The Christmas Pic

26. Jo

CHAPTER 26

JO

Ava’s gone before I wake up alone in her hotel room. Even though this time there’s a text saying she had a Board call, it still gnaws at my lingering tenderness from our first night together. Last night was incredible, and yet I’m slightly empty in the harsh winter light of the morning. To be so in sync with someone in bed like that, even when the things we were doing together weren’t particularly inventive or novel, is blowing my mind.

I’m not saying I’m a Casanova, as Ava so rudely christened me during our interview, but I’ve romped around and had my fun. And I know I’m slightly pussy-blinded when I say this, but I’ve never experienced the literal force field of lust and sensation that dances in and around me when Ava and I are naked together.

Touching her, her body suctioning my fingers deeper, her mouth on my nipples, sucking tentatively, I felt complete in those moments. It’s only now, alone in her bed, that the hangover of that intensity sets in.

Did I truly not learn my lesson from the devastation of my romance with Wynnie? The aftershocks of her betrayal have played out in my love life to this day. It’s a humiliating signature that I seem to only be interested in pursuing the affections of women who can never fully be with me.

So what exactly am I doing right now? I’m fully aware that I am once again someone’s secret, no matter how much sense it makes to protect Ava and how deeply entangled my own fate is in this decision.

On top of that, I can’t deny that my fear of rejection won out over being totally honest about my feelings last night. Her uncertainty when I asked what we were doing cemented for me that the deeper magnetic pull I have toward her is one-sided, and I scrambled in the moment to preserve my own dignity. One week . I try to imbue the shortness of our time together with some positivity.

In the least Freudian way possible, I wind up thinking about my dad. He loved to preserve magic, that’s why he loved photography. He was all about capturing fleeting moments, and his early death further punctuated for me the motif of his entire life: nothing can last forever, so you have to treasure it while you have it. Ava is a fleeting moment, and if I can stay present right now, maybe the echo of this finite week can carry me for the rest of my life without her.

I sneak out of the hotel and call George for a ride home. Entering the backhouse, I go straight to the kitchen to scramble eggs in my cast iron when my phone lights up with a text from Jamal: FUGLY SWEATER PARTY TONIGHT 8PM! DIRTY SANTA–brING A GIFT, GET A GIFT. +1S WELCOME (+2 FOR THROUPLES).

I’m excited–Jamal and Ian throw great parties–but my anticipation abruptly subsides as I realize Ava won’t be able to come with me. Given our limited time together, I won’t be attending either, so I tap out a regretful response to Jamal.

He calls me immediately .

“Hey,” I sigh.

He tsks. “Jolene Bean, what’s going on? Fugly Sweater Party is your thing !”

I debate what’s appropriate to share with him. I can trust Jamal with anything, but on principle I would never out anyone. “Listen, I need your discretion with what I’m about to tell you.”

Jamal turns serious. “Yes of course, I’m listening and my lips are sealed.”

“There’s a plus one I want to bring, but I don’t think they’ll be able to join me unless there’s a no-phone, no-photos policy. And it’s super unfair to ask that of you, and the other guests, especially on such short– ”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. It’s a done deal. We’ll take phones at the door and tell folks ahead of time.”

“You really don’t have to do this.”

He shushes me. “Our parties are a safe space for every guest. No one needs to document. If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep my phone on me in case of an emergency, but you have my word.”

“I still don’t know if they’ll be comfortable, but I’ll keep you posted on what they say.”

“Anything for you, doll. Kisses.”

We sign off and I eat my eggs, a pit in my stomach as I think about bringing up the party to Ava. Will my invitation push her over the edge? Will she be disrespected by the mere suggestion? Will she think I don’t get the gravity of her need for privacy? Why does everything always feel like my fault, by default? Freud would have something to say about that, too.

Ava breezes in around one p.m., freshly showered and done with her work calls. Between her ice-skating injury and our late night, I’m amazed she’s still glowing with a pep in her step. I hope I’m not about to bring her down.

“The Board said the Gramsta series is performing well, and I hyped them up about the caliber of copy we’re about to write for the website!”

She strides up to me, shamelessly eyeing my tits poking out of my tight white sleeveless tank. Yes, I wore it for that exact reason, and yes, I will put on a sweater if I have to leave the warmth of my backhouse.

“Did you miss them?” Her cheeks flush. I pull her toward me by the hips and gently tease her ear with my tongue. “You were such a good girl last night,” I whisper.

She shivers in my arms. “You liked it.”

I nod softly against the top of her head. “Mhmm.”

She pushes away from me, eyes flashing with indignation. “ You are a siren, and I am a copywriting sailor who’s about to get lost at sea!”

I smirk. “You wanna roleplay?”

“Oh my g–I mean yes, but no! We can’t right now.” She’s flustered, and that’s all I need for the moment.

I throw my hands up. “Aye aye, captain! Let’s write some copy.”

For the next few hours, we pore over the website until ‘photography’ stops looking like a real word. Between discussions of fonts and photo placements, the party nudges at me, a decision waiting to be made.

We take a break and I brew espresso for us in my moka pot. Sipping beside each other on the couch, our thighs touching, I broach the subject.

“So listen. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Her face drops and I have to backpedal.

“Nothing serious, truly, like the least serious thing in the world, in fact. You don’t have to go with me, like I probably wasn’t even gonna go if you weren’t here, and it’s dumb.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Okay, I’m no longer scared, I’m simply dying of curiosity.”

“I already called him and he said no phones, no photos, and everyone is gonna cooperate, they’re all queer and super socially conscious and good people,” I stumble over my words.

“I think you skipped over telling me what’s happening, babe.” It’s a sarcastic endearment, but I can’t help savoring it.

I stare into my espresso.

“Jamalishavingafuglysweaterpartyandmaybeyoucancomeitstonight?”

“A party? Like a house party?”

I nod.

Ava pauses, her pen hovering over her notepad. The hesitation hangs in the air. “And you think it’d be safe? For me?”

“Jamal gave me his word. So I want to believe it will be.” Even though I’d like to give her every reassurance, I can’t gloss over the inherent risk.

She mulls it over, then gives a decisive nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

I brighten. “Really? You want to go?”

“Well,” she says slowly, “I do have the perfect sweater.”

Cash Money Reindeer will be a hit.