My Christmas Wish Page 2

  “No. Let’s be honest. You don’t want to move in because you’re afraid of being a kept man.” Some of the cool façade cracked, and I could see anger and frustration glittering in the depths of his eyes. “I know that’s what really worries you, Gabe. You want to be independent, self-supporting, and I respect that. I haven’t pushed you about it recently because I’ve been afraid of pushing you away. But it’s been five years. Five years. You’re the manager of an entire IT department now. You’ve proven you can make it in the world on your own, that you don’t need a sugar daddy. When are you going to commit to me?”

  “I don’t know, damn it!”

  “You didn’t have any trouble committing to Kerryn,” he said through his teeth. “When the two of us started dating, you’d just let her move in with you. You were planning to marry her. Why her, and not me?”

  I could hear the pain and hurt in his voice, and it cut into my heart. I wanted to reassure him that I’d never loved Kerryn, that I did love him, but that obvious truth didn’t do anything to explain why I couldn’t quite bring myself to commit to him, the love of my life, when I hadn’t had any issue with committing to a woman I didn’t really love. He had a point. Five years was a long time, and I didn’t have any reasonable explanation to offer. I blew out a sigh.

  “I’m just not ready,” I said lamely.

  His voice was a low growl. “Well, I’m ready, goddamnit.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. I loved Stephen with all my heart. I really did. We’d spent nearly every day together, and an awful lot of nights as well, for five whole years. And yet, I couldn’t seem to bring myself to commit to living here with him. I couldn’t seem to utter the simple words: Yes, I’ll move in with you, Stephen.

  I just couldn’t.

  “I’m not,” I said at last. “I’m sorry.”

  Stephen pressed his lips together. I could see the anger building in him, slowly overwhelming the hurt.

  “I’ve waited five years for you,” he said, his voice sharp-edged. “I think that’s enough. More than enough. Don’t you?”

  I knew he was hurt, but I couldn’t stop myself from getting defensive. Anger filled me, driving away all the warm contentment I’d felt in the aftermath of my climax. “If you don’t want to wait, then don’t wait, damn it. But right now I think we’re done here.”

  “Done here? You mean now that you’ve had an orgasm, you’re ready to get back to the party? Or are you through with my company entirely tonight?”

  Anger pounded through me with every beat of my heart, and I spoke recklessly. “I think I’m done with you entirely for now. I wasn’t enjoying your stupid party anyway.”

  “Fine.” His eyes went storm-gray. “If that’s what you want, feel free to leave.”

  “I think I will, thanks.” I straightened out my rumpled tux, and glared at him. “I’m going home.”

  “Of course you are.” The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. “Where else would you be? Not here, that’s for damn sure.”

  I ignored the barb, and spoke with as much regal dignity as I could muster. “And I won’t be by tomorrow, either.”

  He glared at me, his eyes so dark they were unreadable. “Then don’t bother to come by the next day, either.” His voice was low with anger. “Enjoy your goddamn Christmas.”

  He turned his back on me and stalked off, leaving me in the conservatory. The Santa hat still sat rakishly atop his head, but I could see anger in every line of his body. I’d hurt him, and I knew it.

  My head drooping, I turned and left the quiet tropical heat, disappearing into the cold darkness outside.

  Chapter Two

  With my new job as an IT manager, I’d wound up working in Smithfield, the very same town I’d grown up on the outskirts of. What goes around comes around, Stephen had said with a laugh. I remembered that with a pang. When I’d met Stephen, he’d rarely laughed at all. And now—most of the time (outside of work, where he generally tried to maintain his CEO façade) he laughed so openly, so freely. I remembered him laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he tossed presents into the crowd.

  But after our argument, all the laughter had drained out of his eyes, leaving them cold and hard. Just the way they’d looked when I’d first met him.

