Someone spiked the eggnog and the Ghost Of Christmas Past is clearly a little tipsy for this hilarious holiday love story.
Sort of rockstar, Hunter Harris, is returning home for the holidays. Does it count if you play guitar for an indie, adult contemporary, hipster band that only soccer moms listen to? Maybe rockstar is a bit of a stretch, but after calling it quits and leaving life on the road, he can finally spend Christmas with his family. Ah, the joys of being a normy. Tradition doesn’t seem so bad to someone who’s been missing out on it for years, at least you know what to expect. What Hunter doesn’t expect is to run into an old flame, the flame that got away, but never died out.
Kellie Bradford hasn’t changed a bit, she’s even with the same tool she dated in high school. That’s not entirely true, he’s not a tool, he’s the perfect fiancé, at least he was before the accident. Since then, Kellie’s become a mother to an overgrown man child who plays video games all day and night, doesn’t leave the house, doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean and by the time you’re reading this, will probably want her to change his diaper. Just to be clear, he doesn’t actually wear a diaper, his injury wasn’t that bad but you get the point. She’s not looking forward to any of it, until the one who got away comes strolling back into town, more dreamy than ever.
Let the holiday festivities begin.
Sort of rockstar, Hunter Harris, is returning home for the holidays. Does it count if you play guitar for an indie, adult contemporary, hipster band that only soccer moms listen to? Maybe rockstar is a bit of a stretch, but after calling it quits and leaving life on the road, he can finally spend Christmas with his family. Ah, the joys of being a normy. Tradition doesn’t seem so bad to someone who’s been missing out on it for years, at least you know what to expect. What Hunter doesn’t expect is to run into an old flame, the flame that got away, but never died out.
Kellie Bradford hasn’t changed a bit, she’s even with the same tool she dated in high school. That’s not entirely true, he’s not a tool, he’s the perfect fiancé, at least he was before the accident. Since then, Kellie’s become a mother to an overgrown man child who plays video games all day and night, doesn’t leave the house, doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean and by the time you’re reading this, will probably want her to change his diaper. Just to be clear, he doesn’t actually wear a diaper, his injury wasn’t that bad but you get the point. She’s not looking forward to any of it, until the one who got away comes strolling back into town, more dreamy than ever.
Let the holiday festivities begin.
Chapter ONE
Kellie
“Negative.”
“Again?” The defeated look on his face kills me a little. “No, you know what, it’s okay. It’ll happen. We just need to be patient. You just wait and see, we’ll get our Christmas miracle.”
I hope my tight-lipped smile is enough to let him know I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sick of peeing on these stupid sticks for nothing. It’d be so much easier if I were a guy, then maybe I could actually aim and stop tinkling all over my thumb. Of course, if I were a guy I suppose I wouldn’t be taking pregnancy tests in the first place but that’s beside the point.
“And, you know,” he continues, “look at the bright side, at least we can have some more fun trying. Oh we are so getting it on in my parents’ hot tub overlooking the beach. Hey, you alright babe?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” I was too busy staring at my Christmas village diorama to listen. It looks so easy there. I want that world. “I should get ready for work.”
“Got time to try to make little Chris Junior?”
“I’m running late as it is,” I say, disappearing into the bathroom. “It’s gonna be a long day, I’ve got a couple home visits. You want me to pick something up for supper?”
“Pick something up? You don’t think we could make something instead?”
If by we he meant we then that’d be great but he means me and me doesn’t sound like such a great idea. As in I stop at the grocery store with everyone else during the evening rush and then I get to prepare the meal by myself because he’ll be too wrapped up in his game to help. Then the supper I’ve slaved away at will sit on the table getting cold until he finally pries his fingers off the controller and asks me to please warm it up for him because I do it better, like microwaving leftovers is an ancient artform passed down from my cavewoman ancestors that he just can’t master. But at least he’ll do the dishes. A week later. After he gets tired of me getting on his case about it.
The pregnancy tests say I’m not having a child, yet I feel like I already have one. This past year and a half blows.
“We’ll make something tomorrow,” I rationalize from the other side of the door. “My day will be a little less hectic.”
