A Complicated Christmas
Shannon O'Neil
Published by Shannon O’Neil.
Smashwords Edition.
Copyright 2011 Shannon O’Neil
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
The whole thing started innocently enough, as these things always do.
I was three days into a short trip home for Thanksgiving and suffering from a severe case of familial overexposure. Desperate to spend some quality time with someone with whom I do not share any DNA, I picked up the phone and called the only person who could understand my woes—Memphis Merritt.
Here’s what you need to know about my relationship with Memphis: It’s really complicated.
As best we can discern from the recollections of our parents, mine and Memphis’ paths first crossed when we were both still in diapers. My father’s dilapidated colonial and his mother’s quaint cottage were located less than a mile from each other, both tucked neatly into the folds of a small village on Florida’s northeastern coast. It’s unclear whether it was a local park, seasonal event or random chance that brought us together, all I know is that Memphis was the last piece that joined the puzzle of my life before everything began to fall apart.
My parents divorced when my twin brother and I were three years old, launching the spectacle that would one day become my patchwork family tree. Through the acquisition and dissolution of stepparents, siblings and childhood memories, Memphis was one of the few constants in the ever transitioning lives of my brother and I. The three of us forged a bond as we grew up that school cliques, interscholastic athletics and outside influences simply could not break. I don’t know where along the path to adulthood we became convinced of our invincibility, but I do know the moment when we realized it was a farce.
Prior to that moment, at age sixteen, I woke up one morning and realized that I no longer saw Memphis on the same vanilla plane as my brother. It took some time for me to drag him to the threshold of realization that he felt the same way about me, but once we arrived at the forgone conclusion of our relationship there was no turning back. Not even when Brandon, my brother, took a vociferous disliking to our courtship. Memphis and I defied him and though we were able to salvage an amicable allegiance, by the time we went off to college and Brandon joined the Marine Corps, even those tenuous bonds were strained.
Six months later, any chance of salvaging the remnants of our old friendship was buried under a red, white and blue flag along with my brother.
Overnight, mine and Memphis’ worlds fell apart, both from each other and from the rest of the universe. I retreated to Boston to finish school and banish everything that reminded me of Brandon from my life—including Memphis. It was impossible to see him, talk to him or even think about him without also thinking of Brandon, which was something I could not bear to do.
Who knows how long we would have remained estranged were it not for the fact that my family bullied Memphis into flying to Boston last year to drag me back home for Christmas so that I could begin to conquer my denial. For a short and incredibly delightful moment I thought it might be a second chance for us to reconnect as well, which is something I didn’t realize I wanted until I saw him again. We quickly warmed to each other, growing as close to our old, comfortable selves as we’d ever been. I had my toes on the cliff, ready to leap back into the nosedive most people call love—and then I met Memphis’ new girlfriend.
We ended the holiday break on good terms, but when I returned to Boston for the New Year I realized that I may have accidentally stumbled off the edge of the aforementioned cliff into that all-too-terrifying freefall.
In light of my slip up, I was a little hesitant to get together with Memphis when I came back to town for Thanksgiving. I was hoping that I’d somehow managed to curb my feelings for him during our time apart, but there was only one way for me to know that for certain.
Memphis met me at one of our favorite pubs nestled off a cobblestone alley a few blocks from my dad’s house and Memphis’ apartment. We clinked beer bottle necks and exchanged comments about a football game airing on a TV behind the bar. When we inevitably ran out of benign talking points, I dove headfirst into the sensitive territory I had hoped to avoid with words that burned in my lungs.
“So…how’s your girlfriend?” I specifically chose to omit her name, hoping it would sound more casual that way—like I really didn’t care about it at all, when in fact her name still felt freshly branded on the inside of my skull.
“She’s good,” he said, then added under his breath, “I guess.”
“What?” I pounced on his hesitance with more fervor than I should have. “What does that mean?”
He took a long pull on his beer and kept his green eyes leveled on the TV. “We’re in kind of a rough patch right now,” he said with a shrug.
“Oh, really?” I forced myself to dial back my excitement and muster a tone of friendly concern. “Did something happen?”
“She took a new job,” he said, pausing for another sip of his beer before he added, “…in Tokyo.”
I almost spit my own beverage across the bar. “Tokyo? Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s temporary—her company is opening a new office, so she’s over there for six months helping to get everything up and running.”
