—
Time seems to fly by. Before I know it, it’s Christmas Eve and I’m helping Saylor wrap all five thousand presents we bought at the Black Friday sale. It was a fucking disaster and if I lived another hundred years, I would never want to put myself through that again. Even Saylor said that that was a day she could have lived without.
I told her it wasn’t necessary for us to shop on sale and she said it was the experience she wanted. I’m glad she got it. I just hate I had to be there. So did the little smart-ass working at Target. After he got smart with Saylor, twice, I snatched him up from behind his register then shoved him to the ground. I didn’t hit him but my mug shot was now on the corkboard when you walked in, listed under “Barred for Life.” Not that I give a shit. Plus, it made Saylor horny as hell and we had a chance to christen our new SUV—the one I bought because she said it would be nice to have one. When I took her to pick one out she was skeptical, but when I informed her the heat in the old truck was going out, she became excited. Saylor isn’t very fond of the cold.
I tried to convince Saylor that Christmas wasn’t about presents, and she agreed. When I got comfortable with the fact that we wouldn’t have to do any shopping, she came back at me with “it’s about giving, not receiving.” So I tried to convince her that I should give her something, because she’d already given me herself. That didn’t work either. She said we should spend a day doing something the other one loved most, and not buy each other gifts. But we should buy Donnawayne, Jeffery, Rookie, Carrie, Shady, Jimbo and every-fucking-body else in the club a gift too. So we did. Because Saylor always wins.
I’ve wrapped the last pocketknife, the last pair of leather gloves, and the last fucking V-neck of my life. Never again will I do this. Which reminds me that Saylor never will either, and it brings me back down to earth. I shouldn’t bitch about these kinds of things because Saylor would probably give anything to do it again. When I told her this minutes ago, she never answered. When she pauses her wrapping and looks at me across the mountain of shit scattered in our living room, I know she is finally gonna respond.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t?” I ask, the disbelief evident in my voice.
“No.” She is sure of her answer, but she needs to say more to convince me. When she sighs, I know she’s in my head. Good. She’ll give me what I want.
“You know all that talk you have about selling your soul to the devil? How you’re convinced that there is a god, but you aren’t worthy of his love?” Here we go. I’m taken back to Thanksgiving, where I told Saylor the devil had possession of my soul. It derived from our conversation about praying before we ate. She said that if I believed in God like I said I did, then I shouldn’t have a problem with prayer. When I told her I wasn’t worthy of his time, she told me for thanks, he would make time. Now she thanked him every time we sat down to eat. I still didn’t bow. Or say thanks. Or amen. Prayer was her thing, not mine.
“Well, what if I told you, that I had the same bargain, but it was with God. What if I had a choice to live out a long and fruitful life here on earth, or one that was short, but actually meant something? Would you still think I would do anything to prolong my days here?” It’s just a metaphor. That really didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. But I don’t want to discuss this anymore.
“I think we need fewer friends and shorter Christmas lists.” She laughs and the subject is dropped, and I almost want to thank God for that. Almost.
—
Christmas morning at our house is not what I had planned. Saylor wanted a sleepover. And that’s what she got. So instead of me waking up early to give her breakfast in bed, I’m up helping her cook pancakes for all the pajama-wearing hard legs that are asleep in my house. They include Shady, Donnawayne, and Jeffery. Rookie and Carrie were invited, but they were spending Christmas with her family. Jimbo was invited, but after running into Donnawayne and Jeffery one Sunday evening when they decided to stay over, he said he wouldn’t be able to make it. I didn’t blame him—I couldn’t really imagine them having much to bond over. Their candy cane–foot pajamas made me want to puke. When Saylor said she’d order them in my size, I had to take my bike out—alone. When I returned several hours later, I found her still laughing. It made me forget her appalling suggestion and fall in love with her a little more. I loved seeing her so happy.