Tell that to the men who were once in my life.
My father.
My stepfather.
Mark, my ex-boyfriend. He didn’t even have the guts to break up with me to my face. He texted me a week after he told me he loved me, with nothing more than a “Sorry, babe. It’s not going to work out between us, after all.” He’d never called me babe before.
The impersonal nature of the breakup gutted me.
But that’s okay. I returned a stronger Chloe.
A Chloe with her heart locked away in a security box—the key currently swimming with the fishes.
I smile brightly at Lawrence, like a firefly—if fireflies could smile. “I don’t have time for a relationship. I’m busy with my work, volunteering here, and my artwork. I don’t have the energy for anything more than that.”
“Don’t you want kids one day?”
“I have twenty-five kids in my life right now. That’s more than enough.” And I love every one of them.
Including the little troublemakers.
Especially the troublemakers. They always make life more interesting.
“What about you four?” I ask. “Any plans for the holidays?”
Trick #1 when you don’t want to talk about yourself? Redirect the questioning to the other person—or persons, in this case.
“My son emailed to tell me he won’t be able to get away from work over the holidays. He has a huge project he’s responsible for, one that could make or break the company. That means I won’t get to see my grandkids after all.”
I give Lawrence’s hand a light squeeze. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see them.”
“Me too.”
“What about you three?” I asked Samuel, Ivan, and Frank.
“My daughter and I are estranged,” Frank says. “Have been for about ten years now. Which means another Christmas without seeing my grandkids. But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”
My heart tightens to the size of a stepped-on Christmas bauble. I know how he feels, and I ache for him.
“You can borrow my grandkids if you want,” Samuel volunteers. Under his breath, he adds, “Maybe they’ll at least noticeyou’realive.”
We all wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
“How’s the game going?” Mathilda asks behind me, startling me.
“Great,” we all tell her, even though we haven’t been paying attention to it for the past few minutes.
“We were just talking about the holiday season.” A devilish smile slips onto Lawrence’s face. “I don’t suppose Cook’s gonna whip up more of her delicious eggnog again this year for the Christmas party?”
The other three men cackle, and I do my best to keep the grin off my face.
Instead of vodka in the lemonade, it was a bottle of rum in the eggnog. And again, let me repeat, these seniors know how to party.
“In light of what happened last year, we’ve removed it from the menu.”
This results in a round of protests. “You can’t get rid of the eggnog,” Lawrence grumbles. “That—along with the kids’ concert—is the best part.”