“Wow, six months is a long time,” I said sympathetically. He nodded.
“Yeah, I’m not so happy about it,” he said. “But it was a great opportunity for her and she was excited about it, so I kind of bit my tongue.”
“She doesn’t know you’re unhappy?”
“No, she does. But she just keeps telling me to ‘Hang in there, it’ll be over before we know it.’”
“That’s a tough situation,” I said, notching up the empathy and reining in the eager anticipation creeping up my spine. “When did she leave?
“October,” he said. “She’s supposed to come back the first week in April.”
“Ouch. So what are you going to do for the holidays? Will you go over there?”
He shook his head. “I can’t close the store for more than a long weekend and that’s not really enough time to fly there and back. I might go in the spring, when things die down and I feel comfortable leaving Javier in charge for a week or so.”
Javier, for the record, is my twenty-six year old stepfather. He’s a steamy Puerto Rican horticultural artist (read: gardener) who just started meteorology school (online), with financial assistance and emotional support from my mother (it’s a long story). He also works part time for Memphis, who runs a consignment art gallery that used to belong to his mom before she went to jail (another long story).
“Well, that’s a shame,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster (read: not much).
“What about you? Are you coming back for Christmas?” He asked casually.
“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly. “I was planning on it—I’ve already taken the time off from work—but after this weekend...”
“You’re a little overwhelmed,” he finished. (See? I told you he understands.)
“It’s not like last year or anything,” I said, remembering the four excruciatingly long days I spent at home for Christmas last year that nearly resulted in me cutting ties to my family for good. “But I feel like if I don’t take them in small doses, it could escalate pretty quickly.”
Memphis nodded. He’s been around my family tree long enough to know that it’s a massive botanical mess precariously perched on a ledge and held together in places with duct tape and twine. That’s what happens to your family tree when your parents divorce, leaving you and your two whole siblings dangling from forked branches while they remarry, procreate and divorce with reckless abandon.
After all that, I have a total of 11 brothers and sisters including the aforementioned whole siblings (Becca and Brandon), three step-brothers (Simon [Dad’s side], Mark and Josh [Mom’s side]), one step-sister (Lauren [Mom’s side]), four half-siblings (Robbie and Taylor [Dad’s side] and Maggie and Eli [Mom’s side]) and my adopted African brother (Ukembe [Dad’s side]). It makes for some interesting family get-togethers, to say the very, very least.
“So what will you do if you don’t come home? Just hang out in Boston by yourself?” Memphis asked. My response tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“I guess so…Unless you want to come up and hang out with me.” He smiled as I tried to keep the blush from building beneath the collar of my sweater.
“I don’t know about that,” he drawled, exaggerating his slow rolling Southern accent. “I’m not sure the big city and all that snow is where I want to be.”
“Oh yeah? Then where you would like to be?”
Just as I said it, the football game flashed to a commercial of a family on a white sandy beach in the Caribbean. Behind them, floating high on sparkling emerald waters, was a massive white ship.
“That looks pretty good right there,” said Memphis, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“You want to go on a cruise?” I asked incredulously. “You live in Florida!”
“I live in North Florida,” he corrected, “not South Beach. It’s forty degrees outside and they’re calling for a nor’easter next week.”
“Still…”
“Are you really going to tell me you’ve never thought about going on a cruise?”
“Maybe…”
“…drinking one of those fruity daiquiris with the little umbrella…”
“It does sound better than this beer.”
“…snorkeling over a gorgeous reef buzzing with fish…”
“I haven’t been snorkeling since we were kids.”
“…dining in a five-star restaurant every night…”
“You’re painting quite a picture.”
“I think we should go.”
Our eyes met for the first time in the entire conversation, torn away from the TV screen where the cruise commercial had transitioned to an advertisement for men’s hair dye. Remember that cliff I accidentally fell off before? Well, at some point in the previous year I had found a ledge and a finger hold to keep from falling any further. In that moment in the bar, however, I lost that tenuous grasp on reality and began to plummet.
“Are you serious?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said with a nod of affirmation. “Why not? Why can’t two friends take a little Christmas vacation?”
“Right, friends,” I said, trying to verbally communicate the word to my inner teenager. “Friends can go on a cruise together.”
“It would be fun—remember when I used to tag along on your family vacations when were kids? We always had a blast.”
