The Christmas Pic

32. Jo

CHAPTER 32

JO

After dropping Ava off at her hotel for the night, I drive Chrissy along the sleepy streets of Harmony Springs, windows down, inhaling the calming crisp cold air mingled with fireplace smoke.

It was both selfish and self-sabotaging to invite her for Christmas Eve. My family will be over the moon to welcome her, and it was meaningful to her to be invited. But at the same time, I question if I’m digging the hole of my heartbreak deeper. The more memories we share, the closer we become, the harder our imminent separation is going to hit me. Yet, I’ve resigned my heart to total destruction for one more day spent by her side. That’s how illogical and all-consuming my emotions toward her have become.

Somehow, going straight home feels defeating. Because once I'm home, I’ll go to sleep, and then I’ll wake up and it will be the morning of my final day with Ava. Wanting to prolong the inevitable, I drive past my exit and park Chrissy by the stretch of highway off-ramp where the town murals are. I turn off the engine and step out into the freezing night.

I gaze up at Silas in the very first panel. He’s a young man, skint and scrappy, eyes wide as he takes in the gold treasure that will change the course of his life. I wonder if he knew that money would corrupt him, and that his corruption would further imprison him in hiding his identity. I wonder what age he figured out he was gay. Did he ever fall in love? Did he ever kiss another man, or did all of his desire stay buried deep within him?

Growing up here, and learning the history over and over in school, Silas seemed to be the villain of the town’s origin story. A cautionary tale about what power can and cannot provide you. His redemption came only through his son’s noble actions.

But standing here in the middle of the night, staring into the eyes of that scared teenager in the quarry, I am flooded with sadness for Silas. Of course he was desperate to gain some stature and wealth. He started with nothing, even less than nothing if you believe he recognized his queerness early on. He was fighting to belong in the world, but the world offered him the worst versions of belonging. He rejected his son because he was wracked with existential jealousy over Harmony’s freedom to choose what he made of his life. But, I realize, given his circumstances and the life he had lived, he chose to do the bravest thing he could allow himself to do by admitting his truth to his heir in the hopes that it would inspire further bravery.

I’ve spent a long time being furious with the unfairness of what Wynnie put me through. But I hadn’t fully digested, until now, that perhaps she, like Silas, was being the bravest she could be. My fury all this time should have been directed toward a world that condones these circumstances where hiding your true self can be life or death, not the victims of that reality. I can’t wholly excuse Wynnie hiding her fiance, or ending things the way she did, but I can forgive her for facing a struggle that never should have existed in the first place.

I haven’t even broached the subject of Ava’s sexuality during our time together. I don’t want to put pressure on her to define anything. She claims her precautions in public are about upholding the PR image of the trip, but I’ve traversed these waters before. I can’t help but suspect that those precautions are wrapped up in her fear of being perceived as queer. I can’t deny that there is baggage that comes with that, especially for someone of her public stature.

My throat clenches as I consider Ava. I care so deeply for her, and a large part of me wants desperately to divert her entire life path by force, keep her with me, circumstances be damned. But her journey is hers alone, and to commandeer her path is not only implausible, but unfair. She deserves agency. She deserves to choose her life as much as Harmony chose his. And if I can’t be a part of it, then that is the life she’s choosing and I shouldn’t stand in the way.

I nod to Silas. “Take the gold and run with it, buddy. At least you make it onto the gay mural.”

I crunch back across the snow to Chrissy, buckling myself into the cushy new driver’s seat. I turn the key, and Chrissy rumbles to life beneath me, the familiar hum of her engine filling the air. But as soon as I shift into drive, the truck shudders, a grating, grinding noise cutting through the calm. I press the gas. The engine revs but we’re barely moving until suddenly the truck lurches forward.

Then, as quickly as it started, it all stops. The truck shuts off completely, leaving me in an eerie silence. I try the ignition again, but nothing happens.

“Come on, Chrissy, you’ve got this.” I’m running my hands anxiously over the steering wheel, hoping the soothe of age-worn leather will fend off my incoming panic attack. Instead, I have rug burn on my palms as I begin to hyperventilate.

I dial Mikey’s number even though it’s ten p.m.. His is the singular tow in town.

Thankfully he answers. “Jo? Are you okay?”

“It’s Chrissy. I’m stranded by the murals.” My voice shakes .

“I’ll be right there.”

We hang up and I sit numbly in the silence.

Twenty minutes later, Mikey’s tow truck pulls up. He climbs out, toolbox in hand, and strides toward me, wrapping me in a tight hug. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me for a moment before he walks over to the truck.

"Let's see what we're dealing with here." He opens Chrissy’s hood and begins inspecting. I watch anxiously, the cold biting as I wait to hear his prognosis.

After several minutes of poking around and muttering to himself, Mikey straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Well, Jo, I've got some bad news. It’s the transmission–it’s completely shot. No quick fixes this time."

"What are my options?" I'm afraid to hear his answer.

Mikey’s expression is somber as he leans against Chrissy. "Jo, in my expert opinion, this truck is done. Replacing the transmission, especially with a custom job on a vintage model like this–it's not only expensive, it's a gamble if it’ll even take."

The reality sinks in. "How long are we talking if we try to fix it?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Months, easily. But even then, she’s a finicky old truck. You might fix the transmission now, but something else will go next. You'll be in a constant cycle of repairs, and depending on the part, fabrication can take a long time for trucks like this.”

"Thanks, Mikey," I manage to say, my voice far steadier than I feel. "I guess I have some thinking to do."

"I’ll take her to my lot for you," Mikey offers, already moving to prepare the tow. "You take care of the big decisions. I’ll handle this. Can I drop you somewhere?”

I shake my head. “I’m gonna make a call.”

