshows staged around the apartment. The year before that, I did a gingerbread-house theme. The inside of my apartment was like being inside a colorful graham-cracker castle—basically a thousand cookies glued to sheets, which I hung on the walls and decorated with frosting. A triumph!

Honestly, I’d had so much fun reliving years of holiday decorating that I didn’t want to put everything away again. Especially the items I’d made by hand like my Christmas tree appetizer tower with tiny red-and-white saucers glued to each branch so my guests could pick a snack in the shape of little presents. The phyllo dough boxes stuffed with herbed feta and little sundried tomato chunks that looked like red bows came out great.

Anyway, since I was on a budget and loving this walk down memory lane, I decided to select the best pieces and name this year’s theme “walk down Christmas lane.” It was the perfect way to remind my friends of all the fun they’d had in prior years.

The only downside to my brilliant plan was that I had to get all of my crap from my truck into my apartment, and some of the boxes weighed a ton. I’d need to unload everything into my garage, unpack the boxes, and move the items a little at a time.

I pulled up to my private garage and immediately spotted the red tent. Why’s he still here? Well, I’d just have to take Jason’s word that the man was harmless.

I parallel parked, careful not to get my front bumper too close to the tent, and then hopped out to unlocked the garage door. As I lifted, the whole thing groaned and creaked like old bones bending under the weight of time.

I went to my tailgate and began carefully sliding out the box of candy-cane-painted plates.

“Oh no!” The tape on the bottom was coming apart, the gap between the flaps separating under my hands. Shit. Shit! I was about to push the box back into the truck bed when I heard a deep voice to my side.

“Let me help,” he said.

I turned my head to find a man with bright blue eyes and a scraggly black beard reaching for my box. Before I could tell him no, he snatched the box from my hands, and the contents dumped out. Right on his feet.

“Son of a snowman!” The man howled in pain.

I looked down and noticed that he didn’t seem to be wearing shoes. Kind of crazy given the cold weather.

“Why didn’t you warn me how heavy that was!” he yelled.

My mouth flapped for a moment. “Well, I-I didn’t have time and…”

His eyes began tearing up.

“Oh, God.” I carefully began moving the broken plates off his feet, and that’s when I noticed a chunk of China sticking from the top of his left foot. “Okay. You’re hurt. You’re hurt. Ummm…I’ll take you to the ER.”

“No. I’m fine.”

I arched a brow. He had a two-inch-long triangle with half a candy cane lodged in his flesh. “Let me take you upstairs to clean it.”

Was I really inviting a stranger into my apartment? That wasn’t smart. On the other hand, what choice did I have? He was bleeding. The least I could do was clean the wound and send him on his way.

“No. Thank you. I have a first aid kit in my tent,” he said coldly.

I blinked, realizing who this was. Tent Man.

He added sternly, “And you shouldn’t invite strange men into your home. It’s not safe. All sorts of crazy people out there.”

He was right, but did he have to sound like such a dick about it? “Thank you for saving me from serial killers like you. Phew! That was a close one.”

“What gave me away?” he said dryly, clearly taking insult.

“The splash of psycho in your eyes,” I said, not at all serious, but if he wanted to play this game of down-talk, then fine. “ And you came to my rescue when I didn’t ask, which means you wanted to impress me, possibly lure me into your white van. Also, you’re not wearing shoes, unless you count my peppermint paradise limited-edition holiday plate sticking out of your foot.”

“Definitely not a shoe.” He winced in pain.

Oh no. Poor guy. “Hey, you’re bleeding. Let me bring you some warm water and soap.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need help.”

“And I didn’t need yours, but here I am with a box full of irreplaceable broken dishes thanks to you.” Honestly, I’d had everything under control.

“What I meant to say is that if I did need help, I wouldn’t ask you.” He turned and began hobbling away, disappearing inside his red tent.

Good. Go hide in your portable gremlin cave. Jerk. I closed my tailgate and started my engine, deciding to call it a day. I parked my truck inside with all of the stuff in the back. Then I got to cleaning up all the broken dishes.

Tomorrow, I’d see if Jason was around and could help unload some stuff. Maybe Kay would be back from her sister’s and help, too.

The good news was Jason had been right. Tent Man wasn’t the rapey type that I could tell, but he sure was a rude butthole.

“Can you believe this tent guy?” I griped on Monday to my coworker and friend Shawna, who sat in the cubicle next to mine. She was one of the only people my age in the office who was single and not doing the domestic-bliss thing. In other words, she could relate to my dating-app horror stories or occasional spontaneous bawling.

No, I didn’t cry because I was single. Not exactly. I cried during certain times of the month when I felt, well, horny. Maybe I was ovulating or something. But there was something inherently deflating about knowing you were going home to the massage head on your shower, a bright purple banana-shaped thing, or your manual bean flicker when what you really wanted was a man who knew you—your body, your smile, your favorite Christmas song—along with knowing just how to move inside you to ignite a fire so hot, so forceful, that your head exploded like a pumpkin tossed from a two-story window. So yeah, once a month, I wept for my empty bed and for my lonely bean. I wept because I knew he was out there somewhere, and if I’d just made different choices in life, I probably would’ve found him by now. Instead, I’d wasted my time with men like Mike.

