Before she leaves the room, she stops and says, “There’s still a whole month. If you change your mind about coming, let me know. No one should be alone on Christmas.”
Don’t I know it, but what’s a girl to do when the only family I had died over the summer?
My dogs are barking.
Not in the literal sense—I don’t own a dog, just a tubby brown cat named Potato. My feet ache like I’ve been walking on shards of glass all day.
After pulling two hours of overtime, the only thing I want is a glass of white wine and a scalding hot bubble bath with some Epsom salts, and the candy cane bath bomb I’ve been excited to use.
As the water runs, I heat a slice of leftover pizza in the microwave and pour the rest of an open wine bottle into my glass, taking a large gulp of it once the final drop has landed. With a minute left, I head to my room and shimmy out of my work clothes, tossing them into the laundry basket before walking back into the kitchen naked as the day I was born to retrieve my slice of greasy heaven.
Potato meows at me as he circles my feet, rubbing against my ankles. He’s trying to butter me up so he can have a second helping of dinner, but the little beast needs to go on a diet per his veterinarian’s instructions.
The pizza’s piping hot as I pull it from the microwave and tip my head back to take a bite. Of course, it burns my tongue, but I eat it anyway, and grab my glass of wine. Potato follows me into the bathroom and watches me as I sink into the bathwater thatshimmers with a pink hue from the bath bomb. The water curls around me like a hug and I take another bite of the pizza, sad that it’s almost gone already.
Shutting the water off with my foot, Potato takes that as his invitation to jump onto the edge. He nearly falls in, freaked out by the water that sloshed onto where his foot is now, but he rights himself and situates his fluffy butt into a comfortable position.
Laughing, I shake my head at my feline companion. “Potato, you’re a hot mess.”
His judgy eyes track my movements as I take another large gulp of my wine.
The hot water is slowly releasing the tension from my body, so I sink deeper, letting it come up to my chin. Loose tendrils of my blonde hair that have escaped from my clip are getting wet, but I can’t bring myself to care. Right now, I’m in my happy place. It’s the only time I feel any sense of contentment, and the only time I feel like I can think and let my mind wander into whatever direction it wants to go.
Evidently, my mind wants to recite my friend’s words on replay because I can’t stop thinking“No one should be alone on Christmas,”in my mind.
And you know what? She’s right. No one should be alone on any holiday,especiallyChristmas.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive it alone.
For as long as I can remember, it’s always only been Mom and Dad, me, and Miles, living in sunny San Diego.
Now there’s just me.
No one should be alone on Christmas.
Making a rash decision, I jolt upward, sloshing more water from the tub and soaking Potato’s underside. He meows with vexation before jumping down and sprinting from the room, hisbelly swinging in full glory as I laugh and reach for my phone on the bathroom counter.
Is this the dumbest thing I’ve ever done? Possibly. But I’m going to do it, anyway.
My fingers fly across the screen as I look for the SparksFly app I downloaded last month but never followed through with. I got as far as uploading a profile photo before chickening out.
The little blue icon taunts me as I stare at it, my thumb hovering, but not clicking it…until I do.
I'm a full on cliché when I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and am prompted to complete my profile.
Bio.
Clicking it, I don’t think about what I type, I just do it.
There’s four weekends left before Christmas, and no one should have to show up to their holiday parties alone. Need a date? Someone to bring to your office party so your frenemy stops giving you grief about your lack of a spouse? Or to your family dinner so your parents stop breathing down your neck about settling down?
No strings attached. No sex. Just a holiday party date. A holidate, if you will.
Going back to the section for my name, I delete Elizabeth Ashford and stare at the empty box for what feels like eternity.
Maybe this is a stupid idea.
Then it hits me. A name comes to me like a whisper in my mind.
