“I’ve met someone.” Santos climbs in bed next to me, squishing me up against the wall.  There’s not a lot of room in a twin bed.

“Hmm?” I’m still feeling a bit jet lagged.  We got into Sandbanks at nearly two a.m., after some terribly delayed flights due to some bad weather and winter storms.  The house had been totally silent when we’d arrived.  Emily had come down in her pajamas, bleary eyed and smiling.  Santos and I had been dead tired, and we’d simply dropped our bags on the floor and then both fallen face first into our beds, still fully dressed.

I’m barely awake, but Santos seems more alive than ever.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to judge me.” He squishes me over more, and I push back against him.  I’m awake now.

“Judge you? Who could you possibly be dating that I’d judge you for it? Satan?” I open my eyes.  The room is familiar, but still somewhat foreign.  The dove gray and blue walls.  The old worn wood.  English seaside.  Christmas.  Hiddlestons.

“Oh, I’ve dated Satan before.  He was in a band, and he loved plaid in a totally unironic way.” Santos groans, and I can’t help but laugh. 

“You’re terrible.”

“Don’t change the subject.  Remember how I told you I slept with that hair dresser?” Santos watches me, trying to gauge my expression.

“Yes, the hairdresser with goals.”

“Yes, he has goals.  He’s not just a hairdresser.” Santos assures me.  Not that there’s anything wrong with hairdressers.  Santos is just insane and has it in his head that he’ll only date someone who works for a Fortune 500 company.

“Okay, so?” I wait, wondering if it would have killed him to let me sleep for just a bit longer before barging in to tell me this life changing news.  Last week it was the hairdresser, the week before it was a designer for Banana Republic.  Today…who knows.

“Well, it’s not the hairdresser.  But it’s his brother.  Yes, apparently he has a gay brother.  It’s all very sordid.” Santos grins and I roll my eyes.

“You’re going to tear their family apart.” I joke, though I’m not sure if I’m totally kidding.  Santos grimaces and then sighs.

“The hairdresser’s name is Bobby.  His brother’s name is Cillian. It just sort of happened. And now I’m in love.” He kicks his long legs into the air and sways them back and forth, then reaches over and slaps me on the ass.  I contemplate hitting him back, but then I just take a deep breath.

“So you’re in love with Bobby or Cillian?” I ask.

“Cillian, darling.  Bobby is a hairdresser.  Cillian is a Phlebotomist.”

“Do you know what a Phlebotomist is? Or do you just like saying it?”

“I just like saying it. Phlebotomist. Phlebotomist.” Santos laughs. “No, it’s something to do with doctor things.” I have to admit I’ve missed him.  It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other.  Maybe two or three months.  At the end of the summer, I was finally promoted at work.  Vera asked me to come on board as a full time curator at the gallery.  I happily agreed, and it’s been insane ever since then.  Long days and weekends, I’ve been eat, sleep and breathing the gallery.  It’s been a good change, and has kept my mind off my otherwise dull life, but I’ve barely had time for anything else.  Santos included.

And he was made a lead architect at his firm, which is nearly unheard of for someone so young. So he’s spent the last few months basking in the glory of being an “architectural wunderkind.”  His words, not mine.

“You should have asked him to come this week.” I say, rolling onto my side.

I had debated whether or not to come, but only briefly.  I was surprised when my Aunt and Uncle actually invited me to Christmas at their house this year, but I just wasn’t sure if I was feeling up to it.  I’ve barely talked to my Aunt Tara since last Christmas.  I called her on her birthday, and her only response was to complain about how Danny and the kids didn’t get her anything worthwhile.  And how all her family was terrible.  She didn’t exclude me, so I’m guessing I was included in that lump statement.  I knew for a fact that my father hadn’t called or contacted her in quite some time.  He hadn’t called or contacted me either.  I did get a card for my birthday, though it was two and a half weeks late. 

So I had the choice between another uncomfortable, rather sad Christmas with my real family, or a happy, rather pleasant Christmas was people who were more like family to me than anyone else.  It wasn’t a hard choice.