“You help old people walk, how stressful can it be? I’m sick of takeout, we should do meatloaf or lasagna.”
“You’re sick of takeout because you eat it every day for lunch. If you cooked for yourself sometimes, you’d probably appreciate someone else making your food for you a little bit more.”
“You know I can’t cook. How many times do I have to tell you?”
He’s right, he can’t cook. Never could. Even the simplest things that no one in their right mind would consider as cooking. He wants spaghetti, he literally boils a packet of Ramen noodles, throws away the seasoning and dumps cold pasta sauce on them. Hot Pockets, he microwaves them too long and all the insides ooze out, leaving nothing but a hard, overcooked, empty pocket. I had him make me a grilled cheese once when I was sick, not sure how he did it but the bread was burnt, both sides, yet the cheese was still cold. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure he forgot to butter one of the breads.
It wasn’t a big deal before. Back when he worked. College for six years, he made it possible. So I didn’t mind cooking and cleaning between classes and my night job. It seemed like an even trade.
How am I going to cook for him and a baby? It’s not just the cooking, since the accident, he does less and less around the house. Maybe it was always like this and I just didn’t notice but I swear, over this past year, he’s regressed in every way imaginable. I get it, I really do. Using a cane can’t be easy, I know, I spend all day helping people who use them, but at least they’re trying. But the therapists say I need to give him time, don’t rush him, I’m here for him to lean on. But who am I supposed to lean on? The children he so desperately wants?
That’s probably why he wants so many, then he can delegate his chores out to them while I’m at work all day. Put one of them on floor duty, one of them in the kitchen, another for laundry, put the strongest outside for lawn mowing and shoveling. Oh and another one for errands, no, two, that way they can stand on each other’s shoulders and wear a long trench coat like in the cartoons so everyone thinks they’re an adult. Anything to prevent him from leaving the house.
I toss the stick in the trash and send a silent prayer to any god that will listen. I want things to go back to the way they were before. Before the accident. Or maybe I’m romanticizing our relationship back in the days of BC, before cane. I get that he needs the crutch, but he doesn’t need to use it as one.
“I think I’m gonna pick up Chinese food.” That way I can swing by the mall and check out the Christmas village after work. I try to go once a week. This year, it’s set on a hillside like my dad’s. They even have a carnival with little miniature working rides. And the moon actually glows. How freakin’ cool is that? I need to figure out how to get a moon over my little kitchen countertop village.
“Chinese? I just had that yesterday.”
Yeah, it wasn’t yesterday, it was last week but all his days spent playing video games tend to blend together. He may as well be a cat. Sleep for a few hours, watch TV. Sleep again. Eat. Nap. Video games. Another nap. Poop. Then do a couple laps around the house for exercise. Go back to sleep. Play more games until the sun’s about to come up and then climb into bed half an hour before I have to get up just to rob me of that last thirty minutes of much needed beauty sleep. He’s a freakin’ cat, except a cat would bathe more. Though I don’t doubt that if he could lick his crotch, he’d spend a good hour doing that between naps. That’d be lovely, I’d walk in and find him passed out with his dick in his mouth. Oh honey you’re home, gimme a kiss babe. Ugh, he better not start doing yoga and getting all flexible.
“That was last week,” I gurgle through the toothpaste in my mouth. “And I didn’t get to have any, remember?”
“Shit, yeah, sorry. I forgot those were your leftovers, I thought you ate what you wanted already.”
How would I have eaten my share already? I hadn’t even come home yet. I’m telling you, a cat. One human day is like four for him with all his damn napping. I would kill for a nap. And we want to bring a baby into this world? At the rate we’re going, I’ll be wiping both of them. Get the kid potty trained and the husband will forget how to aim. Not that he does the greatest job with that as it is.
It must sound like I hate him, that or I’m one of those girls who needs something to complain about but I swear, it wasn’t always like this. We were happy, and in love. In love enough to pass up opportunities, opportunities that I’ve watched turn into regrets. They keep telling me it’ll get better, but when? Because I can’t take much more of this.
