Ringing in The Holidays

Becky bites her bottom lip, the dark red lipstick marking her minty white teeth like a bad omen. Tom, the love of her life, stares through the dual-paned window with a sense of awe: chestnut brown eyes open wide, and mouth slightly forming an “O.” He loves the cold, he said. And the promise of his brilliant career. It was only supposed to be a year before things took off, but here they are going on number three, and still no big break. Becky deliberately ignores him, turning away from the window lit with twinkling multi-colored mini bulbs.

She makes her way to the sitting room. Lacing her fingers and pushing her palms toward the crackling fire brings sensation back to her hands. She hates snow, but a white Christmas made her smile. She’s unsure of the nostalgic attraction; she nearly froze to death, retrieving a package from the porch. She sighs, watching the gray tabby licking its fur on the straw-like sisal rug. “So much for the magic of Christmas.”

As usual, the cat doesn’t respond. Human words don’t require any reaction.

The brightly decorated tree occupies the corner of the room like a stand-up comedian, mocking her about where she comes from. California is much warmer in the winter than New York. But she sacrificed her friends and family to be with Tom. Not that being unable to spend time with family over the holidays was much of a sacrifice. She was grateful to have an excuse not to mingle with condescending relatives, questioning her choices, and espousing conservative political views. At least they waited until Tom was out of sight during the Zoom calls when they voiced their “he’s just using you for your money” complaints.

She thought his gift, still sitting under the tree, was a joke at first. Tom is like that. Finding humor in everything, perhaps a distraction from reality. They had decorated the tree with discarded treasures found on their walks from their first-story apartment to the bodega. Or the coffee shop. Or the neighborhood trattoria that poured the best chianti. Oftentimes, they met for happy hour at the quaint bar, which has already changed owners twice in the last three years, sharing some bauble they discovered on the way. Exchanging recollections of their day: Becky, working on her manuscript. Tom, meeting with investors.

Her stomach fluttered as she opened the small square package wrapped in a Tiffany shade of blue. Expectations high. But her gut dropped with the same shocking disappointment Yankees fans felt when Aaron Judge flubbed the ball in center field, leading to a World Series meltdown.

“A chia pet?” she asked.

“It’s Weird Al,” he said with a sly smile. The look reminded her of his face when his male hormones kicked in, insinuating that she should trust him because pleasant surprises were coming. Surely, the engagement ring was hidden inside the little terracotta figure. But, no. Nothing but a packet of tiny black seeds. She hid her disappointment like she’s done many times this past year.

Today is Boxing Day, which never held much meaning for her, but when Tom said he looked forward to a celebration with a few of their closest friends, excitement grew again. Becky noticed champagne attempting to hide behind a large box of Toblerone. Tom always cooked, and she rarely even opened the refrigerator, but this morning was different. The cat received a fancy can of tuna from Santa and had only eaten a small portion the night before, so Becky fed her as Tom showered.

The text from their neighbor came to both of them.

I left something on your porch.

Becky, expecting another YouTube baking disaster, did nothing. The last offering shared by the ditsy neighbor was fudge, except she misread her pantry supplies and used salt instead of sugar. Anticipation at the thought of chocolaty bliss turned to revolution as the briny confection befuddled Becky’s taste buds. She gagged. The neighbor, who appeared startled when she saw Becky Christmas Eve, explained that she’d be away Christmas day, spending it with relatives in Jersey. As if Becky cared. Most likely, she was re-gifting something.

Tom, on the other hand, raced from the bathroom. “You weren’t supposed to see that. I gave her specific instructions.”

Maybe ditsy was the wrong word to describe the neighbor. She possessed the confident naivete of most college students in the area. Unabashedly willing to try new things, yet still too foolish to recognize consequences.

Becky, realizing there must be some significance to the package, quickly ran outside without pulling on her puffy coat. He probably left the ring with her for safekeeping, Becky thought.

The biting cold stung her face, way more fierce than a nip on the nose. She got to the porch first and tore through the tissue surrounding a lump in the small bag.

It was a ring, all right. Now, Becky holds it up, inspecting it as the blinking LED lights from the tree reflect like tiny stars on its shiny band. Tom’s shocked face is etched in her mind, apprising her reaction like a boxer before a match, wanting to break through her vulnerabilities while protecting his own.

The gold signet pinkie ring is a family heirloom. Tom’s grandfather, who made millions, bestowed it to Tom’s father, who squandered the fortune away. Tom wore it for luck. Or to symbolize that he inherited successful genes, despite his father’s laziness. Tom always took it off before showering. He said he left it in the men’s locker room at the gym after his Christmas Eve workout, a preventative measure to counteract the food and libations for the days ahead. Becky thought it odd that he wasn’t worried about someone stealing it.

Becky knows she must decide. Go home with her tail between her legs to her family or listen to another flimsy excuse from Tom.

“What to do?” she says to the cat, ignoring her as usual.

Becky stashes the ring in her pocket and returns to the front of the apartment. Tom still stands by the window, like a statue chiseled by an artist capturing a reflective moment. His eyes lock onto hers, pleading brown pools of regret communicating worry. He shivers, and Becky wonders why. After all, he swore he loved the cold. Maybe it’s finally sinking in that she won’t forgive him. This time.

The cat snakes through Becky’s legs, following her, perhaps hoping for more tuna. Becky looks down at the sleek body moving like a ninja. “I think you miss California,” she says.

The cat looks up.

“Maybe we’ll both be better off there.”

Becky shakes her head at Tom. He swallows hard and glares back, his eyes still pleading.

“Think we should let him back inside now?”