“We did,” I said. The words were barely out of my mouth before he threw a ten dollar bill on the bar, grabbed my hand and tugged me down the street to his apartment.
We spent an hour pouring over cruises online before we found the perfect one—a four-night sailing from the Port of Jacksonville down to the Bahamas and back. We would leave on Christmas Eve and return three days before New Year’s.
Without asking for my input, Memphis selected a single interior cabin with bunk beds (okay, not incredibly romantic, but we could make it work) from a list of lodging options and clicked the purchase button. Because the cruise was sailing over the Christmas holiday (apparently an unpopular time of year to cruise) the prices were incredibly reasonable. Some might even say dirt cheap.
“This is my treat,” Memphis said as he typed his credit card number into the online form. “Merry Christmas to you, Bailey.”
I wanted to argue with him, but couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t believe that in a matter of hours I’d gone from dreading another Christmas filled with chaotic family gatherings to the endless possibilities of five days inside a floating hotel with Memphis.
Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
Chapter 2
The rest of November and the first few weeks of December crawled by at the pace of geriatrics with walkers. I spent endless hours scouring the Internet for new bathing suits, summer dresses and other cruise attire that did not belong in the wardrobe of a Boston resident at the start of winter.
While the rest of the city prepared for another holiday season of snow, sleet and ice, my imagination gave life to full color fantasies of a tanner, thinner version of myself (I’m not sure why I thought cruising was going to make me thinner, but it seemed like a very plausible part of my dream) lying beside a sparkling pool by day and sharing romantic dinners with Memphis by night.
Somehow, over the course of those five days, I just knew that I would find a way to win him back. It seemed as certain to me as the sun’s position on the eastern horizon every morning. We had always known we were meant to be together, he’d just forgotten. I would make him remember.
When the morning of Christmas Eve finally arrived, I hurriedly dragged my morbidly obese suitcase down four flights of stairs from my apartment to a yellow cab puffing yellow exhaust into yellow snow at the curb. As we made our way toward Logan International, my bright smile mocked the poor citizens of Boston scraping ice and shoveling snow to start their holiday mornings.
Not even the crowded terminals and long lines at airport security could put a damper on my mood (the same could not be said last year, but that’s another story). I soared from Boston to Atlanta for a short layover and made it to the gate for my connecting flight with time to spare. I should have known, given how smoothly my morning was going, that it would not last.
Things began to go horribly wrong about twenty minutes before my second flight was supposed to depart for Jacksonville. I was in the middle of reading my book (a travel guide to the Caribbean, thank you very much) when I happened to glance up and spot an all-too-familiar tall, lanky frame with a mop of fiery hair loping down the concourse about five feet ahead of a sullen teenager. My heart stopped.
Of all the airports, flights and planes in the United State of America, I would wind up at the same terminal, the same gate and on the same jet as my stepbrother and niece. In a panic, I raised my book to eye level, effectively covering my face, and took only a few hesitant peeks over the top as the pair of them drew closer and eventually settled into two seats a few rows away (thankfully facing in the other direction).
I breathed a temporary sigh of relief, but my mind was still racing, desperately trying to find a way out of this unfortunate scenario. I had spent the previous six weeks convincing my family that as much as I wanted to come home for the holidays, a friend of mine in Boston had recently suffered a terrible break-up and didn’t want to spend Christmas alone. For good measure, I added in the fact that I really didn’t have enough money to come home and wasn’t able to take off any extra time from work. My family seemed to accept my trio of excuses with only a few moans and groans.
You’re probably wondering why I couldn’t just be honest with them about my plans for the holidays. There are two equally important answers to that question: One, it would have brought up a lot of questions about my status with Memphis (questions for which I didn’t even have the answers), and two, they would have followed me. After spending the previous year diligently working on my relationship with my family, I knew that five days on a boat at sea with them would be a major setback to our friendly familial progress from which there might not be any recovery.
I couldn’t take that chance, so I lied.
But now it was coming back to haunt me, as I sat no more than ten feet away from two of my family members who I was somehow going to have to find a way to avoid onboard on a small aircraft. Desperate for ideas, I shoved my book back into my carry-on bag and scurried into a nearby gift shop. I bought an Atlanta Braves cap and a bulky Thrashers sweatshirt from a clearance rack.