But even then, when I’ve had enough, what am I supposed to do? We’ve built a life together. We have a house, a car, a future planned. I couldn’t have any of that on my own. The house is from his family, if we break up, I know who’s leaving. What am I supposed to do then, move into my miniature village? Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Have they invented shrink rays yet? I feel like they should have. When was Honey I Shrunk The Kids made? Must have been the 80s. Yeah, they should definitely have shrink rays by now.
But if I can’t get my hands on one I guess I’d have to move out. I mean, I could make it on my own, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. Maybe get an apartment with a friend. I should really get on that. Not the apartment, the friend. I’ll need one to live with. After paying off my loans, Chris pulls in more a week than me, and all he does is sit there, never so much as leaving the house.
I’m not jealous, I’m not. Okay, maybe a little. He loved his job. Being active. He was trying to go back to work when the doctors were telling him not to walk. He hated it. I didn’t mind taking care of him then. Helping him with his rehab. Going out because he couldn’t.
But now, sixteen months later… He accepted it. He did. And he shouldn’t. Once he realized he could collect disability and sit at home playing his precious video games all day, and have me wait on him hand and foot, he stopped lifting a finger. I don’t think he even appreciates it anymore. I’ve become his mother. And now he wants me to become a mother because we always said we would start trying at 25. I don’t know if I’d be ready even under different circumstances.
He says it’s perfect because he’ll be home all day with the baby, a stay at home dad. But, I don’t know, maybe I’ve become too cynical. I, look, I hate even thinking it but I couldn’t trust him at home with a kid. Not this version of him. He’ll have his game too loud and won’t hear the baby crying over the explosions. I can picture it now, I’ll come home to messy diapers and starving children. Do they even make diapers big enough to fit him? You thought I meant the baby’s diaper, didn’t you? Gotcha. I had to go but I was in the middle of a mission, you mind wiping me babe? Here, let me just lift my legs.
I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Every time we try talking about it, a fight ensues and then I’m somehow guilt tripped into consoling him. This isn’t how I pictured our life together. I know, I’m a horrible person.
I swallow my birth control pill like I do every morning and hide them in my box of tampons.
“Again?” The defeated look on his face kills me a little. “No, you know what, it’s okay. It’ll happen. We just need to be patient. You just wait and see, we’ll get our Christmas miracle.”
I hope my tight-lipped smile is enough to let him know I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sick of peeing on these stupid sticks for nothing. It’d be so much easier if I were a guy, then maybe I could actually aim and stop tinkling all over my thumb. Of course, if I were a guy I suppose I wouldn’t be taking pregnancy tests in the first place but that’s beside the point.
“And, you know,” he continues, “look at the bright side, at least we can have some more fun trying. Oh we are so getting it on in my parents’ hot tub overlooking the beach. Hey, you alright babe?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” I was too busy staring at my Christmas village diorama to listen. It looks so easy there. I want that world. “I should get ready for work.”
“Got time to try to make little Chris Junior?”
“I’m running late as it is,” I say, disappearing into the bathroom. “It’s gonna be a long day, I’ve got a couple home visits. You want me to pick something up for supper?”
“Pick something up? You don’t think we could make something instead?”
If by we he meant we then that’d be great but he means me and me doesn’t sound like such a great idea. As in I stop at the grocery store with everyone else during the evening rush and then I get to prepare the meal by myself because he’ll be too wrapped up in his game to help. Then the supper I’ve slaved away at will sit on the table getting cold until he finally pries his fingers off the controller and asks me to please warm it up for him because I do it better, like microwaving leftovers is an ancient artform passed down from my cavewoman ancestors that he just can’t master. But at least he’ll do the dishes. A week later. After he gets tired of me getting on his case about it.
The pregnancy tests say I’m not having a child, yet I feel like I already have one. This past year and a half blows.
“We’ll make something tomorrow,” I rationalize from the other side of the door. “My day will be a little less hectic.”
“You help old people walk, how stressful can it be? I’m sick of takeout, we should do meatloaf or lasagna.”
“You’re sick of takeout because you eat it every day for lunch. If you cooked for yourself sometimes, you’d probably appreciate someone else making your food for you a little bit more.”