  Well, that wasn’t my fault, was it? No, it was Stephen’s. He’d gone back to his old tricks, trying to manipulate me into agreeing to something I wasn’t ready for. He knew I hated being pushed around that way. Besides, he knew perfectly well that I always got a little bummed at Christmas. He really ought to be more understanding, rather than using my frail emotional state to try to force me into an agreement I didn’t want to make. This time of year in particular, he needed to be kinder and more patient with me this time of year.

  I reminded myself I’d known what kind of person Stephen was long before we’d started dating. He was not the kind and patient type, and never had been. And he’d always been the manipulative type. Sure, he’d improved a hell of a lot over the past five years—but he was still Stephen Augustus Dominick, born to rule over all lesser mortals.

  Such as yours truly.

  It was an hour’s drive from Stephen’s house in Virginia Beach to Smithfield, but by the time I got there, I still hadn’t calmed down. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, could hear the blood rushing through my ears. I wasn’t sure if I was filled with rage, or pain, or both. I parked my shiny new Toyota Prius outside my condo, which overlooked the Pagan River, and then decided to take a walk through the town. Maybe the chilly night air would help me cool off a bit.

  When I was a kid, my parents and I had lived well outside the town limits of Smithfield, in an old mobile home on ten overgrown acres. Once every December, though, we’d taken a stroll through the town to admire the Christmas lights. At least Dad had unbent that far. Even if he’d thought gifts were an invention of the devil, he hadn’t seemed to believe Christmas decorations were Satanic.

  I headed up Church Street, passing a bronze statue of a large hog—a tribute to Smithfield’s major industry—then turned left onto Main. Night had fallen, the moon had disappeared behind clouds, and the wind was glacially cold, but I was bundled up, and didn’t mind all that much.

  Smithfield looked like a Christmas card, with glittering lights strung on every building. Tinsel was draped along storefronts and wrapped around streetlights. Church bells rang, and carols blared out from every store. On the corner, a choir sang “O Holy Night” as shoppers walked by. Snow drifted lightly through the air, adding to the inch or so of white fluff that had fallen earlier in the afternoon. Not for the first time, I thought it all bore an uncanny resemblance to a Norman Rockwell print.

  I remembered walking down this very street with my parents as a little kid, my hands clutching theirs. As always, my hand came up automatically to touch the small diamond I wore in my right ear in memory of my mother. Dad and I had never gotten along, but mom… well, I missed her all the time, and at this time of year I missed her even more.

  And yeah, I reflected, that was the root of my Christmas depression, right there. To myself, I could admit it. I might be twenty-seven, with a new car, a condo, and a good job, but at heart I was just a little kid who missed his mom.

  My parents had died in a car crash when I was twenty. The awful unexpectedness of it had upended my life, leaving me scared and rudderless. It hadn’t happened on Christmas, but a rainy Sunday night early in December. My dad had been heading to church to preach a sermon on the true meaning of Christmas, and he’d demanded that I come along, despite the fact that I had a final exam the next day. I’d refused, and he’d driven off in a rage, my mom beside him. I still didn’t know if he’d lost control of the car because of the rain, or due to mechanical failure… or because he’d been furious with me.

  If I hadn’t pissed him off, would the two of them still be alive?

  The question still hung around the edges of my consciousness, plaguing me at odd times. Like around Christmas. Every Christ
mas. I didn’t think this would ever be an easy time of year for me, and if Stephen had the sensitivity of an armadillo, he’d understand that. And he wouldn’t try to pressure me about commitment when my mind and my heart were weighted down by past tragedies.

  But Stephen and sensitivity were two words that had never belonged in the same sentence. Hell, he made armadillos look soft and cuddly by comparison.

  I tried to put the annoying, infuriating man, and our acrimonious last words, out of my mind. I’d fix things with Stephen, somehow or other. I’d make him realize he’d simply pushed too hard, at a time when I couldn’t take the pressure. I’d apologize, and he would too. (Though Stephen and apologies were also two words that didn’t belong in the same sentence.) But I decided not to call him just yet. He needed a chance to cool off.

