Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [115]
That is that, she thinks to herself as she drives to Jason’s house to pick Charlie up, early. Time to move on.
***
But the next morning she wakes up feeling worse—much worse—as if the disappointment needed a night to solidify. The realization that Nick is gone, that there is no possibility of a future, or even another night together, makes her ache everywhere, as if she has the flu. She gets out of bed, steps into the shower, then goes through all the other motions of her day, feeling a void deeper than she ever imagined possible for someone in her life in such a brief period of time. It is a void she knows she will never fill—never even try to fill. It’s not worth the downside. She wonders what fool ever said that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all—she has never disagreed with something so much.
But as hard as she tries to push him from her mind, the more she misses him and everything about him. His name lighting up her phone, his voice, his hands, his smile. Most of all, she misses the feeling that something special was happening in her life, that she was special.
The only silver lining, she decides, is the timing. For although the approach of Christmas makes her grief more palpable, it gives her a quiet purpose and focus as she sets about her usual goal of single-handedly creating the sort of Norman Rockwell traditions that comprise the best childhood memories. She takes Charlie caroling with a group from her mother’s church, she builds gingerbread houses with him, she helps him write letters to Santa. All the while, she holds her breath, hoping that Charlie doesn’t ask about Nick, determined to create enough magic in her son’s life so that he won’t realize anything is missing.
Two days before Christmas, on the eve of Christmas Eve, as Charlie calls it, she is feeling particularly satisfied with her efforts. As she and Charlie sit by the tree, sipping eggnog, she tells herself that it is only she who feels Nick’s absence—that Charlie is content. Sure enough, he looks up at her and announces that their Christmas tree is the best, better than the one in the lobby of his school, even better than the one at the mall next to Santa.
“Why’s that?” she asks him, milking the compliment, feeling proud, even moved.
“We have more colorful ornaments, fuller branches . . . and more lights.”
She smiles at him, thinking that stringing lights is one of those things she has always put in the category of fatherly tasks, like taking out the trash or mowing the lawn, only much more critical to a child. Because of this, she has always ensured that no man could do a finer job, taking hours to intertwine dozens of strands of blinking, colored lights through the branches, making them as dense as possible, perfecting their placement as if an army of elves were in on the action. She sips her own liberally spiked eggnog and says, “Well, I think I’d have to agree with you. We have a mighty fine tree.”
One beat later, Charlie sprawls out on the floor, resting his chin in his hands, and says, “When is Nick coming over to see it?”
She freezes, his name spoken aloud making her heart flutter, then sink. She has only heard it once since he ended things—when Jason asked for an update. She responded simply, told him that it was over and that she didn’t want to talk about it—an answer her brother wordlessly accepted.
But she cannot give her son the same line now. So instead, she waffles. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she says, feeling guilty for stringing him along but determined not to taint his Christmas, this moment, desperate for the conversation to wait until January.
“When are we going to see him?” Charlie asks, seeming to detect something wrong in his mother’s voice or expression.