“You know I can’t cook. How many times do I have to tell you?”
He’s right, he can’t cook. Never could. Even the simplest things that no one in their right mind would consider as cooking. He wants spaghetti, he literally boils a packet of Ramen noodles, throws away the seasoning and dumps cold pasta sauce on them. Hot Pockets, he microwaves them too long and all the insides ooze out, leaving nothing but a hard, overcooked, empty pocket. I had him make me a grilled cheese once when I was sick, not sure how he did it but the bread was burnt, both sides, yet the cheese was still cold. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure he forgot to butter one of the breads.
It wasn’t a big deal before. Back when he worked. College for six years, he made it possible. So I didn’t mind cooking and cleaning between classes and my night job. It seemed like an even trade.
How am I going to cook for him and a baby? It’s not just the cooking, since the accident, he does less and less around the house. Maybe it was always like this and I just didn’t notice but I swear, over this past year, he’s regressed in every way imaginable. I get it, I really do. Using a cane can’t be easy, I know, I spend all day helping people who use them, but at least they’re trying. But the therapists say I need to give him time, don’t rush him, I’m here for him to lean on. But who am I supposed to lean on? The children he so desperately wants?
That’s probably why he wants so many, then he can delegate his chores out to them while I’m at work all day. Put one of them on floor duty, one of them in the kitchen, another for laundry, put the strongest outside for lawn mowing and shoveling. Oh and another one for errands, no, two, that way they can stand on each other’s shoulders and wear a long trench coat like in the cartoons so everyone thinks they’re an adult. Anything to prevent him from leaving the house.
I toss the stick in the trash and send a silent prayer to any god that will listen. I want things to go back to the way they were before. Before the accident. Or maybe I’m romanticizing our relationship back in the days of BC, before cane. I get that he needs the crutch, but he doesn’t need to use it as one.
“I think I’m gonna pick up Chinese food.” That way I can swing by the mall and check out the Christmas village after work. I try to go once a week. This year, it’s set on a hillside like my dad’s. They even have a carnival with little miniature working rides. And the moon actually glows. How freakin’ cool is that? I need to figure out how to get a moon over my little kitchen countertop village.
“Chinese? I just had that yesterday.”
Yeah, it wasn’t yesterday, it was last week but all his days spent playing video games tend to blend together. He may as well be a cat. Sleep for a few hours, watch TV. Sleep again. Eat. Nap. Video games. Another nap. Poop. Then do a couple laps around the house for exercise. Go back to sleep. Play more games until the sun’s about to come up and then climb into bed half an hour before I have to get up just to rob me of that last thirty minutes of much needed beauty sleep. He’s a freakin’ cat, except a cat would bathe more. Though I don’t doubt that if he could lick his crotch, he’d spend a good hour doing that between naps. That’d be lovely, I’d walk in and find him passed out with his dick in his mouth. Oh honey you’re home, gimme a kiss babe. Ugh, he better not start doing yoga and getting all flexible.
“That was last week,” I gurgle through the toothpaste in my mouth. “And I didn’t get to have any, remember?”
“Shit, yeah, sorry. I forgot those were your leftovers, I thought you ate what you wanted already.”
How would I have eaten my share already? I hadn’t even come home yet. I’m telling you, a cat. One human day is like four for him with all his damn napping. I would kill for a nap. And we want to bring a baby into this world? At the rate we’re going, I’ll be wiping both of them. Get the kid potty trained and the husband will forget how to aim. Not that he does the greatest job with that as it is.
It must sound like I hate him, that or I’m one of those girls who needs something to complain about but I swear, it wasn’t always like this. We were happy, and in love. In love enough to pass up opportunities, opportunities that I’ve watched turn into regrets. They keep telling me it’ll get better, but when? Because I can’t take much more of this.
But even then, when I’ve had enough, what am I supposed to do? We’ve built a life together. We have a house, a car, a future planned. I couldn’t have any of that on my own. The house is from his family, if we break up, I know who’s leaving. What am I supposed to do then, move into my miniature village? Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Have they invented shrink rays yet? I feel like they should have. When was Honey I Shrunk The Kids made? Must have been the 80s. Yeah, they should definitely have shrink rays by now.