In the women’s restroom, I ripped off the tags and slipped into my horribly mediocre disguise. I added my sunglasses and flipped the hood of the sweatshirt over the cap—then quickly realized I looked like the female version of the Unabomber, which probably wasn’t a good idea in an airport on Christmas Eve. I dropped the hood and the glasses, but pulled the bill low on my brow and slipped my hair into a pony tail.
I took five steps out of the ladies’ room before I noticed that four more people had joined Simon and Caitlin at my gate—my sister Becca, her husband Cody K and my adorable nephew, Brandon, plus my stepsister Lauren, were crowded around Simon and Caitlin exchanging hugs and pleasantries.
Panic flooded my veins like ice water. I slipped behind a large column at the adjacent gate just as an airline worker announced that my flight was about to begin boarding. Of course, this was the one occasion for which I’d splurged on my plane tickets to get on the priority boarding list. My section was the first one called.
With my eyes on the ground, I speed walked up to the attendant at the gate, coming within two feet of my assorted family members. The attendant took my boarding pass as I zipped onto the plane and dropped into my third row window seat. From my bag, I pulled out a newspaper I’d also purchased in the gift shop and unfolded it in front of my face. I read the same line of the same story about twenty times over as the plane slowly filled with other passengers. To my great relief, not one of my family members so much as glanced in my direction as they boarded the plane.
Only after the relief came over me in a tidal wave did it occur to my previously panicked mind that something was amiss about all of them heading home for Christmas. I tried to recall my most recent conversations with my parents and couldn’t remember either of them mentioning that Becca, Simon, Caitlin and Lauren would be coming home for Christmas. My sister’s presence was especially surprising given that Brandon’s first birthday was that very day, and it seemed like a lot to travel from Houston to Jacksonville via plane with a baby.
What usually seemed like a quick and snappy thirty-minute ride from Atlanta to Jacksonville felt instead like a round-the-world expedition. The moment our wheels finally touched the tarmac in Florida, I unbuckled my seat belt and yanked my carry-on into my lap, prepared to make a run for it. As soon as the cabin door opened I crawled across my seat mates and raced down the jetway like an Olympic athlete.
I was speed walking (it turns out I don’t have the endurance of an Olympic athlete) by the time I passed the security checkpoint and spotted Memphis in a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts waiting for me with a big smile and a cheap plastic lei. I didn’t slow down.
“We have to go now,” I insisted, grabbing his arm as he was trying to drape the lei around my neck.
“What? Why? We’re not late,” he said. “And what’s with your outfit?”
“Half my freaking family was on my flight!” I hissed. “We have to get my bag and get out of here before they see me.” Memphis’ face went ashen in a second. He too had lied to my family, telling them that he was spending the holidays with a few members of his extended family in Orlando.
We made it to baggage claim in record time and secured a spot at the end of the rotating belt behind a display board advertising the new Jacksonville cruise terminal (ironic, I know). Simon, Caitlin, Becca, Cody K, Brandon and Lauren arrived just as the warning light began to flash and the conveyer belt started to move. Thankfully, my bag was one of the first to emerge from the black hole beyond. I pointed it out to Memphis who heaved it to the ground and dragged it along behind us as we made our escape.
Not until we dropped into the seats of Memphis’ jeep in the airport parking lot did either of us pause to take a breath.
“That was close,” he said, cranking up the car.
“Way too close,” I told him. “But we made it.”
“Vacation here we come!”
It took less than ten minutes to get to the cruise terminal, also located on the north side of Jacksonville. We parked and hauled our bags to the curbside kiosk before winding through more long lines for security and then the check-in desk.
When it was finally our turn to step up to the counter, we were greeted by an older man with saggy jowls and half moon glasses.
“Names please,” he said in a monotone most people reserve for eulogies and resignation speeches.
“Memphis Merritt and Bailey Hamilton,” We chirped in unison. The man used his index fingers to slowly chicken peck our names into his computer terminal. He hit the enter button, waited a while, and then offered a heavy sigh.
“You’ve been upgraded,” he said, again in a tone so depressing we almost had to wonder if it was a good thing.
“That’s great…right?” Memphis said hesitantly. The man bobbed his head ever so slightly.
“You’ll be staying in our famous honeymoon suite.”
“Oh no, we’re not together,” Memphis said quickly (a little too quickly in my opinion). The man looked up at us for the first time, squinting across the counter.
“What are you brother and sister or something?” He asked.