  Or maybe I was just afraid to call, for fear he might tell me to go to hell again—and that this time I might have to admit he really meant it. I didn’t want to be all alone on Christmas. I wanted to spend the day with him.

  Sighing, I walked on, admiring the lights. Snow began to fall more heavily, adding to the Norman Rockwell ambience. It was cold, damn cold for Virginia this time of year. I really ought to head back to my condo.

  But I walked on. I was fairly well wrapped up, wearing a long, black coat, a scarf, and gloves, and anyway, I knew where I wanted to go. The church.

  Not my father’s church, no. That had been a small cinderblock building on the outskirts of town, and when he’d died, the congregation had drifted off to find other church homes. The old building, which had been in crappy shape, had been torn down. I was pretty sure there was a Wawa there now.

  No, where I was headed was the beautiful old colonial-era church my parents and I had always walked past on our way back to our house. The one with the Wishing Angel.

  Make a wish, Gabriel, Mom had always said to me when we passed—very softly, so that Dad didn’t hear. If you make a wish, the angel will grant it. I promise.

  I don’t know where she came up with the idea—no one else in Smithfield called it the Wishing Angel, so far as I know. It was her fancy, and hers alone. It was just a big wooden cutout that somebody had slapped a white coat of paint onto, and it didn’t appear particularly magical, even to a little kid.

  But because she was my mom, I believed her the very first time she whispered those words, and I looked at that angel and made a wish. I wished for a bike.

  And sure enough, the very next morning was Christmas, and I got what I’d wished for. Not from Santa, or my parents. One of my friends had gotten a brand-new, shiny red bike, and his mom had kindly brought his old bike over for me. It had been rusted and dented, with a seat that looked like it had been chewed by rats, and one of the plastic covers on the handlebars had fallen off—but it was nevertheless a bike.

  The fact that I’d gotten a sad old rusty bike that creaked when I pedaled didn’t make me doubt. I’d gotten exactly what I’d asked for, and that had been enough to make me believe in the power of the Wishing Angel for most of the rest of my childhood.

  My feet were carrying me toward the old church now, almost by instinct, as I entertained the vague notion of asking the Wishing Angel to fix things between me and Stephen. Which was ridiculous. I was a grownup, and an atheist besides, and intellectually I knew an old, sloppily painted plywood angel couldn’t change a damn thing about my life. If I wanted to work things out with my boyfriend, what I needed to do was man up, pull out my phone, and call him. Or maybe just drive back to Virginia Beach, snow be damned, and have it out with him.

  And I would. But just to be on the safe side, I decided I’d indulge my childhood superstition, and visit the Wishing Angel first.

  I walked on through the gentle flurries, and a block later, there it was. The enormous old brick church that had been there since the 1600s sprawled there, sheltered beneath ancient oaks. Behind it spread out a graveyard, its crumbling headstones bearing silent witness to all the generations that had come and gone in Smithfield since colonial days.

  And in front of it, nearer the road, stood the Wishing Angel. It was a plywood construct of a generic angel in robes, its wings spread wide. It stood maybe twenty feet high, and it looked freshly painted. It wasn’t painted a simple white any more. Someone had gotten creative, and painted its wings and halo a dazzlingly bright silver. A spotlight in front of it made the paint gleam.

  I walked up the five crumbling brick steps that led to the church yard, and studied the angel. It wasn’t unimpressive, given its height, but it was clearly just the product of someone with decent workshop skills, and as I looked at it, I wondered how the younger me could ever have believed something built out of plywood and paint could possibly grant wishes.

  Then again, most kids believed unquestioningly in Santa Claus and flying reindeer and elves, so maybe I hadn’t been any more foolishly superstitious than anyone else my age.

  But I was an adult now, and I’d consciously shucked off all my superstitions years ago, when my parents died. I had come here with the intention of whispering, I wish to make up with Stephen, but I stood there for long moments, saying nothing at all. In the end I just couldn’t make myself utter the words. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to work things out with Stephen. It was simply too silly. I wasn’t a kid any longer, and I knew, I knew, there was absolutely nothing supernatural about that angel.

