Filling up the Virgin(269)
“They love you and you love them. That’s all that should matter.” She insists.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.” I lie, and Camila sees right through me. She rolls her eyes but drops the subject, and we finish our sleep over with the rest of the wine and chocolates.
Camila wakes me first in the morning, and we both rush to get ready for our early shift together. It’s below freezing outside and we hurry to the subway, blowing hot air into our hands. It’s the day before Christmas Eve now, and it shows as every other person no the train holds bags upon bags stuffed with presents on their laps. Camila’s parents have flown in already, and she discusses the Christmas dinner that she’s been prepping nearly all year.
“Are you coming over?” She asks me as we get off our exit. “I’ve only asked you a million times and mami even brought an extra packet of socks to give you.”
“No thanks, Camila. Don’t think I could handle your crazy family.” We arrive at Kennedy’s before David does and begin opening. The breakfast crowd rushes in, and the first moment I get I hide in the storage room and scarf down a plate of our holiday peppermint french toast and candied bacon. I eat until I feel like my blouse is going to pop off and run to care for my tables. It’s our last business day of the week and the busiest so far. After only a few hours I’m covered in a light sweat with a pretty good amount of tips.
“Haven’t seen such a beautiful smile in a while.” A man at one of my tables says. He’s tan with dark hair and a thick beard, and his muscles prove that he spends a decent amount at the gym.
“Well, thank you.” I say, but it’s not as chipper or flirty as it would have been before the twins.
He ends up leaving an alright tip, and I know it would have been higher had I given in to him. But the disappointment quickly turns into desperation when I glance the back of two blonde men similar in height. They turn to me as I walk towards the hostess stand and I stop in my tracks. They’re not the twins.
The mailman arrives when breakfast turns into lunch and drops a stack inside David’s office. He intercepts me on his way out and hands me a thin letter. My name is written in neat cursive, but there’s no return address or name. I slip it into my apron and wait until my tables are taken care of before sneaking into the break room.
I pull out a postcard that has a short and simple note.
Remy, before we go we would like to apologize in person.
Christmas Eve night, Six P.M.
We’ll wait here for you, and hope you come.
An address finishes the note, and after looking it up on my phone I find out it’s a building downtown near their suite.
The letter falls from my hand onto the floor. They just want to apologize, I tell myself. Maybe say a proper goodbye. I can say goodbye to the Kennedy twins one more time.
I kneel and pick it up, brushing against the handwritten note most likely written by Emmet. Christmas Eve, it said. I’ll spend Christmas Eve with Emmet and Jake, and then say goodbye.
Chapter Fourteen
I used to love Christmas Eve. I used to wake up and demand my parents get ready for breakfast. Afterwards, we would gather around the tree as they hand me one single present to open. It never mattered what it was, I still loved it because I got to open it early. Then we would go play in the snow, and every year our snowman would grow taller and taller. Until our first Christmas without my mom. Her car accident was nearly six months prior, but my dad was still in a drunken stupor and didn’t come home from the night before Christmas Eve until after New Years.
But this Christmas Eve is different. I’m not setting up expectations or assuming there’ll be anything more than kind words exchanged. I try to keep in with the holiday spirit with a red sweater that hugs my curves and fits over my waist, soft black leggings and a green scarf. I start to pull my hair into a bun but remember Jake’s words as he played with my corkscrews behind the restaurant. My hair falls down around my shoulders in tight curls as I slip into thick boots and a winter coat.
The cab drops me off at a high-rise on the other side of town compared to their suite. It’s shiny and brand new and looking at the people walking in and out, I realize they’re condos for the wealthy.
The inside is heavily decorated with wreaths, tinsel, candy canes and a giant snow frosted tree in the middle of the lobby. Two golden elevators sit on opposite ends, and after asking the receptionist, I get off the fifty fifth floor. There’s only one door on the very end of the floor. A soft knock pushes it open, and I walk inside and close it behind me.
My boots kick a foot of fake snow that swarms my ankles, and I take a deep whiff of pine needle, cinnamon and vanilla. Every inch of the condo is decorated with garland and Santa hats and even little mistletoes that hang from lowered ceilings. But the most amazing part is not the wrapping paper crudely taped onto walls or the twinkling Christmas tree nestled in the corner, but the Parisian music that plays from a room around a corner and the plate of French pastries that sit on a small iron table with fake cigarettes.