Blue skies greet me when I step off the plane, I already miss home—or maybe I just miss Camden. After a forty-five-minute drive from the airport in Nice, I’m dropped off at my parents’ private estate in Monte Carlo. It’s decked out for the holidays, complete with fake flocking on fake trees and perfectly constructed garlands draped across the Belle epoque architecture of my parents’ villa. Happy ostentatious holidays. Fa-la-la-di-da.
I pull out my phone and text Cam, he’s probably just waking up.
Me: I’m here.
Cam: I want proof of life
I send a photo of myself with the dusky Mediterranean behind me.
Cam: Damn . . . that’s a view.
Cam: Sea isn’t bad either.
Me: *eyeroll*
Cam: How many days until I see you again?
Me: 20.
Cam: That sucks.
Me: You’ll be so busy, you’ll hardly notice I’m gone.
Cam: Oh . . . I meant sucks for YOU. I’ll be fine. But are you really going to last 20 days without my good looks and charm?
Me: Probably not. How ever will I forge through the long-suffering loneliness without you?
Cam: It’s going to be a marathon of misery and gloom.
Me: Tis the season.
My parents welcome me with open arms and hugs.
“We’re so happy you’re spending Christmas with us,” my mom coos, and the three of us are seated at their favorite restaurant, Le Louis XV.
I smile. “Me too, Mom.”
Truth is, I’d rather be celebrating Christmas with the Tellers. Every Christmas I’ve ever had has been flawlessly curated. From the exquisite private-chef menu to the tree I wasn’t allowed to touch. It’s always been perfect. I assumed that’s the way it was for everyone, after all, that’s what’s shown in the windows of Fifth Avenue and holiday advertisements. Christmas is a spectacle meant to dazzle and amaze.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the splendor, but I’d like to be a part of it, rather than have it done for me. I want to pick out my own tree, one that isn’t perfectly coned. In fact, I want it misshapen and disfigured. With dead spots. I want to decorate it with ornaments that don’t come from Bergdorf’s.
My parents aren’t showy people, they’re simply oblivious. They always hire a company to “do” Christmas for them, which results in flamboyant decorations and traditions. It’s all so . . . artificial.
I bet Camden’s family will cook their own Christmas dinner, wrap their own presents, and decorate their own tree. They probably watch Christmas movies, bake their own cookies using family recipes, and maybe even build a snowman or two. Chicken Salad will be with them on Christmas. She’s staying with Kelly, Logan’s friend/piercer/apprentice while Cam travels. My dog will be well cared for, considering how obsessed she was with her over Thanksgiving.
I left a couple presents in his closet. One for Chicken Salad and one for him. Chicken Salad is getting a new rope toy, and Camden is getting a hat. It’s not the greatest hat, but it was something I knit by hand after finding a pattern online. And I even found out how to knit his number, forty-six, on it. On the inside, I added a small C, for captain. Not sure if he’ll even wear it, but I wanted to give him something heartfelt.
I wish he was here . . .
“Jordana?”
“Huh?”
My thoughts are brought back to reality when I realize the sommelier is waiting on me.
“Oh, my apologies. Whatever you suggest for the red mullet.”
The sommelier nods and departs from us. I’m left looking at my parents.
“Jet lagged?” Dad asks with a smile.
“Yeah, sorry . . .” That’s not true. “Actually, no. I was thinking about Camden,” I blurt.
“Oh?” Mom asks.
“I really like him. I want you to meet him.”
Me: I told my parents about us.
Cam: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah.
Cam: What do they think about you officially hooking up with the best man?
Me: It was a little awkward at first, but I told them how great you are.
Cam: Must have been a long conversation.
Me: It was, actually.
Cam: Anything I should be worried about?
Me: Nope. I think they liked you after the video chat when you stood up to my mom. They want to meet you in person after they return to the States.
Cam: I’d like that.
Me: Really?
Cam: Of course. We gotta make this legit. How many days until YOU return to the States?
Me: 16
Cam: Merry Christmas, Sunshine.
Me: Merry Christmas!
Cam: I love my hat.
Me: I’m glad you like it. Tell your family hi for me.
Cam: Same to you.
Me: Can I open your package yet?
Cam: Yes.
I pick up the box I wasn’t allowed to open until Christmas and tear into the cardboard package. Inside is a signed hardcover of the hockey romance he read me over Thanksgiving weekend along with a bag of Sour Patch Kid gummies. The smile on my face grows. I never told him that’s my comfort snack, but he obviously figured it out.
Me: You’re the best. Thank you. ♥️
Cam: How many days?
Me: 12
Me: Can I call dibs on next Christmas with you?
Cam: That’s a year from now, you sure you want to do that? If you say yes, I’ll hold you to it.
Me: Absolutely.
Cam: Then I’m all yours.
“Cam says you should be riding your bikes, not letting them collect dust,” I say, standing next to my dad in the custom motor shop. We’re picking up the newest one he’s adding to his collection to take home. It was a Christmas gift from my mother.
“Tell Cam I like my dust collection just fine.”
“Beautiful bikes should be ridden, not hidden away.”
“Did Cam tell you that too?”
I grin. “Maybe . . .”
“Lovely.”
Me: Congrats on your game against Jacksonville!
Cam: Thanks. Wish you were here to celebrate with me.
Me: How would we celebrate?
Cam: I can think of a few ways . . .
Me: Only one week left, can’t wait to see you.
Cam: No shit, I’m putting a moratorium on any future three-week vacations I’m not a part of. It’s too long.
Cam: Three good things?
Me: 1. I went for a walk today, solo. It was relaxing and I got a lot of thinking done.
Me: 2. I am signed up to volunteer with Safehouse when I return. I’m looking forward to doing something useful with myself.
Cam: I’m so proud of you.
Me: 3. Only 4 days until I go home.
Me: You?
Cam: 1. Only 4 days until I see you.
Cam: 2. Made two goals against Colorado.
Cam: 3. Only 4 days until I see you.
Me: That doesn’t count . . .
Cam: Yeah it does.
Me: ETA 10:10pm
Cam: I’ll be waiting.
