Page 32 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

I hadn’t ventured upstairs yet. Am I even allowed to? Or is this like Beauty and the Beast?The West Wing is off-limits!I have no clue what’s there, aside from Alex. He’s always either in his room, chopping wood, or, I guess, just gone because I’ve hardly seen him since he volunteered to help and then disappeared yesterday.

I haven’t even allowed myself to really think about that, or what it means, or how I feel because it hadn’t felt good. And that’s problematic. So I tuck those thoughts away for another day and time, like maybe my hike, and I curl into a ball on the bed.

I rub my feet together, trying to garner some warmth, but it never seems to come, just like the sleep that fails to arrive as well.

So, instead of sleeping, I lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering.Where is Blanks?I still haven’t heard him come in.If I were in Vegas, what would I be doing?I would be nearly mid-shift on what is notoriously the slowest night of the year. Why Eddie’s even stayed open, I have no clue.

And then, like most nights, I eventually play the game of what-if.What if I had been born into a more normal family with two loving parents who weren’t diseased and dysfunctional? Where would I be? Who would I be? Would I like her? Would she be playing Santa with her husband right now, tip-toeing around our house, filling stockings? Sneaking around the living room, hiding gifts and toys?

The what-if game is a painful one to play. Because all my what-ifs are wishes. Dreams. Ones that I’ve never felt so far away from obtaining. The dreams felt closer in Vegas, with no boyfriend and no prospects in sight, than here, married to Alexander Palomino.

I’m already wishing the day away when I hear the faintest of steps in the hall. A quick check of the time shows 1:30. Likely Blanks sneaking in. I wait and listen, and then my door slowly eases open. I hadn’t shut it all the way, but when Alexander’s head pops in, I gasp at the shock.

“Oh my god, you scared me,” I whisper-shout at him, clutching the comforter tight.

“I’m sorry.” He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless. Sleep pants slung low around his hips.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better.

“Can’t sleep, and I was wondering…” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. I pull the covers back on the empty side of the bed, scooting over to make room. He slides in, and I roll over to face away from him.

If he just needs someone to sleep beside to make it through the night, that’s fine. But I won’t be rubbing his back till he passes out. The closeness we shared the other night and morning has faded. Snuffed out by Alex’s avoidance.

So this time in bed, it’s not intimate. There’s lots of space between us, me facing one way, him probably facing the other. Because no matter how much I want to be like that with him, Alex is clearly out of reach. Still madly in love with someone else.Jess.

Eventually, my eyes get heavier, my breathing mellows, and I drift off, thinking about snow.

The clicking of the front door has my eyes shooting open; just a habit from living alone, and, I guess, natural instincts trying to keep me alive living with two men.

I check the phone on my nightstand.4:30. I was hoping for another half hour, but it wouldn’t hurt to start the oven for the cinnamon rolls I prepped yesterday.

Slipping away from beside Alex, I walk towards the great room but stop short, seeing Blanks and a tall redhead making out under the mistletoe in the entry.

Why do I hate it? And who picks someone up on Christmas Eve?Blanks does, obviously.

I wait a moment, tucked back in the hall until, eventually, he throws open the door to the basement, and the two retreat.

My throat is burning again, I get the chills, and a small part of me wants to cry.

Stupid, really.

So silently, I make the breakfast I planned. I prep some snacks for my day hike and pack my small bag. I lay everything out on the counter for breakfast and am just writing a short note when I hear the faint screams of ecstasy from downstairs, making the back of my eyelids hurt.

“Really?” I question the universe.

It’s fine. This is just not my time. It hadn’t been my time…ever. What’s another few years? Again, assuming I can make it to 100 or so.

I get dressed in the mudroom where everything had been hung up yesterday, and as silently as possible, I whisper, “Merry Christmas,” tothemas I slip out the mudroom door.

After two miles, I stop, sitting on a fallen log to eat my breakfast and watch the sunrise.

For the last hour, I’ve moved slowly, working hard on not slipping on the slick pine needles or damp rocks. It’s still dark out, and the thought of spraining an ankle out here, alone, is a little more than frightening.

The flurries never manifested into an all-out snow last night. It was just enough to make everything damp without leaving a presence behind.

It’s cold, but with my blood pumping from the uphill climb, I’m comfortable.

Pulling out the cinnamon roll I packed, I slowly pick at it. And I cry.