“It’s too soon for all that.  Meeting the family and such.  But you’ll meet him soon.” Santos smiled and grinned at me, his unnaturally white teeth shining in the early morning sun.

“Have you seen Emily this morning?” I ask as Santos stretches out.  He shakes his head.

“She’s too busy shagging Marky poo.” We haven’t seen much of Emily either.  She’s been back in London now for six months, working on a theater project. 

“Ah, I wonder why they aren’t married yet.” I smile. 

“I wonder why you haven’t just straight out asked me if I’ve seen Tom yet.” Santos slowly looks over, giving me some serious side eye, and then raises an eyebrow.  Hm.  Tom.

“Santos. Don’t.” I warn him.  Of course Santos knows about our night in the hotel.  Of course he knows all the major details (I kept all the really good stuff to myself.  Some things just deserve to be hidden away for safe keeping).  He also knows we’ve made up rules and boundaries like good, responsible, slutty adults.

“The answer to the question you’ve been dying to ask, but haven’t, is no, I have not seen Tom.” Santos clucks softly and shakes his head.

“Don’t.” I repeat.

“Girl, you yell at me for being all crazy, but I’m not the one dilly dallying with British royalty.” Santos laughs at his joke, and then scrunches his nose at me.  I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time.

“Don’t.” I shake my head.

“He’s sort of super famous at this point.  That movie he was in made about a billion dollars.  And you’ve seen him fully nude.  I feel like you’ve earned some sort of bragging rights.” Santos grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I have seen him nude, and it was fantastic, but we are just friends.  Nothing more.  it’s just sex.  And you know I don’t care about the fame stuff.” I jut my hip out, pushing Santos toward the edge of the bed.  He tumbles out after a second, and I see his pajamas clearly for the first time.  He’s wearing head to toe green, with some crazy red and white striped socks.  Santos the elf strikes again.

“So are you going to get it on when he gets here?” He asks, and then does a strange little elf jig on the slippery wooden floors.  I laugh and throw a pillow at him, but it doesn’t stop him.  Santos does this weird little dip, sticking his butt out and then does a dance move that is way too reminiscent of Miley Cyrus.

“Stop.  And I don’t know.” I shrug and sit up.  If I’m going to be honest, sure I wouldn’t mind it.  My stripper name is still Lucky Hiddleston, and it makes me feel somewhat sad and pathetic.  I’ve just had no time to meet anyone new.  And with Santos out in DC, and Emily back in London, I don’t often go out to parties and I almost never go to bars.  I’m back to regular old Hermitville Gracie.  Population: 1.

“When did you last talk to him?” Santos asks as he finally stops twerking.  I sigh.

“I don’t know.  He’s busy.  It’s been over a month.” Our texts are quite boring, to be honest.  An occasional “Hello, how are you?”  One time, about two months ago, things got a bit frisky, and we exchanged a couple rather heated texts.  But after that, it got pretty quiet again.  I never leave New York, and he is never in one place for longer than a few days, unless he’s working. I can see why he said he didn’t want a relationship.  Who has time for one?

“Well, you just give me the sign, and I’ll make a distraction and you two can slip away.” Santos says, and then he does one more jig before laughing and bolting out of my room. 

****

“Gracie, I heard the Hudson Gallery was thinking about opening a space in London.” Emily sits down at the dinner table, holding two glasses of wine and a basket of rolls in the crook of her arm.  She hands me a glass, and I take a sip. 

“Oh, lovely, darling, are you still with the same gallery?” Mrs. Hiddleston asks, her warm eyes glowing.  Christmas Eve dinner.  A precursor to games, and drinking, and then probably some very bad karaoke.  This year, so far, it is the usual suspects.  Mrs. Hiddleston, Emily and Mark.  Barb, Brad and little Kimmy Forrester.  Aunt May and drunk Uncle Tim.  Aunt Rose and Mel.  Rounding it out is family friends Erica and Pete York, a rather loud and feisty middle aged couple that have been bogarting all the wine all evening.  Santos and I round out the group.

“I am, but I’m a curator now.  It’s been pretty intense.” I say as a vision of Vera doing yoga headstands, while I desperately try to coordinate a new exhibit we will have up in the new year.  I watch as Kimmy sits across the table, slowly flicking peas at her father.

