Page 7 of Go Back to December

I tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “What’s your order?”

“Frittata, bacon, hash browns, and yogurt parfait.”

“The parfait’s to-go,” I say in unison with his command.

As his brow relaxes with the promise of food arriving, he appraises me carefully. “Maybe I should get the entire order to-go. Since you won’t let anyone else serve my table. And you clearly have other plans.” He juts his chin at my dress. “Fellowship interviews today?”

“Wh-what?”

“For the Lightman.” He holds my eyes. “Heard you were a finalist.”

Paranoia is not something I’m well acquainted with, but it is fast rising, choking my throat. Amal and Lacy are the only people I’ve told about the fellowship, beyond my family. The list of finalists is supposed to be confidential. All applicants sign a form agreeing not to post publicly about it on social media. And if the corporate overlords who own the café get a whiff of my potential departure before I’ve had time to manage my exit, it could make things difficult for the café staff.

Even if the Lightman is a long shot, Baz is the last person I can trust with this knowledge.

The front door flies open, and Amal teeters through it. She’s walking slowly, as if in a daze. Her hands are shaking.

I bolt from Baz and his veiled threat and rush to meet her by the door.

“Amal?” I’m trying to remain calm, preparing words of comfort and composing my vow to fight the system, when a wide smile cracks across her face.

“I got it,” she whispers. “Permanent residency.”

Whooping, I haul her in for a hug. The team in the kitchen clap and holler, banging pots and pans.

“Open up the sparkling cider!” I shout. “We’re celebrating.”

Amal’s so happy, she grins at the table that caused so much trouble this morning.

Baz leans back in his chair and takes it all in with a smug smile playing on his lips.

As I walk to the elevator and ignore the impending sense of dread about the Finance Committee meeting, my mother calls.

I have to pick up. When you’ve already lost one parent, and the other one is approaching their sixth decade around the sun, you answer the damn phone.

“Mother of God, what is all that noise?”

Her voice caws through the speaker, the only sound echoing off the marble floor of the vacant lobby. I’ll have to chase her to get her hearing checked.

“I’m at work, Mom. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says breezily. “I wanted to confirm that you hadn’t changed your mind about the holidays.”

I’ve been waiting all week for my mother’s Christmas guilt to raise its ugly head. Every year, I get a late December call from her, and we act out a version of this conversation, ignoring the fact that we haven’t spent the holidays together since I was in high school.

“Today’s the last day for us to cancel your room,” Mom adds.

My stepfather, Ira, is very committed to his cruising community, and in the twelve years they’ve been married, they’ve never missed their annual Christmas and New Year vacation. The second room Mom claims they reserve every year is completely fictional. Craig never gets leave for the holidays. And Ira is neither that extravagant nor that stupid. He knows I have no intention of joining the silver cruising brigade.

“Sorry, Mom. With work and the fellowship application, I can’t.”

“I thought I’d ask in case things changed. Oh, and I’m sending you a little something in the mail.”

“Send it to Manny’s. I’ll text you the address.” I’ve been crashing at my friend Manny’s apartment for the better part of a month, since my house-sitting gig ended unexpectedly early. This is the problem with having a narrow circle of contacts who primarily work in foreign economic development; projects lose funding, and political strife can get you booted out of a country faster than a raid on an underage bar.

“Oh, so you two are spending the holiday together?” Mom can hardly contain her enthusiasm about the possibility that I’m in a relationship.

Life would be so much easier if Manny and I could be more than friends. From the day we met on a foreign aid trip five years ago, we’ve never shared a physical attraction. He’s such a sweet squishy bun, my unrealistic expectations and emotional baggage would flatten him.