Eggnog & Evergreen

05 • One Duffle

"That's right, mom," I say, sighing into the phone. "Yes, home. Nope, it's not a joke."

I'm pretty sure she's crying on the other end of the phone. I glance at the time in the top corner of my laptop next to its battery life. Not exactly leaving myself a lot of time to pack.

"Yes, I remember where we live!" I shake my head in disbelief.

"Had to double check." My mom answers over the phone.

"It's Penn-syl-vania." I hear my dad's voice in the background.

"Hey, can you send dad to pick me up? Yes, the train. Well, how else would I get home? 11:30, I think? It's late, I know."

"-Trains shouldn't even run that late. It's all the city folk walking around in the dark-"

OMG.

"No one is going to kill me, mom." Maybe I'd let them.

"-More and more snow, you just wouldn't believe-" My mom rambles on.

"I'm sure I'd believe it," I sigh. I look at the snow still occupying (burying) my fire escape.

"-See it soon enough. Oh, that's the door. Can't wait to see you, hon." My mom hangs up unceremoniously.

"Ok, bye Noelle," I say to myself.

I must be next level desperate. To even consider returning home for the first time in almost 10 years leads me to believe I should probably be committed.

At least I know one positive thing about going home: No one will bother me. Why, you ask? Because no one is there. No Preston. No boys. No nothing. Perfect place to hideaway the holiday and try to mend my broken pride.

...

Preston's old sweater is haunting the top shelf of my closet. I pull it down, vehemently, and toss it into a heap on the floor. I throw his favorite pair of reading glasses on top of it. Before I know it, I'm traipsing around my loft gathering everything Preston related. Everything his, all his gifts, countless pictures of us, framed, in every room. It's all going in a garbage bag.

My knees ache as I dig into the back of my closet. My fingers searching earnestly for the cool fabric of my old favorite gym duffle bag.

I start pulling all my chunky sweaters off their hangers and stuffing them into my duffle. Toss in my best lived-in jeans and a lot of things flannel. The whole time I'm packing I keep picturing my last Christmas spent at home in Pennsylvania.

I know exactly what I'll be walking into. The giant pine tree on the left side of the front lawn will be decorated, covered head-to-stump in blinking white lights. Our stockings (even mine) will be hanging from the fireplace mantle, dangerously flirting with disaster. An inaudible lull of holiday music will emit from every orifice of our house, like the creepy elevator music that plays in outdoor gardens.

Every year, our quaint Christmas card town always has old-fashioned carolers parading up and down Main Street, a Santa Meet & Greet, the famous ice skating rink, and oh my god! If I keep thinking about it, I'm going to talk myself out of this before I even leave for the train station.

Without realizing it, I am fully packed. The last thing I see before pulling the zipper is my favorite red scarf. Very Taylor Swift of me, I know.

It's December 17th. I'm going home for two weeks and only taking one duffle. It's very unlike me to not pack at least five gold sets of earrings, four fancy outfits, three bags of makeup, two pairs of shoes (for each day), and a partridge in a pear tree.

I'm fine.

I zip up my boots and bundle myself up in a forest green puffer coat. I stop and check myself in the hall mirror. You never know- maybe I'll run into Preston at Grand Central. I pull on the hood, which covers most of my hair and frames my face with white fur.

My eyes fall once more to the hall table. To the countdown calendar for Hawaii. I close my eyes and take several deep, meditative breaths. I subconsciously run my thumb over my cold, bare ring finger.

I'm fine.

With one last glance around my shabby chic loft, I pull on the strap of my duffle bag and walk out the door.

I have hours I can count on one hand to mentally prepare for a two-week stint in my hometown.

I don't even have an old high school boyfriend I can magically rekindle a quickie holiday romance with. Which is perfect, don't misunderstand me. I don't want a quickie holiday romance. I'm just saying.

That's not me. No old flames or unrequited loves. No one that got away. The town is so small that by 10 I had met everyone and by 13 had confirmed none of them were my forever. That realization was the catalyst for my migration to NYC.

The opportunities were as endless as the street trash. One of those smelly, dingy, overcrowded subway cars held my forever.

"Oh my f- I don't even want to be my own company right now." I talk to myself.

My phone buzzes with a new text from Deja.

Still going?

I type out a quick response, my fingers already going numb in the cold.

If by going you mean escaping -yes

I tuck my phone into the pocket of my puffer and begin my three-block trek to the train. One wrong step off the curb and I roll my ankle and land knee-first in a blackened snow pile.

My leggings are now soaked through to my legs and I have snow up my coat sleeves.

Oh my GOD.

I'm fine.