I silently hand her the note when she gets next to me while I stare at the display in our front yard, kicking myself a hundred times for not telling him I love him.
“Well, you’re really in a pickle now, aren’t you?” my mom asks, handing the note back to me. “Why on earth did you bring that poor man here and make him pretend to be your boyfriend?”
“Um, have you MET you, Mom?” Nicholas asks with a laugh. “Could you imagine the shit-show we would’ve had to deal with if Leon came home and told everyone she lost her job, lost a place to live, and walked out on her boyfriend who proposed?”
“YOU LOST YOUR JOB?!” my mother screeches.
“See?! This is exactly why I brought a strange man home and made him pretend to be my boyfriend!” I yell back.
“Calm down, there’s no need to yell,” my mother huffs. “Do you want some pot, dear? It will mellow you out. We have very strong pot.”
I look at her in horror and she shakes her head at me. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Leon. Your father isn’t the only one with arthritis problems. Is it because you’ve never smoked the pot before? It’s okay, I’ll walk you through your first time. We have plenty of munchies on hand.”
“Mom, I live in Seattle. We can order pot from a menu and have it delivered like pizza,” I retort with a roll of my eyes.
“Wow, so that’s why you moved away and didn’t want to have anything to do with us,” she muses.
I immediately feel guilty. My heart is broken for real this time and now I’m swamped with guilt over what I did to Sam and for what I did to my family when I left.
“Mom, no. That’s not it at all,” I explain. “I just…I needed to have my own life. I needed to try and figure out who I am and what I wanted to do, and I just got lost along the way. I’m a screw-up. I can’t keep a job and no man will every want me because I’m such an idiot and was too much of a chicken to tell him how I feel.”
My mother wraps her arms around me and pulls me against her. “Oh, Leon, you aren’t a screw-up, and I’m sorry if we ever made you feel that way. I just worry about you. I worry about you not finding happiness. I just want you to be happy, sweetie.”
I sniffle into her shoulder. “Sam made me happy.”
She rubs my back and the tears start all over again. “I know he did. I could see it every time you two were together. I’m sorry he left without saying good-bye, but at least you know how he felt about you.”
I pull my head back and look at her in confusion.
She points to the sleigh and reindeer, highlighted with a spotlight behind me.
“He loves you, silly! I’ve never met a man who would go to such trouble just to make a woman happy. Maybe he didn’t come right out and say the words, but going by this action, I think he’s definitely head over heels in love with you.”
My mouth drops open and I pull back, lifting the crumpled card from Sam up between us to read it again.
“He did say the words,” I whisper.
Maybe not exactly, but he told me Merry Christmas. He said it for the first time and he did it in a note to me.
“He loves me,” I mutter, my lip quivering with more tears.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Go get him!” my mom exclaims.
“I don’t know where he lives!” I screech frantically.
“I do!” Nicholas suddenly pipes up.
I’d forgotten all about him out here with us and when he shouts happily, I turn and glare at him.
“What do you mean you know where he lives? You’ve seen me crying all day long under the damn tree and you didn’t think to mention this before now?” I ask.
He shrugs, pulling a wadded up piece of paper out of his front pocket.
“He left this on the kitchen table for me. Send to tell you that you could send the ring back whenever you wanted and to make sure you knew it was no rush.”
I snatch the paper out of his hands and look at the address, written in a messy scrawl. I know the city he wrote down and it’s less than an hour away from here.
“I need to borrow your car! Oh, my God, I look like ass! I’ve been crying all day and I look like straight up asshole!” I yell like a maniac as I run toward the house.
Aunt Bobbie meets me in the doorway with two martinis in her hand, passing one to me when I get to the door. “Here, chug this. Nothing a few cucumbers under the eyes and some spackle won’t fix!”
Ten minutes and three very strong martini’s later, Aunt Bobbie turns my chair to face the mirror.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!” I scream.
“Too much?” she asks innocently, staring over my shoulder at my reflection.
“I look like a hooker! And not even a high priced one at that,” I complain, turning my face from side to side to get a better look at myself.
Thick, bright blue eyeshadow covers my lids from eyelash to eyebrow, fake lashes hang off my lids like spider arms reaching out to attack someone and hot pink blush lines my cheeks, along with hot pink lipstick, lined with dark red liner.