Not-So-Silent Night (A Santa's Coming Short Story) Read online

  “Come on, man. She’s gonna’ be there.” Jonah walked into the living room and leaned over the back of the couch. “Are you just going to stand her up?”

  “You should have told Val I wasn’t coming.” I looked up at him. “You seriously haven’t told her?”

  “Nah, I figured you’d change your mind.” He lifted up and shrugged. “There’s still time.”

  “No, that’s not happening. Tell her I’m not coming. Don’t make that poor woman show up expecting me to be there and have to be your third wheel.” I glared at him and grumbled under my breath.

  “We’ll be at The Remington.” He smiled and walked towards the door. “Hope to see you there.”

  As soon as Jonah left, I grabbed my phone. I might not have been interested in going on a date with Livia, but I didn’t want her to feel like she got stood up. I sent her a message through the speed dating event website. Since she didn’t mark me as a yes, I didn’t get her contact information, but they would still give her the option of responding to my message. I tapped my foot angrily as I waited to see if she would accept it. If she was expecting to go on a date with me, she should—that would at least give me a chance to let her know that she was going to be looking at an empty chair all evening. A few minutes flashed, and then I got a notification that she had read my message: victory—or a small saving grace. Either would suffice. Once she accepted my message, a box popped up that was similar to an instant messaging program, and I could see dots indicating she was responding to the one I sent telling her I wasn’t coming.

  Livia: Yeah, I’m not going either. I’m glad to know I’m not standing you up.

  Dillon: Same here. I was afraid your friend talked you into it.

  Livia: She tried.

  Dillon: So did Jonah.

  Livia: Maybe they’re meant for each other. :)

  Dillon: Maybe.

  That was the end of our exchange, and I didn’t see any dots indicating she was responding, so I tossed my phone on the table and walked to the kitchen to get the bottle of bourbon. I poured a glass and sat down, flipping through the television channels until I found an action movie with plenty of violence. That would keep me entertained until I got drunk and then I could pass the fuck out. Unfortunately, the movie was on cable and went to commercials after a few minutes. The Christmas music angered me, so I started flipping again. An infomercial would be better than the annoying sound of Santa’s reindeer and jingle bells. I finished a couple of glasses of bourbon pretty quickly and stretched out on the couch. It would take more than that to get me drunk, but I was feeling a decent buzz starting to settle my thoughts. My phone lit up, and I reached for it, expecting to see a message from someone I knew—I was surprised to see that it was a response from Livia.

  Livia: I wonder if they’re already making out.

  Dillon: Probably.

  Livia: Are you drinking tonight?

  Dillon: Yes. Are you?

  Livia: Yep! Eggnog?

  Dillon: Just the good parts of it—none of the eggs or the nog. You?

  Livia: Wine, but I’m about to run out. :(

  Dillon: How drunk are you?

  Livia: Not drunk enough. Or maybe too drunk, because I’m messaging someone I don’t even know.

  Dillon: It’s okay. I don’t mind.

  Livia kept sending me messages, and I kept responding. Maybe I should have just told her to stop. I had done my chivalrous duty and prevented her from getting stood up. I didn’t owe her more than that. Still, we were kindred spirits in a way. Our friends were out on a date, and we were home alone. I didn’t know why Livia wasn’t interested in dating me exactly, but I definitely didn’t do anything to encourage her, so it wasn’t surprising that she wasn’t eager to sit across the table from me again. I came clean about Jonah meddling just in case—so that she would know I didn’t actually select yes—a safeguard in case she messaged me because she did think I was interested in her.

  I could tell she was getting drunk if she wasn’t there yet because her messages started have misspelled words and some of them didn’t even make sense. I found myself smiling and laughing under my breath at a couple of humorous messages that came through—mostly because I was sure they didn’t resemble what she meant to send. I stared at the dots after every message, and eventually, the dots just stayed on the screen, and no words followed. My eyes got heavy, and I assumed that she must have passed out in the middle of sending it. I stood up and started walking to the bedroom when my phone buzzed in my hand again.

  Livia: We should do this again sometime.

  Dillon: Maybe.

  Livia: Tomorrow?

  Dillon: Sure.

  I found myself smiling when I stretched out in bed underneath the covers. It had been a long time since I went to bed with anything other than a drunken scowl on my face. I wondered if Livia would wake up the next morning and cringe when she saw the messages she sent me. I wasn’t drunk enough to regret what I sent, and they were totally tame, but a twinge of concern did linger in my stomach. It was fun to talk to her, even if it was just through messages, but if she wanted to take it further than that—I didn’t want to lead her on. Still, it did get lonely sometimes when I was getting drunk and staring at the television screen while trying to furiously flip away from everything that reminded me of Sarah—except I didn’t do that when I was messaging Livia. Christmas music played in the background—commercials that would have typically made me stab the button on the remote control to get the channel to change were ignored. They didn’t even register like the usually did.

  Maybe Jonah’s right. Drowning my sorrows isn’t making it any better.

