Home For The Holidays
After nearly another full week in El Paso, I’m only a little closer to feeling like myself again, but we’re a lot closer to having an album finished.
Once again, all too soon, I’m on another plane. Even though we’ve spent the majority of this year at home, wherever that may be, it feels like I’m constantly getting on a plane for one reason or another, and it’s rarely a reason I’m looking forward to.
This time, it’s because we’re on our way back to Tulsa for Christmas. It isn’t entirely a vacation, though. We’ve resolved to finish the album in the next few weeks. Taylor scheduled some studio time in Los Angeles to record a few horn parts that will finish off some of the songs, and then aside from mixing… it will all be done. We even have tentative plans to film the first music video. It’s all happening so quickly, but it feels right, in a strange way.
Going back to Tulsa, though… that part doesn’t feel so right.
When we land in Tulsa, it’s the same old story. There’s no one there to greet me, and it doesn’t even make me feel better that there’s no one waiting for Taylor, either. His eyes are cold and empty, so I’m not even sure that he cares that he’s all alone. Maybe it’s what he’s wanted this entire time. I just don’t know anymore.
I don’t offer to share a cab or anything with Taylor; we’re not going to the same place, anyway. Since I sold my apartment, and staying with Kate feels just a little bit wrong, I’m spending the holiday with Mom and Dad. It isn’t exactly an ideal plan, but as I hail a cab and give the driver my parents’ new address, I realize that I don’t have any better options right now.
The twinkle of Christmas lights leading the way up my parents’ driveway reminds me that I ought to be cheerful right now, but I really can’t muster up much cheer. Christmas in California doesn’t feel like Christmas at all, and I think that’s why I wanted to spend my first holiday as a divorcee there. Still, even if the sight of my parents’ Christmas decorations doesn’t cheer me up, it does give me a strange sort of comfort. I’m even close to smiling by the time I finish unloading my suitcase and paying the cab driver.
Mom is waiting at the door with a cup of hot cocoa, because she has a sixth sense for when one of her children is near and in need of nurturing. She’s off as soon as the mug is in my hand, chattering about how different I look, whether I’m eating enough, what happened to my hair and so on. I don’t even bother trying to follow everything she’s saying; it’s just the typical mom chatter that doesn’t vary whether you’ve been gone a year or just a day.
“Now, you make yourself comfortable in the guest room,” Mom says, showing me to the same room I stayed in at Thanksgiving. “There’s some leftover dinner in the kitchen, and I know you’ve got to be starving. We’re all going to bed soon, but help yourself. Don’t worry about keeping us up if you get a midnight snack.”
“Alright,” I reply, chuckling a little at how like a mother hen she is.
With a strange twinkle in her eye, she adds, “And if anyone else comes, you’ll let them in, won’t you?”
“Umm… sure,” I say. “Are we expecting more company tonight? It’s only Christmas Eve Eve.”
“Well, you never know who might show up at the holidays,” Mom says cryptically, then dashes off before I can even begin to understand what she might mean.
My stomach growls before I can give too much thought to what Mom has said, and so I decide to disregard her words for now and find something to eat. The second floor of the house is quiet, so I creep carefully to the kitchen and find the fixings for a sandwich. It isn’t much, but it’s too late for a big meal. With the plate in hand, I head back downstairs to the room I’m going to call mine for the next few days.
I barely make it to the bottom step before the doorbell rings, a loud, raucous noise that seems to echo through the entire house. It’s surely loud enough to be heard from upstairs, but since I’m already here, it just makes sense for me to answer it, even if I have no clue who it might be. I set my plate on the coffee table in the foyer before unlocking and opening the door… only to see Carrick standing on the other side of it.
“I… I don’t… what?” I manage to stutter out, barely even conscious of the fact that I’m letting brisk winter air in the house and leaving my—assuming that’s what he still is—boyfriend standing on the front step.
Carrick gives an exaggerated shiver. “Can you just let me in? Then we’ll talk.”
I nod dumbly and step back to let him in. Feeling properly chastised for leaving him in the cold, however briefly, I grab the suitcase from his hand and carry it to the guest room I assume we will be sharing. And that raises another question.
“Did my parents know about this?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I called your mom after I booked my flight. I probably should have called her before, but it was an impulsive decision. The right one, I hope.”
“You didn’t even answer my text, but you called my mom?” I ask, hating how blunt and petty I sound.
I’m not angry with him; at least, I hadn’t been. With all the work we’ve been putting into getting this album done, I haven’t had a lot of time to stew about the fact that Carrick didn’t answer my drunken text that one night. He had promised to talk to me when I needed him, but he didn’t keep that promise. And that hurts more than I had time to realize until this very moment.