“No, just friends,” said Memphis. The man rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, like Marilyn and Joltin’ Joe were just friends,” he said, chuckling to himself. “It doesn’t matter, son, you already accepted the upgrade.”
“What? We did not!” Memphis argued.
“It says right here on my computin’ contraption that somebody phoned you three days ago with the offer and you accepted.”
“I didn’t get any phone calls from the cruise line,” said Memphis. The old man shrugged his narrow shoulders.
“Look, buddy,” he said, “We’re sailing with a full ship today, every cabin is booked. You either take this honeymoon suite, or you walk away and forfeit your deposit. Either way, I get my paycheck, so do what you like.”
Memphis looked at me with a question in his eyes. I tried to dial back my eagerness with a casual shrug.
“It’s not a big deal to me,” I said.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he offered.
“We’ll work something out.”
“Alright,” Memphis said as he turned back to the old man. “Upgrade it is.” The man pecked at the keyboard for a few more minutes before issuing us electronic keycards to our cabin along with a map of the ship.
“Enjoy your vacation,” he said with a wet hack into his handkerchief.
Memphis and I made a beeline down the ramp to the dock and within a few short moments we were climbing up the gangplank that lead onto the ship.
“Here goes nothing,” said Memphis, smiling down at me.
“Here goes,” I said and we crossed the threshold.
Chapter 3
On its own, the ship’s interior décor was stunningly beautiful, but matched with boughs of pine, sprigs of holly and strands of lights it was truly breathtaking. We stepped into the main lobby at the base of an eight-story atrium of chrome and glass that was topped with a ceiling made of swirling seaglass like nothing I’d ever seen. An enormous Christmas tree was erected at the center of the room and covered with shimmering gold ribbon and gleaming red orbs, next to which a white haired man in a tuxedo sat behind a grand piano filling the air with the tinkling of holiday tunes.
“Memphis this is incredible!” I whispered.
We gawked at the scene before us until other passengers started to push us out of the way as they filed onto the ship. Slowly, we regained our senses and followed the masses into one of the three glass elevators that ran up the center atrium. The elevator doors slid open on the Lido deck and we wasted no time diving into the buffet.
As we sat stuffing our faces, Memphis flagged down a waiter passing through the dining room with a tray of drinks garnished with umbrellas. We clinked (okay, more like clicked) our plastic cups of fruity pink beverages against each other.
“Merry Christmas, Bailey,” said Memphis.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied.
When our plates were clean enough to be eaten off of again, we left the dining area and took a leisurely stroll along the top deck. We passed sunbathers already in bikinis and swim trunks lounging on chairs that flanked the pool despite the fifty degree temperatures. Up on the very top of the ship, we leaned against the railing, admiring the view of downtown Jacksonville’s skyline perched just up the river from the city port.
Right before the foghorn blew to announce our departure, we made our way down to the honeymoon suite. Memphis swiped his key in the door lock and we entered the cabin we would share for the next four nights and five days.
The first thing we both noticed was the heart shape made of fake crimson rose petals laid out on the eggshell duvet. Memphis took two quick steps into the room and swept the petals onto the floor.
Personally, I thought they were nice.
Other than the king size bed in place of the bunks and the gauzy white curtains obscuring the doors to our balcony, the room looked exactly like the one we’d selected from the photos online. A couch was wedged against the wall between the bed and the tiny bathroom (as in, smaller than most port-a-potties). On the opposite wall, a long counter with a dressing table and small TV butted up against three floor to ceiling cabinets by the entry. The room was small, but comfortably outfitted to maximize the available space.
While Memphis went to his duffle bag on the couch and began to unpack his things, I moved around the foot of the bed and threw open the curtains to check out our view. I gasped.
“What?” Memphis whirled around to face me and got the answer to his question before I could say anything. Beyond the glass doors was a teak balcony easily the same size as our entire room facing out to sea off the back of the ship and outfitted with a heart-shaped jacuzzi tub just big enough for two.
“Wow,” I whispered, fumbling with the lock on the door.
“Well,” said Memphis, clearing his throat, “it’s a shame that won’t get used.” He turned back to his suitcase as I opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. Cool, salty air hit my face as I watched the city and all points of land fade into the afternoon mist trailing our boat.
Memphis could say what he wanted, but for the next five days I had him all too myself and I planned to make good use of it. If he could remember how good we used to be the way that I did, surely he would see the light and leave his silly girlfriend in our wake.