But if I can’t get my hands on one I guess I’d have to move out. I mean, I could make it on my own, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. Maybe get an apartment with a friend. I should really get on that. Not the apartment, the friend. I’ll need one to live with. After paying off my loans, Chris pulls in more a week than me, and all he does is sit there, never so much as leaving the house.
I’m not jealous, I’m not. Okay, maybe a little. He loved his job. Being active. He was trying to go back to work when the doctors were telling him not to walk. He hated it. I didn’t mind taking care of him then. Helping him with his rehab. Going out because he couldn’t.
But now, sixteen months later… He accepted it. He did. And he shouldn’t. Once he realized he could collect disability and sit at home playing his precious video games all day, and have me wait on him hand and foot, he stopped lifting a finger. I don’t think he even appreciates it anymore. I’ve become his mother. And now he wants me to become a mother because we always said we would start trying at 25. I don’t know if I’d be ready even under different circumstances.
He says it’s perfect because he’ll be home all day with the baby, a stay at home dad. But, I don’t know, maybe I’ve become too cynical. I, look, I hate even thinking it but I couldn’t trust him at home with a kid. Not this version of him. He’ll have his game too loud and won’t hear the baby crying over the explosions. I can picture it now, I’ll come home to messy diapers and starving children. Do they even make diapers big enough to fit him? You thought I meant the baby’s diaper, didn’t you? Gotcha. I had to go but I was in the middle of a mission, you mind wiping me babe? Here, let me just lift my legs.
I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Every time we try talking about it, a fight ensues and then I’m somehow guilt tripped into consoling him. This isn’t how I pictured our life together. I know, I’m a horrible person.
I swallow my birth control pill like I do every morning and hide them in my box of tampons.
Chapter TWO
Hunter
I finally get to be one of them. For the past seven years I’ve traveled with the masses through airports at Christmastime. We bump shoulders in the hustle and bustle beneath wreaths and strings of lights, all eager to get to where we’re going. But this year is different. This year I’m finally going where they’ve been going all these years. Home.
The snow’s falling gently beyond the giant wall of windows, those perfect flurries that let you know Christmas is fast approaching but not enough to disrupt holiday travel. They don’t know I’m on the east coast, let alone back in Massachusetts. It wasn’t planned. In fact, we should be on our way to Texas right now for the Holiday Hoopla festival.
I just assumed the guys would get over their little hissy fit and we’d have to let Bill know we were back on. Apparently they meant it this time. Bands break up, all of them, it’s nothing new. But usually you replace a member or two and carry on. When all six members leave, there’s no band left. Yes, you read that right, six of us. Vocals, guitar, bass, drums, violin and keyboard. Honestly, it was time. I just never thought we’d be those guys. We started this in high school. It’s been our life ever since.
“Oh my god, Hunter Harris? I’m so sorry, I hate to bother you but can I get a picture?”
“Sure,” I say with a smile to the attractive woman in her forties who could probably pass for her less than impressed daughter’s sister. It’s always the moms. What can I say? We make soccer mom music.
“Honey, take a picture of us.”
Her husband looks less impressed than the teenage kids. Twenty bucks says her daughter can sing along to at least one of our songs, probably more, but she’s too cool to admit it. It’s fine to listen to soft rock when you’re a kid but when your musical taste is the same as your parents, it’s no longer acceptable. We’re more for the under fourteen and over forty crowd, no in between.
I need to stop thinking of us as we, pretty sure there’s no we anymore.
Is she? Yep, she’s grabbing my ass. It could have been an accidental graze but the wink tells me otherwise. This is why husbands hate us. He should be thanking me, every time she comes home from one of our concerts, all riled up and a little tipsy, he probably gets the best sex of his life. Well, married life. Adult life. I can look at his daughter and tell she’s done some things that would make him cringe. So he should be thanking me not only for getting him laid but for not doing dirty things to his daughter. Or his wife. Unless she’s one of the wives who sneaks backstage and does things her daughter hasn’t even tried yet.
Please don’t punch me. I haven’t seen my family in years, I really don’t want to show up with a black eye.