Carrick sinks onto the bed we shared so unhappily a month ago and nods his head sadly. “I did. And I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t have a good excuse for that, Zac. Except that, well, I could tell you were drunk. And I didn’t know what good could come from a conversation right then. And you know how sometimes you feel so guilty for something you’ve done—or not done—that you can’t bring yourself to fix it? That’s how I felt.”
“What changed?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I just stewed for long enough, and finally realized one of us had to do something. So here I am. To hand deliver the first pressing, as it were, of From The Dust to my new record label. And help you survive Christmas, hopefully without a repeat of Thanksgiving’s events.”
“I don’t deserve that,” I say, nearly echoing Taylor’s words to me just a few days ago.
“I don’t think it’s up to you to decide that.”
Deciding to change the subject, I say, “So your album is done? Ours might be… soon. They’re already planning a trip to LA to record some horn parts.”
“Will they stay at your place?” Carrick asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “We haven’t talked about that.”
“More importantly, have you talked about the horrible accident your hair was in?”
It takes a moment for the joke to register, and then I laugh. Loudly. And then laugh more. Whatever anger I felt at Carrick has been completely quashed by his apology and that question. He gives me a genuine smile and I know then that my Carrick is back. Whether he’s going to stay… well, I can’t predict the future. But I’m feeling a lot more hopeful about it right now.
“That was… that was the night I texted you,” I finally manage to say in between laughs. My tone sobers a bit as I remember the night in detail. “It wasn’t… a very good night. You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Not unless you want to talk about it. Or need to talk about it.”
I sigh and take a seat next to him. “We were all drinking. And Taylor was… well, I don’t know what he was really angling at, you know? He was just being Taylor, and he kept playing with my hair while we talked. And I kept—not turning him down, really, because he never outright propositioned me. But he obviously wanted something. Once the whole conversation was over, I needed a few more drinks, and I guess I had too many, because I ended up cuddling with the toilet. And when I was done… between the chunks in my hair and the memory of Taylor touching it, I just couldn’t take it any longer. So I found a pair of scissors, and gave myself this stylish little cut.”
“You look like you got into a fight with a weedeater,” Carrick says. “But it’ll grow. The hair isn’t really the big problem here, is it?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s Taylor. But I think… well, I finally gave him a piece of my mind. Whether he’s really out of my hair, figuratively speaking, I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“No, we won’t,” Carrick says. “I mean, it’s about your actions, not your hopes and wishes. You have to stick to that conviction that things between you and Taylor are over. You have to act on it.”
“Telling him it’s over was the first action,” I reply. “Although I don’t know how to convince you that I really mean it.”
“I’ll see it in time,” he replies. Ever so slightly, he leans against me, and it’s more of a reassurance than he probably means for it to be. Even when I’m not so sure that he believes in me, he gives me so much strength just by existing and being here by my side.
“Thank you for coming out here,” I say.
“What else could I do?” Carrick asks. “I can’t just… deny you and take my love away from you because I’m frustrated with you. I know you’re always going to feel something for Taylor, something probably even stronger than what you feel for me. And I… well, I haven’t accepted it yet, not fully. But I’m getting there. All I can ask is that you try your best to fight that feeling.”
“I can do that,” I reply softly but firmly. “I am doing that. I’m doing the best I can.”
Carrick nods. “I know you are. But you know what you’re not doing?”
Tilting my head to the side, I ask, “What am I not doing?”
“Eating that sandwich I saw sitting in the other room. I assume that was yours…?”
“It was,” I reply, smirking a little. “And how dare you interrupt my dinner. I have half a mind to offer you a sandwich, too.”
“After a meal of water and pretzels on the plane, that’s an offer I can’t really refuse,” he says, then stands up.
“Come on, let’s see what you’ve got around here for a vegetarian to eat.”
I take Carrick’s hand in mine, and after a quick detour to rescue my sandwich from the foyer, we head upstairs to track down something plant-based. I still don’t know what the future holds, but with Carrick’s warm hand in mine, I feel a lot better about facing it down.
“Hey, Carrick,” I say as we reach the landing.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Do you think… I mean, maybe it’s too soon to ask this, but are we okay?”
He looks thoughtful for a moment, then says, “I think we still have a ways to go and a lot of work to do. But it’s work that maybe we can only do together. I can’t… it isn’t fair to leave you to suffer through this alone, so I’m not going to. Not any longer. So whatever happens, yeah, we’ll be together for it. Is that a good enough answer?”
“Yeah,” I reply honestly. “It is.”
And it is. It really, truly is. It’s better than I deserve and more than I hoped for.