“I’m so sorry, Jo. ”

He hitches Chrissy to the back of his truck, and I watch, eyes stinging, as she’s carted away.

I hesitate before I press call. Emma is bound to still be awake, and I know she’d come get me in a heartbeat. But I want her comfort. Even if it’s a fleeting salve.

Ava picks up on the first ring.

“I hope I’m not waking you,” I begin.

“What’s wrong?”

I’m not sure how she heard it in my voice from that one sentence, but the second she asks, the floodgates open and I’m pressing my fist against my mouth to keep from heaving sobs into the phone.

“Jo?” she asks, concerned, “Are you home? I can be there in ten. Need to get the keys from Max.”

“N-not home.” I manage to stammer out. “Hold o-on.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and drop a pin.

“On my way.”

I burst into tears again the minute Ava steps out of the car. She runs up to me, face flooded with worry. “What is this place? Why are you here? Where’s Chrissy?”

Ava guides me to the passenger seat, and I sit, shivering, as she walks around the other side of the car. As we wait for the heat to take effect, I quell my crying long enough to relay what happened.

She shakes her head slowly. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure it out. Let’s get you home.”

I don’t have the energy to tell her that it will never be okay. That Chrissy is a piece of my father, and that this truck dying is a dagger-sharp reminder of the worst loss of my life.

Instead, I let her think that there will be some way to fix this. Better not to devastate her, too, on one of our last nights together .

We drive in silence the rest of the way. When she pulls into the driveway, she turns to me. “I’m coming inside.”

When we get to the backhouse, Ava wipes the remaining tears from my cheeks with the hem of her coat.

"Why don't we draw you a hot bath?" There's no room for argument in her voice, only gentle insistence that carries me to the bathroom.

I watch, numb but grateful, as Ava turns on the taps, adjusting the temperature until steam rises in gentle curls from the surface of the water. She adds some of my lavender bath salts, filling the room with their calming scent.

Once satisfied, she turns to me, her hands reaching out to help me out of my clothes. Her touch is careful, reverent, as if she understands that every movement is a piece of the solace I need so desperately tonight.

I sink into the water, the heat enveloping me, soothing the cold that had settled deep in my bones. Ava pulls up a chair beside the tub, her presence a silent pillar of support. I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the bath and her quiet companionship do what they can to ease the jagged edges of my sorrow.

The chair squeaks beside the tub as Ava kneels. I hear the sound of a cap flipping open, followed by her firm, reassuring fingers massaging shampoo into my scalp. Her touch is soothing, each circular motion easing the tension that has built up… and sparking a brand new, much more welcome, breed of tension. All I want right now is for her to help me forget everything.

As she washes the soap out of my hair, I lean back, pushing my breasts out of the water, hoping she’ll notice my hardening nipples. I hear her hum a small chuckle, and then her hands glide from my scalp down to my neck, massaging as they go, before slipping into the water to teasingly touch all around my tits without paying attention to the pert rosebuds atop them .

I groan a little, and she shushes me. “Relax. Let me touch you.”

I could open my eyes, but I’m enjoying the purity of simply feeling her touch and being subject to her whims without visual warning… something I continue to appreciate when suddenly her mouth descends onto my nipple, suckling gently and toying it with her tongue. I bring my hand up out of the water to play with the neglected nipple as she works over the other one.

Soon her hand splashes into the water further away, and finds its way to my thigh. She pushes my legs apart and the warm water licks up against my spread pussy in the most tantalizing way. I wiggle my hips, trying to entice her to touch me there but she takes her time,

running her fingernails up and down my thighs and belly until I’m wantonly panting.

When her thumb lands on my clit, she inhales like she won a prize. She rubs it softly in circles, mimicking the patterns her tongue is tracing on my nipple, then dips her other finger into me, pressing upwards from inside.

My orgasm builds as she rubs and fingers me, and I’ve lost all control of my moans, unable to hold back.

And then my moans are of a much different nature, because suddenly she removes her hands and her mouth from me. My eyes shoot open to find her staring at me, a little dazed, a little nervous.

The orgasm slips away from me, and I struggle to reel in my frustration. It’s a good thing I do, because the next words out of her mouth are worth the edging.

“I want to taste you.”

I have never exited a steaming lavender-scented bathtub so quickly.

She holds the towel out for me and wraps me up, and we go to the bedroom.

As soon as we’re there, I’m holding her face and kissing her deeply while I hastily remove every article of clothing from her perfect, lithe body.

She pulls the towel off of me and points at the pillows, and I lay back for her. She looks me up and down with a raw hunger as she approaches the bed.

And then she’s there, on top of me, straddling one of my thighs with her own wet pussy as she kisses her way down my body. Her mouth hovers over my slit and then her tongue laves a flat, wet strip across it, ending at my clit, which she wiggles over, driving me crazy.

She laps at my juices, groaning in satisfaction as she settles over my swollen bud with her lips puckered, sucking gently. She has one hand holding me spread open, and the other testing my entrance, first with one, then two fingers, plunging deep inside me until I’m begging her for a third. Anything to clench onto as my orgasm bursts through me like a wave crashing on the shore, so titanic and earth-shattering that there are aftershocks for a few minutes, all of which she dutifully licks me through.

When I’ve stopped shaking, I bring her face up to mine and taste myself on her tongue. We grind against each other like teenagers and within minutes, we’re cumming together. Of course, then I’m desperate to taste her, too, so I flip her over onto the pillows and take my turn.

I lose track of our orgasms, but the thought weighs heavily on my mind that we're both frantically trying to capture as much of one another as possible, as though that could somehow soften the blow of our impending farewell. As sleep overtakes me, I make a wish that somehow the morning will bring about a brand new reality, one that I can bear.