Beautiful Things Never Last (20 page)

             
A blush ignites under Amalea’s olive cheeks. “Chef
Baldassare does not want to spend his evening with just me.”

             
“I doubt he minds,” I say, pushing
Amalea
,
and the vein in her forehead
,
to near stroke level.

             
“I would love to accompany you,” Davide says.

             
“See there,” I smirk outwardly, but inside, I’m honestly not looking forward to spending the holiday alone.
And even though the idea of missing out on an Italian tradition, when this may be my only Christmas that I ever spend here,  has me feeling pretty freaking low,
I guess
the reality is that
it’s only fair,  since Ben is
missing out on a festive Christmas, too.
I just hope he’s not eating Ramen. Please don’t let him be eating Ramen. “You guys go! Enjoy! And please take pictures, I want to show Ben when I get home!”

             
Amalea
’s eyes trail across the room to
Davide and then b
ack to me, weighing her options.O
r plotting to kill me. She must decide I’m too much trouble to dispose of, because she grabs her coat off of the hook and steps out into the night air. I’m about to head back up the small staircase when Davide turns to me.

             
“Grazie,”
he says
with a polite nod
. And I know that at least one of
our
Christmas wish
es
has come true.
For
me and Ben,
Christmas last year was a fresh start, and I really hope that somehow, Amalea and Davide can have their own slates wiped clean tonight.

             
I lie back on my bed and dial Ben’s cell phone again.

             
“Just answer the phone,” I say. It comes out sounding more like a beg than a request.

             
Just kiss me.
I remembersilently pleading last Christmas.

             
“Hi, it’s me again,” I say to Ben’s voicemail.“
I know, I know, I’m pretty much stalking you at this point. But,
I wanted to catch you to say Merry Christmas. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m just sort of hanging out, so call
me back
.
It doesn’t matter what time it is. I just really want to
talk to you.
I miss your voice.
I miss you.”
‘
I
love you, too,
’
I whisper
ed
in his ear, saying the words to him for the first time that night that we made love for the first time.
“I love you, Ben.”

             
I hang up the phone and I’m not sure what to do. I
could eat—
again
. I could
drink a bottle of the Lambrusco that Amalea introduced me to, but drinking alone on Christmas Eve just sounds sad. Instead, I call Carter, who unlike my boyfriend, answers on the first ring.

             
“Merry Christmas, Quinnlette!” Carter says. I can’t help but smile, hearing a familiar voice.

             
“Back atcha. How are you? How’s Mason?” I ask
. Part of the reason I stayed at home for so long was because the idea of leaving Mason behind with my pa
rents and their drama had guilt eating at me daily. At least if I was there, they could take their craziness out on me. But leaving Mason alone… He’s different than Carter and
me
. More sensitive. More sheltered. I know he’s seen more than he’s let on, but I also know that I liked being the one to help shield him from some of the insanity. The fights. The broken dishes. Mom MIA for weeks at a time. As far as Mason knew, Mom went on solo mini-vacay’s. He didn’t know
she was gone for
things like
extended hospital stays for threatening to harm
herself
, near overdoses
,
and stints in rehab. What about now? Now that Carter and I are both gone? It keeps me up some nights. I feel selfish for choosing a life with Ben far away from the madness. But before I left, things had gotten bad. Really, really bad. What choice did I have but to leave?

             
“Mason’s good
. F
rom the looks of the
pile of
loot under the tree, he’s abou
t to make out like a damn sheik,
”
he says
as he
laughs
.
“He’s bummed you’re not here
, though.
”
             

             
“I wish I was. I wish all of us were together.”

             
“Maybe next year. I’ll tell you what, I miss your baking and cooking for sure right now.”

             
I smile, feeling proud of myself that I at least have something good to offer.

             
“You’re having a good time, though?” Carter asks.

             
“I’m having a great time. I’m just maybe ready to come home,” I say. I flip onto my side and wish I could teleport myself back to my apartment.
Even though I know I’m going to miss Italy something fierce, I think it’s time to go home.
“I miss you guys. I miss Ben—hell, I miss just
talking
to Ben. I miss a bed that is big enough for me to stretch out in, and—”
             

             
Carter’s voice dips a little lower.
“Wait, you haven’t talked to Ben?”

             
“A couple of times. I guess he’s busy. Probably spending a lot of time in the darkroom since Ron is out of town until after the New Year, you know? He
has this thing about
never bring
ing
his phone in with him when he’s working.” A chill runs through me, thinking of the last time I was in the darkroom with Ben.

             
“Right,” Carter says, cautiously. “I’m sure that’s all it is.”

             
His cautious voice scrapes
at me because Carter loves Ben.
I know it’s my paranoia ringing in again, and I won’t let it ruin whatever kind of holiday loneliness I’ve dug myself into.

             
“Anyway, how’s Shayna doing? Her family is glad to have her home, right?”

             
“Yeah, they sort of hold a monopoly over her. I h
aven’t seen her since yesterday.
I’m going to go and have dinner at her folks’ house later, but it’s weird not having her around, you know?
Guess I’ve kind of gotten used to having her with me all the time. It’s…nice.
”

             
“I know,” I say. I can empathize with Carter better than anyone right now.

             
“Of course you do. Hey, Mom is just about done making breakfast, you want to talk to her?”

             
“
Our
mom is actually cooking?
”
Wow, maybe things do change.

             
“I didn’t say it was a good thing, I just said there was about to be food. That we can try to eat,” he says with a laugh.

             
“Actually, I’m pretty beat.
I think I’ll just give her a call tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

             
“Sure thing, Quinnlette. Hey, have a safe trip home.
”

             
“I will, thanks. You guys, too. I’ve got the perfect idea for a souvenir for Shayna, and it’s not jewelry so don’t get her hopes up.”

             
“
Do you need Shay and
me
to pick you up from the airport?”

             
I slide the nail of my i
ndex finger under the Christmas-
red polish on my thumb and slice it off in a single
layer. “No, Ben should be there. H
e has my flight info.”

             
“Okay…” Carter pauses. “If you’re sure. But give me a call if something comes up.”

             
“Thanks, bro. Tell everyone that I said Merry Christmas,” I say.

             
When I hang up, I suddenly know just what to do with my evening.

             
I pad lightly down the stairs, and back into the small kitchen.

             
I
rummage through Amalea’s cabinets, digging for plain ingredients to make
something
simple
and comforting
. I pull out
flour, sugar, butter and other basics
and arrange them neatly
on the counter top
,
and then get to work.
I work
at
a frantic pace at first, creaming the butter and adding the dry ingredients in a frenzy
.
But once I
pluck an orange from the fruit bowl on the
table and zest it into the bowl, the
fresh,
citrusy aroma invad
es
my nostrils and calm
s
me like a baby being rocked to sleep with a familiar lullaby.

             
Once the dough is rolled out, I pinch o
f
f small pieces and tie them into loose knots before baking them. While the sugar cookies bake, I make a bowl of icing and find some colorful sprinkles buried deep in the cabinet.

             
When
th
e cookies are baked
, iced
,
and covered in a generous dousing of sugared confetti, I sit back to enjoy a small glass of Lambrusco and bite into one of masterpieces. They aren’t anything fancy, but they are exactly what I needed. They remind me of baking at home while Mason watched
, perched on top of a barstool with his knobby knees tucked under him. I
lethim decorate the cookies, even though the control freak in me physically hurt watching him pipe uneven coats of icing on the tops and
not decorating them the way I’d envisioned.