“I’m sure it.  Are they moving to London?” Mrs. Hiddleston asks, passing me a bowl of mashed potatoes. 

“I’m not sure yet.  Vera has talked about it, but I have a feeling it’ll be awhile before she acts on anything.” I nod.  Vera takes weeks to simply pick a font for a new exhibit program.  I can’t expect her to commit to opening a gallery thousands of miles away. 

“It would be wonderful if we could see you more often.” Mrs. Hiddleston reaches over, grabbing my hand and squeezing it warmly.  I feel a warm flush, and I can’t help but smile.  She has repeatedly asked me to call her Dotty, but it just doesn’t seem right.  She’s the sweetest, most caring woman I’ve ever met, and I feel like she deserves the upmost respect. She lets me come into her home, eat her food and all around mooch off her and her family during what is normally a difficult time for me.

“I would love that, I really would.” I smile and squeeze back.  Already, the plane ticket to England this year has cost me an arm and a leg.  I refuse to live off of Santos’ charity (or his parents), anymore.  Thankfully, my salary at the gallery has gone up, and I can nearly afford to live in New York.  Nearly.

“Em, how is the show going?” Santos pipes up.  He’s been suspiciously quiet all evening.  He seems preoccupied.  He checks his phone every once in awhile, but most of the time he’s been quiet.  It could mean many things.  Maybe he’s jetlagged.  Maybe he’s worn out from his job.  Maybe he lost the bidding on a pair of rare designer cufflinks on eBay. I’m sure I’ll find out soon. 

“Pretty good.  It’s insanely busy.  Opening day is in two and half weeks.  I’m bloody nervous, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.” Emily smiles, and Mark reaches over, rubbing his hand encouragingly on her back.  She seems so very happy with Mark.  They’ve been together over a year at this point, and the newness hasn’t seemed to wan.

“You’ll be brilliant, lovey.” Mrs. Hiddleston claps her hands together, looking thrilled.

“We can’t wait to come see you!” Aunt Rose exclaims, brushing her silver gray hair over her shoulder.  There is a murmur of agreement in the room.

“Have you spoken to your brother? I know you were upset the other week.” Mrs. Hiddleston frowns as she looks at her daughter.  Emily rolls her eyes and groans, pushing her shoulders back.  I’m a little annoyed that my ears perk up at the mention of Tom.

“What a prat.  Of course I’m angry with him.  He’s so bloody busy. One moment he says he’ll come, the next he says he has to work.” She frowns and then shrugs, taking a long sip of her wine.

“Darling, you know he’d be here if he could.  He was so upset about missing Christmas.” Aunt May pipes in.  Oh.  Missing Christmas.  So…he won’t be coming.  I’d been dancing around the issue all day, but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to ask someone.  I felt like it was written all over my face. “I shagged Tom! Multiple times! And it was fantastic!”

“Ol Tommy boy, he’s quite a busy lad.” Uncle Tim says, though everyone ignores him.  He’s already rather tipsy.  Aunt May shoots him a look and then turns her focus back to Emily.

“Have you spoken to him recently?” Emily asks her mother.  I put a forkful of food into my mouth, not really paying attention to what I’m doing.  I’m trying to feign indifference, but really, I’m clinging to their every word.  Santos is eating quietly as well, glancing at me every time Tom’s name is mentioned.

“He called me last night.  He was upset, Emily.  He wants to be here but it’s not in his control.  Don’t be so hard on him.” Mrs. Hiddleston says gently.  Emily nods but looks rather annoyed. 

Dinner continues on.  Conversation moves from Tom to weather, and health, and new year resolutions.  Santos and I are both quiet throughout, mostly letting the “olds” carry the conversation.  It seems different without Tom there, egging things on. 

After dinner, things are quiet again.  I play a game of cards with Mrs. Hiddleston and Aunt Rose.  They ask me the obligatory questions about my love life, and work.  I skirt around the issue as much as possible.  Santos disappears into his room, his eyes plastered to his phone.  I’m guessing it’s the Phlebotomist, but it could be anything.  Emily and Mark make out on the couch for a bit before also disappearing into their room.