I smile for the picture her husband reluctantly takes and try not to acknowledge where her hand is. It’s not like I personally mind, it’s more for his benefit. The first few times it was creepy and I’ll admit I felt a little violated but it’s something you get used to. To be completely honest, I think I’m going to miss it. Sometimes, that quick second of intimacy is all I get.
We tour. It’s not like the glory days we hear about from all the old timers who only toured once every year or two to promote their new album. This is how we make a living. We see $1.29 off a song, split six ways after the label takes its share of course. And let’s face it, we’re not seeing all that many sales. Not when you can stream the songs or listen to them on YouTube for free. We don’t perform, we don’t eat.
At least, that’s how it was for years, until I convinced the guys to sell out, as they so eloquently put it. Come on, we make adult contemporary pop rock for middle aged women. How much more of a sellout can you be? I think they’ve resented me for it since the first time we heard our music on a commercial or in the background of some medical television drama, but those royalty checks are giving us the option to go our separate ways. Without that money coming in, let’s face it, we’d be on stage right now, hating our lives almost as much as we hate each other. Well, if we’re going to be technical here then almost as much as they hate me. I think the breakup might be kinda sorta my fault. But still, I don’t actually hate them, despite their many shortcomings.
I’m just glad to be heading home. The only home I’ve ever known.
“Think we can get a little sneak preview of your next song?”
“Oh my god Mom, he’s probably trying to get somewhere for Christmas. Last thing he wants to do is serenade some woman in the airport with another antiquated love song that’ll sound exactly the same as all the others. Believe me, you’ve heard it before.”
“Don’t mind her,” the mother says, stroking my arm. “Santa brought her your first two albums one Christmas and she was ecstatic. Weren’t you sweetie?” Ha! I knew she was once a fan, what did I say, twenty bucks? Uh hunh, pay up. “Are you working on a new album? I’m not keeping you from the studio, am I?”
“No, no, I don’t uh, I don’t think there’ll be a new album.”
“What? No.”
“Honey, we’ve got a flight to catch,” the husband grumbles, tugging gently on her hand.
“No more Threshold?” Her pouty face almost makes me want to start the reunion tour tomorrow. “If you ask me, you should have been the lead singer anyway. At those music awards, when Robbie was in rehab, you sang better than he could ever dream of.”
“Come on,” the husband groans, dragging her away. “We’re gonna miss our flight.”
“Thank you.” I clasp my hands together and bow slightly so she knows I genuinely mean it. They tell me it’s a douchebag thing to do but I see it as a sign of respect and gratitude. “Have a merry Christmas.
The way the daughter looks over her shoulder at me, with that little smirk and twinkle in her eye, she may be embarrassed to listen to my music, but she still knows every word. And something tells me her mother isn’t the only one who wanted to cop a feel. I’m kind of glad she didn’t though, her father definitely would have punched me then, even though I’m the one being violated here.
I grab my luggage from the carousel and make my way to the rental counter. The little artificial tree with snow tipped branches puts a smile on my face. The things we take for granted. Christmas has become a time of stress, I see it, every year, no matter the city. We make everything stressful. It doesn’t have to be. Call me crazy but I’m excited to buy presents for people. At least, I was until I started thinking about what to buy them on the six hour flight here. It sounds weird but I really don’t know my family.
Maybe I’ll just get them all gift cards. No, too impersonal. What about nuts? Everyone loves nuts. Unless they have a peanut allergy. Last thing I want to do is kill Grammie my first day back in Graybush. I could get them all snow cone makers. Or fuzzy wuzzy socks. Okay, now I see why people get so stressed.
How many kids are there now? I’m pretty sure I have a few younger cousins and a buttload of nieces and nephews, maybe a couple step doggies. Do I bring them presents? They’re dogs, like, would they even know? Yeah, better not risk it, I’ll bring a few annoying squeaky toys and some pig ears or something.
