Page 8 of Twelve Days of Christmas
So fucking hard.
The smug sonnava bitch is still smirking when we’re re-dressed and straightened up, sitting at his office desk.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Much better,” he says proudly. “Thank you.”
Just then there’s a knock at the door. In walks a Fed-ex guy with a wooden crate looking box in his hand. “Cameron Fletcher?”
I look at Cameron.
He looks at the delivery guy, then at me. “Ninth day of Christmas?”
The guy puts the box on Cameron’s desk, and Cameron in turn signs for the box. He waits until we’re alone before he opens the lid to reveal the 1983 and 1984 bottles of wine.
His eyes dart to mine, and I can see this gift has thrown him; the confusion is clear in his eyes.
“It’s the years we were born,” I tell him.
He nods as though he understands that much, but doesn’t really understand why I chose them. “Dad has a cellar,” he says. “We could house them there.”
“I thought we could have them at Christmas dinner,” I suggest, trying for nonchalance.
His brow furrows for just a second, but then he shrugs. I’m thankfully saved by Rachel, who interrupts to tell me my three o’clock meeting with Marcus from accounts is about to start without me.
But I spend the entire meeting distracted that he might know what’s going on.
DECEMBER 23RD
ON THE TENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS…
It’s Friday before Christmas.We have a half day and a fully catered staff Christmas lunch at the office. It hasn’t really felt like Christmas, with all that’s been going on; I’ve been so distracted. But with the jovial atmosphere at lunch and the well-wishes of a Merry Christmas and a few Christmas drinks, I’m in a much more festive spirit.
Until we get home.
And I ask him if he wants his next present – his tenth day of Christmas present – and he hesitates.
He fucking hesitates.
He looks at the small gift-wrapped box like it’s gonna fucking bite him.
And that’s a festive mood killer right there.
He looks hesitantly at his gift, like he’s almost scared to open it.
It’s supposed to be good thing – no, a fucking great thing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, probably a little too rudely. But fuck it, this is important.
He shakes his head, quick to explain, “I’m just worried what I got you won’t ever be enough,” he says sadly. “I mean, how can it compare with what you’ve done?”
“That’s not why I’m doing this.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks me again, more serious this time.
Should I tell him? Should I just ruin it all and fucking tell him?
I can’t. Two more days, that’s all. I’ve just got to hold out for two more days. No matter how much he pouts, begs and pleads, I have to bite my tongue.