There are no silly drinking games.  No one tries to ask me who the last person I slept with was (thank god).  Santos goes to bed wearing regular pajamas, and not ridiculous striped elf ones.  It is a much different Christmas than the one before.  It is not bad.  It’s just different.

I head to bed after one more card game.  Mrs. Hiddleston and Aunt Rose make fun of me for being old.

“I’m not as young as I used to be, ladies.” I smile as I wish them a good night, and head up toward my little room.  It’s nearly midnight as I change into a pair of pajama pants and a tank top.

Just as I slip into bed, my phone starts buzzing. It’s been in my room the entire night, as I haven’t had a need for it.  Everyone I would want to talk to is here.  Well, almost everyone.

That statement remains true when I see who is calling.  My father.  I stare at the number for a minute, but then take a deep breath and answer.  It’s been quite awhile since we talked.

“Hi, Dad.” My voice is terse, clipped.

“Gracie. Hi babe.  How’s it going?” His voice is just as I remember it.  Rougher than it should be for his age.  Deep, aged.  Years of drinking and partying will do that.  He’s barely past forty, but he sounds closer to seventy.

“It’s alright. Merry Christmas.” I say, glancing at the clock. 

“Ah, oh yeah, Merry Christmas, babe.” He says.  I wait, wondering why he’s calling.  It is a terrible feeling, but I know this man.  He doesn’t call me unless he needs something.  That’s just how it goes.

“What are you up to?” I ask finally.  There’s a rustling noise, and then he coughs softly, clearing his throat.

“Are you heading up to Tara’s for Christmas? I was thinking I’d stop by.” He asks. 

“You should tell her if you’re doing that, Dad.” I say softly.  My Aunt may not be all that thrilled to see my father.  They don’t have the best sibling relationship.  I’m not sure my father has a good relationship with anyone, really.

“Yeah, yeah.” He agrees.  “So I was wondering if you would be around? I could stop by.  I’m doing alright but I could use some help.  Nothing big.  I’ve got a job lined up in two weeks, but—“  He keeps talking, but I phase him out.  I’ve heard it before.  Many times before.  Countless times before. 

I used to loan him money.  Give him money.  But that got old after awhile.  I used to let him come over, and spend the night when he was kicked out of a girlfriend’s house, or his heat was turned off because he partied away his rent money.  But then he stole from me.  A few times too, because at first I refused to believe my own father would steal from me.

The thing is, he’s not even an alcoholic.  Or a drug addict.  He’s just lazy and irresponsible.  He wants things to come easy.  He parties and has fun, and then wonders why he can’t pay his rent.  He wants to ‘get rich quick’ and those plans hardly ever pan out.

Now, I barely listen to his stories, and then I tell him the same thing every time. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m not even home right now.  I’ve got to go.  Talk to you later.” I say this quickly, and I feel a stabbing in my chest as I do.  It’s never easy.  It’s never what I want to say or do, but I gave all I could give many years ago, when I was still just a kid.

I hang up after a few seconds, and then I feel the weight of the day settle in on me.  Sometimes the holidays are not fun.  The constant focus on family.  It’s not the most wonderful time of the year when your family is shit.

I roll over in bed, pressing my face into the cool, soft pillow.  My chest is heavy, and I just want to go to sleep and forget today even happened.  I hear a tap on the door, and then it opens without much warning.  Santos slips in.  He doesn’t say anything, but just nudges me over in bed.  I lift the covers and he slides in and settles in next to me. 

“You know, for rich people and fancy houses, these walls are paper thin.” He says into the darkness after a half a minute of silence.  “You’d think they could insulate them, or something.  Line them with gold bars.  I could hear every word you said.” We break into giggles, and I elbow him in the ribs.

“My dad again. Asking for money.” I say after I manage to pull myself together.  Santos groans.

“I figured as much.  Did he even remember it was Christmas?” He asks.  I shrug, and then bite my lip. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.  Merry Christmas.” My voice is small, quiet.  Santos sighs.