  The next morning

  “Good morning!” Jonah looked up at me with a smile on his face when I walked into the kitchen to get coffee.

  “Bah.” I grabbed the coffee pot and poured a cup. “I guess you had fun if you’re this fucking chipper.”

  “I did. I really like Val.” He nodded enthusiastically. “And it was okay that you didn’t come because Livia wasn’t able to make it.”

  “Is that so?” I stifled a smile and lifted my coffee up to my lips. “Maybe she doesn’t like getting set up on random dates either.”

  “Yeah, who knows. At least you didn’t stand her up.” He shrugged. “I won’t be around tonight. Val and I are going to go look at Christmas lights.”

  “A second date already?” I raised my eyebrows as I sat down across from him.

  “Yeah, she said she was going to ask Livia to come. Any chance I can convince you to come with us, or am I just going to waste my breath?” He tilted his head inquisitively.

  “Don’t bother.” I waved him off. “I’m sure Livia isn’t going to come if she didn’t even show up for the first date.”

  Plus, I’m pretty sure she has plans—strange plans, but they’re still plans.

  “Yeah.” He nodded quickly. “I’m not going to stop trying to get you out of the apartment though. You can’t spend every weekend on the couch—it’s not healthy.”

  “I’ll be fine. Go have fun with Val tonight.” I sipped my coffee.

  I think I’m—actually looking forward to spending the night drinking—and talking to Livia. That’s a strange feeling…

  I had a few errands to run during the day, and around noon, I got a message from Livia through the speed dating service. She apologized for the messages she sent and said that she wouldn’t bother me anymore if I didn’t want her to. A part of me considered just taking her up on the offer and ending things, but that part of me looking forward to it prevailed. I decided to send her my phone number, so she could text me instead of relying on the speed dating service to relay the messages. I wondered if it was a mistake, but I got a smiley face and her number in return, so I assumed that meant it was a good thing. Was it though? Was that going to lead her on and suggest that we could have more than just a few text messages exchanged while we were drunk?

  God damn it, what am I doing?

  Livia

  I don’t know why I messaged Dillon. It was stupid—drunken stupor. I was several glasses into my bottle of wine and started thinking about Val’s date. Dillon’s message was still on my phone when I picked it up. I should have just closed the window, but for some reason, messaging him felt safe. He wasn’t looking for a relationship with me. He wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone. If we were kindred spirits, why couldn’t we commiserate over the happy time our friends were likely having? He was drinking too, probably drowning out sorrows that were in no way similar to mine, but equally shared in some regard. I did miss social interaction—the simplicity of just talking to someone without being afraid that I would have to disappoint them down the road. Dillon was safe—that’s why I messaged him. Neither of us had expectations, and that was what I needed at the moment—more than I realized until we started firing off our messages.

  Oh wow, I asked him if he wanted to talk again tonight—and he agreed.

  As soon as I had my wits about me, I apologized to Dillon and gave him an out. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to spend another evening messaging me. I could drink alone if it came to that, and I wasn’t even sure I would end up with a glass of wine in my hand when Saturday night finally rolled around. I usually used wine as a crutch at the end of a long week of work, but Saturday was calm enough for me to find other means of entertainment—even if that was solo entertainment. To my surprise, Dillon didn’t just respond that he wanted to spend another evening exchanging messages—he sent me his phone number. That made me a little nervous, but I replied with my number and a smiley face—and there was an actual smile on my face to go along with the emoticon. Dillon was safe. I kept telling myself the same thing I told myself when I woke up that morning. He was dealing with his own stuff and d
idn’t want a relationship. He didn’t even mark me as a yes at the speed dating event. That was his roommates doing. Two broken people with meddling friends—that’s all we were.

  Saturday night

  I had to make a trip out to pick up a bottle of wine, so I went ahead and got several. One bottle was my limit, and that was already too much—even if I sometimes tried to convince myself it wasn’t when the last drop landed in my glass. Usually, I drank it over the course of an entire evening, so I avoided the wine hangovers that plagued me in my younger years. I waited until nearly seven o’clock before I popped the cork, took my first sip, and curled up on the couch in my pajamas as I looked for a movie on Netflix. I wasn’t sure who was supposed to text first. I initiated contact the night before, so maybe he was waiting on me. I was the one that asked him if he wanted to spend another evening drinking and texting. I was just about to send the first message when the phone buzzed in my hand, and I saw Dillon’s number on the screen.

  Dillon: Hey hottie, what are you wearing?

  Livia: I’m sorry? What?

  Dillon: I’m joking. How are you?

  Livia: I’m good. You?

  Dillon: Pretty good. Trying to decide if it’s time to start drinking.

  Livia: I guess I started early.

  Dillon: I should catch up then.

  Livia: Yes. By the way, I’m wearing the ugliest pair of plaid pajamas you’ve ever seen, baggy and loose.

  Dillon: Perfect.