I wonder how old the kids are. Last time I saw Madison she was five. At least, I think that’s her name. It could be Mackenzie. Or Makayla. I swear, for awhile there, those were the only three names you could use for girls. Whatever her name is, pretty sure it starts with an M, she’s gotta be ten by now. What are ten year old girls into? Do they still play with Barbies? Are Bratz a thing anymore? Ten, so she’s probably into boys by now. Do I get her a pack of condoms? What? I don’t know when they start having sex these days. I just know it gets younger every year. I’m in way over my head, maybe I’ll just get her a purse or a funky colored Trapper Keeper.
No, I got it. Unless, yeah, kids still write Christmas lists to Santa, right? I’ll just steal their lists and get them each the top thing on it. Unless the little girl whose name starts with an M really does want a pack of condoms in which case I think we’ve decided that would not be an age appropriate gift. I’ll go for the second thing on her list. Little pervert.
I only have four days, they better not want anything too hard to find because if they do, they’re all getting nuts and socks. Wait, no, Alyson. Alyson’s her name, right? She’s the oldest but there is a Madison. She just might be from a different sister. Or do I have those two reversed? Yep, it’s official, nuts and socks and possibly condoms for everyone, that way they can stop having babies and confusing the hell out of me.
The snow’s falling gently beyond the giant wall of windows, those perfect flurries that let you know Christmas is fast approaching but not enough to disrupt holiday travel. They don’t know I’m on the east coast, let alone back in Massachusetts. It wasn’t planned. In fact, we should be on our way to Texas right now for the Holiday Hoopla festival.
I just assumed the guys would get over their little hissy fit and we’d have to let Bill know we were back on. Apparently they meant it this time. Bands break up, all of them, it’s nothing new. But usually you replace a member or two and carry on. When all six members leave, there’s no band left. Yes, you read that right, six of us. Vocals, guitar, bass, drums, violin and keyboard. Honestly, it was time. I just never thought we’d be those guys. We started this in high school. It’s been our life ever since.
“Oh my god, Hunter Harris? I’m so sorry, I hate to bother you but can I get a picture?”
“Sure,” I say with a smile to the attractive woman in her forties who could probably pass for her less than impressed daughter’s sister. It’s always the moms. What can I say? We make soccer mom music.
“Honey, take a picture of us.”
Her husband looks less impressed than the teenage kids. Twenty bucks says her daughter can sing along to at least one of our songs, probably more, but she’s too cool to admit it. It’s fine to listen to soft rock when you’re a kid but when your musical taste is the same as your parents, it’s no longer acceptable. We’re more for the under fourteen and over forty crowd, no in between.
I need to stop thinking of us as we, pretty sure there’s no we anymore.
Is she? Yep, she’s grabbing my ass. It could have been an accidental graze but the wink tells me otherwise. This is why husbands hate us. He should be thanking me, every time she comes home from one of our concerts, all riled up and a little tipsy, he probably gets the best sex of his life. Well, married life. Adult life. I can look at his daughter and tell she’s done some things that would make him cringe. So he should be thanking me not only for getting him laid but for not doing dirty things to his daughter. Or his wife. Unless she’s one of the wives who sneaks backstage and does things her daughter hasn’t even tried yet.
Please don’t punch me. I haven’t seen my family in years, I really don’t want to show up with a black eye.
I smile for the picture her husband reluctantly takes and try not to acknowledge where her hand is. It’s not like I personally mind, it’s more for his benefit. The first few times it was creepy and I’ll admit I felt a little violated but it’s something you get used to. To be completely honest, I think I’m going to miss it. Sometimes, that quick second of intimacy is all I get.
We tour. It’s not like the glory days we hear about from all the old timers who only toured once every year or two to promote their new album. This is how we make a living. We see $1.29 off a song, split six ways after the label takes its share of course. And let’s face it, we’re not seeing all that many sales. Not when you can stream the songs or listen to them on YouTube for free. We don’t perform, we don’t eat.
At least, that’s how it was for years, until I convinced the guys to sell out, as they so eloquently put it. Come on, we make adult contemporary pop rock for middle aged women. How much more of a sellout can you be? I think they’ve resented me for it since the first time we heard our music on a commercial or in the background of some medical television drama, but those royalty checks are giving us the option to go our separate ways. Without that money coming in, let’s face it, we’d be on stage right now, hating our lives almost as much as we hate each other. Well, if we’re going to be technical here then almost as much as they hate me. I think the breakup might be kinda sorta my fault. But still, I don’t actually hate them, despite their many shortcomings.
