Aunt Mags sounded as if she were wringing her hands. “O-okay, well. There are gifts for you under the tree and our number is on the fridge if you need it.”
Shit. In my drunken stupor I’d forgotten to put out their golf clubs and spa package. I flopped back down onto the floor and pulled the robe over my face.
“If you need anything, just call,” Reg added. “Okay?”
I don’t need anything. I never have and never will.
My mantra that was starting to feel more hollow by the day.
There was some murmured debate—it sounded as if Mags was hesitant to leave me alone. But they did. The guesthouse settled back into quiet with only the soft patter of rain that hadn’t abated all night.
My head thundered and my stomach threatened an upheaval if I wasn’t careful. I was fully prepared to spend the entire day right where I was, but I’d promised Miller and Ronan a feast for Christmas Day. I mustered my remaining shred of dignity and pried myself off the floor. Blearily, I searched around for my phone to summon James, then remembered he was off for the next week.
“Well, doesn’t that suck donkey balls?”
Over the next twenty agonizing minutes, I downloaded Uber, set up my payment details, and called for a ride. After that harrowing ordeal, I had no energy left to get dressed. The car arrived and I greeted the driver in my pajamas and robe. He gave me a look, then shrugged.
Three minutes of wandering a gourmet grocery store with a basket dangling from my hand, I realized the error of my ways.
“Miller and Ronan don’t want jars of artichoke hearts and artisanal cheese,” I muttered, garnering a look from a woman who took in my robe and messy hair that, under normal circumstances, would be styled and gelled to perfection.
Last night wasn’t normal circumstances.
River’s hand found my hair, gripping me hard and sending delicious shivers of pain down my spine while I sucked his huge, beautiful cock…
I blinked and gave my head a shake. Jesus, I was going to give myself a hard-on right there in Aisle 4. I stared at the woman until she scurried away, then strode for the exit, dropping the basket somewhere on the way out.
I called another Uber, which took nine centuries to arrive while I huddled out of the pouring rain. This time, I went to a regular grocery store, grabbed a cart, and filled it with dude food.
The man at the checkout gave me a once-over as I gnawed a piece of beef jerky and flipped through a National Enquirer in my bathrobe.
“How are we doing today, sir?” he asked, scanning six packs of soda, orange juice, bags of chips, pretzels, packages of Twinkies, sandwiches from the deli, hot dogs, a whole carrot cake, and a cheese platter.
“Did you see this?” I flapped the paper. “Big Foot kept a lumberjack as his sex slave. Crazy world, am I right?”
“Uh, yeah,” the guy said. “Crazy.”
That night in the guesthouse, I listened to the storm gather power. Twice, the lights flickered, and thunder shook the house as if a giant were stomping around Santa Cruz. I spent the evening in bed with a bottle of Reg’s one-hundred-year-old Scotch tucked under my arm watching Love Actually and adding my own running commentary.
“Don’t buy that damn necklace, Alan Rickman. You’re going to break Emma’s heart, you Snape.”
I checked my phone. Nothing. Not even a text.
I wondered if they were gathered around Mom’s giant dining room table—the one they only used for formal events. Maybe a bunch of family—cousins, my grandparents, aunts and uncles like Reg and Mags, talking and laughing and bragging about who was better at hiding their money in offshore tax havens.
“Leeches,” I muttered, then shot up. “Goddammit, Rick Grimes, you can’t hit on a married woman like that, ya bastard.”
I swigged the Scotch. Checked my phone. Yelled at the TV.
Not the worst Christmas I’d ever spent, all things considered. Not when you factored in Alaska.
I stared at my silent phone. “Fuck’em.”
The following morning, I woke to rain coming down in biblical proportions and a hangover that felt like the wrath of God itself. A hangover in body and soul. My goddamn heart ached for my parents. For Reg and Mags.
For River.
My phone was just where I left it on the nightstand, quiet and message-free.