  Dillon seemed a little more jovial than he was the night before, and I found myself laughing as the wine started coursing through my veins. Despite the complication that kept me from being able to date someone seriously, I wasn’t dead inside. I still felt that need—that longing. I felt myself sinking into those thoughts as we continued to send our messages. Why couldn’t I be normal? Why couldn’t I be the kind of girl that would be able to respond to a few messages that seemed flirtatious—and flirt back? Instead, I kept pushing the conversation away from them. Luckily, he didn’t push. The conversation shifted to our families. I told him about my parents and how much I missed them—how I couldn’t get the time off that I wanted for Christmas because I took time at Thanksgiving.

  He told me about his family, moving to New York from a small town in Wisconsin because he thought he was in love—and he was also working through Christmas. The conversation dangled there, and I was afraid we were both thinking the same thing.

  I shouldn’t. No, stupid fingers—don’t type it!

  Livia: Well if we’re both going to be alone for Christmas…

  Dillon: You want to spend your last day off this year texting me?

  Yes. No. Maybe? I’m in way over my head here.

  Livia: You don’t have to. I’m sure you have better things to do.

  There we go. That’s a nice, neutral response.

  Dillon: Okay.

  I reminded myself, even with the wine coursing through my veins, that there was no way I could ever be with Dillon—even if he was interested. It would just lead to heartbreak. It would lead to sorrow. It would turn him from a nice guy that I was texting with to another regret that I had to live with. I had enough of those, and I wasn’t eager to add another name to the list. How fair would that be to him? If he was interested, then I was the first girl he had shown any interest in since his last relationship ended. I could tell that was hard for him to discuss, even when it was just done over a text message. She had obviously shattered his faith in love. He didn’t deserve to have my issues dumped on top of a heart that was still mending. I couldn’t even be a casual hook-up, if I was into that sort of thing, because my vagina was the one part of me that didn’t work. No, I didn’t need another broken heart on my consciousness, and I certainly couldn’t endure one of my own.

  Monday morning

  “Um, Livia.” Val walked up to my desk and pointed over my shoulder. “That delivery guy is looking for you.”

  “I thought I already picked up the order for this week.” I turned my head. “Oh my god!”

  It wasn’t just a normal delivery guy—it was a guy holding flowers—flowers with my name on the card. They were from Dillon. I nearly fell out of my chair when the delivering guy brought them my desk. Val was on top of me like a hyena, digging her claws in for any piece of information that she could get. I hid the card before she could see who they were from and told her that my parents sent them. My parents had never sent me flowers—but at least it sort of made sense. It certainly made more sense than getting a bouquet from Dillon. I went to the bathroom after the commotion from the delivery died down and started scrolling through our text messages from the weekend. Did I miss something? Did I lead him on? Was there some reason that he would be sending me flowers that I could have been entirely oblivious too?

  Livia: I just got a delivery. What the hell?

  Dillon: Oh? Don’t you get those at work pretty often?

  Livia: Flowers? No!

  Dillon: Flowers? What are you talking about?

  Livia: You sent me flowers. Your name is on the card.

  Dillon: Those aren’t from me. Oh fuck.

  Livia: What?

  Dillon: Jonah! I told him we had been texting. God damn it. That was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll straighten this out.

  Livia: Okay…

  Did I have a little bit of excitement when I thought Dillon sent me flowers? Yes. Was there an even deeper feeling of disappointment when I realized he didn’t? Yes to that too. I don’t know why. It was foolish. Our text messages had been pretty civil, and maybe he flirted a little bit, but I didn’t do anything to give him the impression that we were anywhere near the flowers stage—that was a stage I was trying to avoid completely! Trying to prevent it didn’t stop me from feeling sick to my stomach when I walked back to my desk and stared at the arrangement. What if they really were from Dillon? What if he wanted to date me—I needed to stop talking to him entirely before that glimmer of hope trying to form flourished. The eventual outcome was going to be the same as all the guys before him. There was no reason to let myself think it could go any differently.

  “These are for you.” I walked over to Val’s desk and put the flowers down in front of her.

  “Me? I thought they were from your parents…” She looked at me in confusion.

  “Yeah, they’re not. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend why he’s sending me flowers?” I stormed back to my desk, grabbed my coat, and headed for the exit.

  Hope, meet anger.

  I called my boss and told him I wasn’t feeling well as soon as I was outside of the office. It wasn’t a lie. My stomach was doing flips and staring at the flowers wasn’t going to do anything to quell it. About thirty minutes after I left the office, I got a message from Val apologizing profusely for what Jonah did, but she thought his heart was in the right place. It wasn’t. His heart was in the worst place it could be. It was bad enough I had Val trying to meddle in my love life, I didn’t need her boyfriend—or whatever he was after two dates—trying to intervene as well. What did he think he was going to accomplish anyway? My life wasn’t some romantic comedy movie where I got mysterious flowers and fell in love with some guy because I thought they were from him while never mentioning them until the final scene. I made it back to my apartment before my phone lit up again with a message from Dillon.