I’m just glad to be heading home. The only home I’ve ever known.
“Think we can get a little sneak preview of your next song?”
“Oh my god Mom, he’s probably trying to get somewhere for Christmas. Last thing he wants to do is serenade some woman in the airport with another antiquated love song that’ll sound exactly the same as all the others. Believe me, you’ve heard it before.”
“Don’t mind her,” the mother says, stroking my arm. “Santa brought her your first two albums one Christmas and she was ecstatic. Weren’t you sweetie?” Ha! I knew she was once a fan, what did I say, twenty bucks? Uh hunh, pay up. “Are you working on a new album? I’m not keeping you from the studio, am I?”
“No, no, I don’t uh, I don’t think there’ll be a new album.”
“What? No.”
“Honey, we’ve got a flight to catch,” the husband grumbles, tugging gently on her hand.
“No more Threshold?” Her pouty face almost makes me want to start the reunion tour tomorrow. “If you ask me, you should have been the lead singer anyway. At those music awards, when Robbie was in rehab, you sang better than he could ever dream of.”
“Come on,” the husband groans, dragging her away. “We’re gonna miss our flight.”
“Thank you.” I clasp my hands together and bow slightly so she knows I genuinely mean it. They tell me it’s a douchebag thing to do but I see it as a sign of respect and gratitude. “Have a merry Christmas.
The way the daughter looks over her shoulder at me, with that little smirk and twinkle in her eye, she may be embarrassed to listen to my music, but she still knows every word. And something tells me her mother isn’t the only one who wanted to cop a feel. I’m kind of glad she didn’t though, her father definitely would have punched me then, even though I’m the one being violated here.
I grab my luggage from the carousel and make my way to the rental counter. The little artificial tree with snow tipped branches puts a smile on my face. The things we take for granted. Christmas has become a time of stress, I see it, every year, no matter the city. We make everything stressful. It doesn’t have to be. Call me crazy but I’m excited to buy presents for people. At least, I was until I started thinking about what to buy them on the six hour flight here. It sounds weird but I really don’t know my family.
Maybe I’ll just get them all gift cards. No, too impersonal. What about nuts? Everyone loves nuts. Unless they have a peanut allergy. Last thing I want to do is kill Grammie my first day back in Graybush. I could get them all snow cone makers. Or fuzzy wuzzy socks. Okay, now I see why people get so stressed.
How many kids are there now? I’m pretty sure I have a few younger cousins and a buttload of nieces and nephews, maybe a couple step doggies. Do I bring them presents? They’re dogs, like, would they even know? Yeah, better not risk it, I’ll bring a few annoying squeaky toys and some pig ears or something.
I wonder how old the kids are. Last time I saw Madison she was five. At least, I think that’s her name. It could be Mackenzie. Or Makayla. I swear, for awhile there, those were the only three names you could use for girls. Whatever her name is, pretty sure it starts with an M, she’s gotta be ten by now. What are ten year old girls into? Do they still play with Barbies? Are Bratz a thing anymore? Ten, so she’s probably into boys by now. Do I get her a pack of condoms? What? I don’t know when they start having sex these days. I just know it gets younger every year. I’m in way over my head, maybe I’ll just get her a purse or a funky colored Trapper Keeper.
No, I got it. Unless, yeah, kids still write Christmas lists to Santa, right? I’ll just steal their lists and get them each the top thing on it. Unless the little girl whose name starts with an M really does want a pack of condoms in which case I think we’ve decided that would not be an age appropriate gift. I’ll go for the second thing on her list. Little pervert.
I only have four days, they better not want anything too hard to find because if they do, they’re all getting nuts and socks. Wait, no, Alyson. Alyson’s her name, right? She’s the oldest but there is a Madison. She just might be from a different sister. Or do I have those two reversed? Yep, it’s official, nuts and socks and possibly condoms for everyone, that way they can stop having babies and confusing the hell out of me.