“If it makes you feel any better, my father called me today and wanted to know if I got his Christmas present.  I said no, and he said he sent it to my apartment weeks ago.  He sent it to my apartment. In New York.  My fucking father didn’t even know that I’d moved to DC months ago. MONTHS, Gracie! It’s been nearly a goddamn year.” Santos exclaims, and then we both laugh because if we don’t laugh, we will cry.  I jab him in the side, and we both keep laughing.

My phone starts buzzing again, and I groan.  If it’s my mother, I will just throw the thing out the window.

But it’s not my mother.  Not my mother at all.

“Hello?”

“Hello there.” Tom’s voice sounds far away, but it’s nice to hear it.  It’s strange that it’s been a few months since I’ve heard it.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t real.” I smile.  Santos is eavesdropping, his head nearly pressed against mine.  I push him back, and sit up, leaning against the wall.

“I’ve been working non stop.” Tom says, his voice sounds amused but perhaps a little sad.

“Your family cursed your name all night.” I laugh softly. 

“I bet they did.  I was wondering if you’d be there.  I’m glad you are.” He sighs.  “I just wanted to call and say Happy Christmas.”

I stop laughing, and I sober up a bit. 

“Happy Christmas.” I repeat back. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there.” Tom is quiet.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you whenever you’re done being an important actor.” I smile.  The conversation seems stilted, if not forced.  As if we are both walking with rocks in our shoes, each step a little awkward, a little painful.  I’m not totally sure why he called, at this point.  It can’t possibly be just to wish me a good holiday.

“Listen, Gracie. I wanted to tell you, before you maybe heard it from my family or someone else.  I’m dating someone.  She’s called Susie.” He says quite suddenly, and the purpose of the phone call becomes crystal clear.

“Oh, well…congrats…that’s…great.” I say awkwardly.  Congrats as if he’d gotten a new job, or won an award. 

“I just thought you should know because…we’ve sent a few texts that were…” He fades out, and I remember the last text I sent him a month ago that may or may not have included a photo of my lace bra and a healthy dose of cleavage.  My face flushes, and I suddenly feel like the biggest moron in the history of morons.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…know that you were dating anyone before when I sent you that text—“

“No, no, I wasn’t. I mean, Susie and I just started dating about two weeks ago.  But I guess, well, I just wanted to tell you that we’ve got to stop with the, ah, texts.” He says this gently, but I still feel embarrassed, and a bit terrible. 

“Right.  Pineapple.” I say softly.  He’s quiet for a minute, but then laughs very softly.

“Yes, pineapple.”

“Okay, well.  I’m glad we had this chat.  Merry Christmas, Tom.  And Happy New Year. And all that.” I say quickly, and then without much else besides a rushed “goodbye”, I hang up on him before he barely has enough time to say anything.

I toss my phone over the side of the bed and it lands on the rug with a dull thud, then seems to bounce and slide across the wood floor.  I turn over and press my face into a pillow, breathing in deeply, trying to ignore the quick, burning rush of angry, sad, frustrated tears that are threatening to fall.  My heart feels heavy.  My stomach is unsettled. 

“Well, that was rough.” Santos says softly.  I’d almost forgotten he was there, but now that he is, I’m glad.  I turn my head and look at him in the dark.  I can just make out the shape of his face.

“Just a little.” I whisper. 

“I’m sorry, Gracie girl.  I know you like him.” He says gently.

“Well, we were just friends. So it’s okay.” I say, but I feel my throat constrict. I feel more upset than I should.  I knew this was a real possibility.  But maybe it’s getting a terrible, disappointing call from my deadbeat father, followed closely by a call from Tom, that has me feeling lower than low.

Because I sort of expect to feel like shit because of my father.

Feeling like shit because of Tom is a different thing altogether.

And I know I shouldn’t.  I know I should be happy for him. It was always our arrangement.  If we found someone else, then we break it off, no hard feelings.

Then why do I keep asking the question… why not me?   It feels petty and shallow and immature, but I can’t help it. He said he didn’t have time for a girlfriend, and didn’t want a relationship. But apparently, what he really meant, was he didn’t want a relationship with me.