  It was kind of pretty, though.

  I stood there for a long moment, watching the snow flurries dancing in the light around the angel. I remembered my parents clasping my hands—my mom on my right, my dad on my left—and all at once my eyes stung. Not from the cold, or from the swirling snow, but from the force of the memory.

  Maybe Christmas had always kind of sucked when I was a kid, and maybe my parents had been pretty far from ideal, but I couldn’t deny I still missed them.

  I sniffled, and drew my coat sleeve over my eyes. Only because the wind was cold, and it was making my eyes water. And then I turned back toward my condo.

  Just then my phone buzzed. I drew it out of my pocket, fumbling a bit due to the gloves I wore, and saw that Stephen had texted me.

  I’m having all your belongings sent over to your condo tonight, he informed me tersely.

  Pain stabbed through my heart. I hadn’t moved into the mansion, despite the fact that he’d clearly wanted me to for a long time, but I spent a few nights a week at his place. I kept clothes there, along with a toothbrush and a few other necessities. The thought that he was slamming on the door on what we shared hurt. I hadn’t planned on breaking up with my mercurial boyfriend—certainly not this close to Christmas. But that was Stephen for you. If you hurt him, he was always ready with a counterattack.

  So there it was. We were breaking up. Five years down the toilet, just like that.

  I knew I should text a heartfelt apology, even though the argument wasn’t entirely my fault. He’d started it by trying to manipulate me again. But even so, I could apologize for the unkind things I’d said. I should apologize for them.

  But instead I found myself doubling down. Maybe, just maybe, I was a little too quick with the counterattacks myself. But I was pissed, and when you’re pissed, sometimes you say (or text) stupid things.

  Good, I responded, typing out cold, hurtful words I didn’t really mean. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.

  I’m glad we agree on that.

  His coolly unemotional replies were infuriating, as always. A hot anger flooded me, and I responded with the most vicious words I could think of.

  I wish I’d never met you, Stephen.

  I stood there for a few moments, heart pounding and anger surging through my veins. I was waiting for a reply, but there was no answer. At last I sighed, and put my phone back in my pocket. The rage drained out of me rapidly, leaving me feeling empty.

  Great. Just great. I’d hurt the person I loved more than anything, and I knew this was it. All the little things that had been building up between us for years—his desire f
or the two of us to commit, to live together, and my stubborn insistence that I wouldn’t be a kept man, that I needed to support myself, to maintain my independence—had all come to a head tonight. Two nights before Christmas.

  Tidings of peace and joy to you too, I thought sourly in the general direction of the Wishing Angel. It hadn’t done a damn thing to help.

  Not that I’d really expected it to.

  I cast a last sorrowful look at the plywood angel. It looked strangely unfocused, glowing a pure and heavenly silver in the darkness, and I knew my eyes must be watering again. And not from the wind, no matter how much I told myself that was the reason.

  I turned away, and headed for the old brick steps, with the intention of heading back to my condo. But my eyes were blurred with tears, and I guess I missed the first step.

  I tumbled down the stairs, and everything went black.

  ✽✽✽

  Sometime later, I opened my eyes, blinking against the sudden bright light. Weird, I thought sleepily. I felt kind of confused, befuddled, but I was almost certain it had been dark. It had been night...hadn't it?

  In fact, hadn't I been outside in the snow?

  All of a sudden, I remembered my fight with Stephen. The way I’d run off to Smithfield and wandered off across town to look at the decorations, in an effort to try to instill some Christmas spirit into my unhappy heart. The way I’d walked across town to see the Wishing Angel. The way Stephen and I had broken up via short, angry texts.

  And then—what? Had I fallen? I had a vague memory of tripping over something—a loose brick in the steps that led down from the churchyard, maybe. Yeah, that must have been what I’d stumbled over, since the snow hadn’t been heavy enough to slip on. I’d tripped and I’d fallen, and probably gone head over heels down the steps and hit my head on the sidewalk.