Chapter 28: Christmas Must Be Tonight

101 8 1
                                    

The next morning, I sit with Mom and Roan for breakfast

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.


The next morning, I sit with Mom and Roan for breakfast. I even cut off the overcooked, brown crusts of Roan's sunny-side-up eggs and spread an excess of grape jam on his slice of bread.

I'm too nauseous every day to have breakfast with them—a system I forced upon myself after countless breakfasts gone wrong with my father—but today I'm extra sick to my stomach. I feel my intestines knot within each other, tubes wrapping around my empty stomach and squeezing around the gastric juice. Albeit, I sit with Mom and Roan and eat a sliced up apple.

"You're in a good mood today," my mother notes as she sips her coffee, her eyes searching me over the rim of the mug.

She has no idea.

I nod and smile. "I guess it's the Christmas spirit." Even though Christmas is still in two weeks, New York never fails to be theatric about its decorations for the whole of the month.

Roan snorts. "You hate Christmas."

He's right; I hate all the jolly, family holidays because of my not-so-jolly father. I have the right to hate it. I flick the stem of the apple in his direction. "Well, I don't hate it this year."

"Oh, right," Mom says as if remembering something. "You're doing that charity project with Mr. Roman today. Is that why you're so happy?"

The lump of apple loses its appeal half-way through chewing in my mouth. I force myself to swallow it down. "Sure."

Over the table, Mom reaches out and squeezes my fingers. I stare at our hands. Her fingers are long and pretty compared to my short-nailed, calloused hand. "You've always been a good person at heart, Sage. My sweet, little girl. I'm proud of you."

I squeeze back her hands and look to the ceiling in an attempt to stop the tears from leaking. "Thank you, Mom."

After we finish breakfast, I run to the bathroom and hunch over the toilet seat. I heave out the half-apple and the remains of last night's dinner until tears spring from my eyes. They slide down the white porcelain of the toilet seat. A sob retches itself from inside me as I pull the flush and watch it swirl down the drain in spirals. I pick up my bag and start my day.

༺༻

The glass is cold against my cheek. Through the small window, I watch tiny snowflakes fall on the ground, then listen to the van's tires crush the thin later of snow on the asphalt road. It's only slightly snowing, but it is enough of a distraction for me at the moment. And it is enough for everyone else in the van, as it seems to silence them for the whole ride.

Theo, Atlas, Yvonne, and I sit in said vans, driving along the sectors of Manhattan and the Bronx with cartons and cartons of canned food and warm meals in styrofoam containers in the back. The Romans, the Suttons, and a handful of other important people along with their assistants and helpers drive in front of us in three other vans.

Elite FraudWhere stories live. Discover now