Shawna, who had long black braids, deep brown skin, and the sharpest tongue I’d ever met, gave me a shrug.

“A shrug? From you?” I said. “Where’s the quippy, colorful language, telling me to go fuck my own asshole? Or, your personal favorite, an ad hoc limerick about whiny bitches?”

She shrugged again.

“Shawna, what the hell? You never hold back.”

She grabbed her sports drink bottle and started guzzling as if stalling for time.

“Shawna!” I hissed.

She stopped drinking. “Fine. I think you should apologize to the guy.”

To Tent Man? “For what? All I did was offer help.” After he’d broken my dishes.

“You obviously did something to offend the guy, and let’s get real, Meri: you’re not the most self-aware person in the world.”

I blinked, allowing that to soak in. So Mike said I was uptight, Kay thought I was superficial in my holiday ways, and now Shawna was telling me I wasn’t self-aware? “You really think that?”

She shrugged again. That was three shrugs in one conversation. And not one snappy talk-down. Shawna was serious.

“I, uh…thank you for letting me know,” I said, feeling deflated. And shunned. It wasn’t as if the feedback was coming from some rando on social media who didn’t know me.

Fuck. I’d always thought I was a giver. A kind person. A thoughtful person. Maybe I wasn’t.

I sank into my computer chair and stared at my monitor.

“Hey,” said Shawna, leaning over the divider, “you okay? I didn’t mean to upset you or anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” I muttered. “I’ll just go kill myself now. Maybe a sharp knife or poison.”

She said nothing, so I turned my head and found a worried-looking Shawna.

“I was joking,” I snapped.

“Not funny.” She shook her head at me.

“I really appreciate your honesty. Maybe it’s what I needed to hear.” Because the truth was, I did care about people. My people. My family, friends, neighbors, and coworkers. I cared about my community. But what good was any of that if they weren’t feeling it?

To be clear, I’d always thought that my big holiday bash was “Appreciation Month for Everyone in Meri’s Life.” It was why I went all out. But maybe that was where I’d been going wrong. I’d been appreciating them my way. I’d been celebrating my favorite holiday, thinking my gift was sharing my passion with them.

“Maybe I just live in a bubble,” I muttered. “The Meri bubble.”

“Honestly? I think it’s that you’re always worried about making people happy. You act like you owe everyone something. For example, you don’t need to bake me muffins every week or bring me lattes all the time. Yes, I appreciate them, but it makes me feel guilty. I don’t know why, but it does. And when I tell you not to do it, you do it anyway.”

“I do it because I owe you for being the only person at work I can talk to.” Just like I owed Kay for putting up with the constant cruise ship letdowns. I owed everyone I loved.

Shawna gave me a hard look. “Do you see me running around like I owe you anything?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly. We’ve been friends for five years. We’ve helped each other through hangover workdays, bad bosses, and the occasional creepy coworker. I’m here for you, Meri. I have your back, and you have mine. That’s enough for me.”

I smiled shallowly. “It’s enough for me, too.”

“Good. Then stop acting like my friendship is a membership that needs to be renewed all the time. You already paid up by being a wonderful human being and by being there when I need you.”

She was right. I always felt friendships were like plants that required constant watering. But maybe they were more like works of fine art you had to display in a place of honor in your heart, where they could be appreciated.

“Thanks, Shawna. You really are a great friend.”

“I am, which is why I’m also going to add that I still want holiday cookies and an invite to your party.”

My mood instantly elevated. “You don’t think they’re too much?”

“Hell no. I love your psycho-bitch, Christmas spazzfest. It’s like Hannibal Lecter and Santa had a baby who feeds on reindeer’s nutsacks and jizz-flavored eggnog. So sick. Yet I can’t stop wanting more.”

I smiled big. There she is, my Shawna . “Have I ever told you how much I fucking love your gross shit-talk? Magical. Also, I think I have to throw up now.”

“Jizz nog too much for you?”

“Stop.” I covered my mouth.

“How about sack nog? Or sweaty Santa foreskin sippy juice?”

“Enough. Please.” I held up my palm. “I’m going to throw up in my mouth. By the way, what do you want for lunch?”

“Oddly, I’m craving clam chowder,” she said flatly.

“Me too. Meet you out front in a sec. I need to make a quick call.” I grabbed my purse and headed out.

Once outside, I quickly dialed Jason, but it went to voicemail. “Hey, it’s Meri. I’m really sorry about not trusting you before. I mean, yeah, you work for our landlord, so that kind of makes you an insta-dick, but you were right about the camper. He seems okay. So can you do me a favor if he’s still there? Tell him I’m an okay person, too. Tell him I appreciate how he came to my rescue and that all I wanted was to make sure he doesn’t die of an infection. I just…wanted him to know in case he decides to take off today. Thanks, bye.”

I hung up, hoping I’d at least make one thing right. Not that I was entirely sure what I’d done wrong.