“I didn’t go. Obviously. I’m here in the car with you.”

“Did you give him your number?” Rene asks.

“I gave him my number.”

Rene makes a face.

I stare at her. “I thought you thought it was unhealthy for me not to date.”

“Well, not him. You can do better. Hell, Neil Stanton is a janitor and he would be better than Jared the bore.”

“Neil is a not a janitor. He’s an artist. He’s working on his music. He’s pretty incredible. You’d know that if you ever went out with me when I go hear him play.”

She gives me the look, the is something going on I don’t know about look.

I stare back. I fluff up my hair with my fingers. “Besides, I can’t date Neil, we’re practically going steady.”

Rene grimaces. “Crap, you and guys, Chrissie. I hope it’s not this weird forever.”

~~~

Seven hours later, I pass beneath the high, black metal archway of our neighborhood: Hope Ranch. I drop Rene at her mother’s house.

Rene’s house is completely decorated for the holidays.  Jeez, Patty Thompson really went all out this year. It’s ablaze with lights from the eight foot stucco privacy wall surrounding  the five acres Patty owns,  to the tiled rooftop of that monstrous two-story house she had built that blocks out the view of the ocean for half the street. Even after twenty years, most of the neighbors haven’t forgiven Rene’s mother for that one.

I pop the trunk as she climbs out. I roll down the car window. “Call me later.”

“Let’s go to the beach tomorrow and just veg,” she suggests. “Those finals really kicked my ass.”

“Sounds good.”

She nods, lugging her bag toward the front door. I hate that she’s leaving the day after Christmas to visit her dad in Georgetown. It’s going to suck being in Santa Barbara without Rene.

I put the car in gear, drive out of the Thompson’s driveway and then do a quick turn into my own driveway. I park my car behind Jack’s.

I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, just staring at the house—a single-story, Spanish style, white stucco and red tile roof structure. It’s good I can stare at the house and not feel all messy inside.

When I was younger I used to have mini-panic attacks every time I came home, which was awful, because I really wanted to be home. There was a lot within those walls I didn’t know how to deal with. My mom died of cancer in that house. My brother of a drug overdose in his bedroom. It was a lot to work through.

Not even a hint of the emotional chaos comes. It feels good, really good to be able to just sit here, stare at my house, and not become an emotional mess.

Maybe that’s the only reason Alan entered my life. Maybe that’s why we crossed paths and then spun away from each other. We weren’t meant to be forever. We were meant to cross paths to deal with our shit, and then move on. Alan had some intense shit to deal with last spring. I think he definitely worked through a lot of his shit being with me.

His life seems together. Good now. It’s nice to think I’m a part of what got him there. It’s nice to think our loving each other mattered in some private, significant way.

I pull the keys from the ignition and grab my purse. My dad’s house is the only house on the street without Christmas decorations. Not even freaking lights. I bet Jack didn’t even get a tree. Jack doesn’t buy-in to the commercialism of Christmas. It doesn’t matter; we always spend Christmas Eve over at the Thompsons, and Patty Thompson is the queen of commercial Christmas.

I lug my duffel into the house, drop it on the tile entry hall, and kick off my flip-flops to rest with the pile of shoes by the front door. The house smells good. Maria is cooking. I follow the smell into the kitchen. I find her at the center island, surrounded by silver mixing bowls, busily making tamales. No traditional turkey dinner here. Jack likes Mexican food out on the back patio on the holidays.

Her round, matronly face brightens when she sees me. “Chica. You’re home. ¿Cómo está mi niña?”

I smile. The way she says that makes it sound like I’ve been gone forever instead of three months.

“I’m doing great, Maria. How are you?”

“I’m good, Chica. Señor Jack is good. He’s going to be so happy you’re home. Now give me a hug. I’ve missed my girl.”

She steps out from around the marble counter top and holds her arms wide so I can hug her without getting dirty from the food all over her hands. She surprises me by placing a light kiss on my cheek. She’s never done that before. Kissed my cheek.

She steps back. “Now go say hello to Señor Jack. Then come back. We have a lot of cooking to do.”

I beat back a smile. She may be the housekeeper, but she rules me when I’m home and Maria is definitely making a mountain of tamales. What’s up with that? I wonder if Jack has invited people for Christmas this year. This is way too much food for just the three of us.

“Are we having guests for the holidays?” I ask.

Maria shakes her head. “No. It’s for Mrs. Thompson’s party. It’s a potluck this year so Señor Jack wants us to bring tamales, rice, and beans.”

I start to laugh. That one should go over real well with Patty Thompson. Maria frowns at me, confused by my laughter, and I bite my lips to stop it.

“Do you know where my dad is?”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Silly question, Chica. He’s out back, sitting.”

I go to the refrigerator, grab a Diet Coke, and then head for the French patio doors in the kitchen. The entire back wall of our house is nothing but glass so Jack can see the Pacific Ocean from every room.

All the lawn lights in the backyard are ablaze. It looks so stunning at night, with the walkways lit up and the view of the ocean directly beyond.

I don’t see Jack. I step out onto the patio. I make my way around the pool, then head across the lawn towards the beach. I stop at the top step of the wooden stairs built into the cliffs, and look down at the shoreline.

I spot Jack about ten yards down the sand, sitting in the darkness, just staring at the ocean. We’re so alike. Golden blond hair. Bright blue eyes. We’re both just kind of loners. Jeez, as far as I know, my dad hasn’t even dated since my mom died. I’m sure he has something going on, somewhere, but I don’t know anything about Jack’s love life.  It would be too creepy to ask him and he never talks about his personal affairs. He’s a really good dad that way.

Jack is not at all like Rene’s dad. Mr. Thompson paraded an endless string of young woman after his divorce from Rene’s mother, right up until three months before he knocked up his junior law associate and decided to get married again. Those years of her dad being an insensitive-jerk-man-whore still has Rene a little messed in the head.

Mr. Thompson is such an asshole. Jack was never like that.

I settle in the lounge chair someone dragged from the patio to the edge of the cliffs. Something in how my dad is sitting in the moonlight makes me not want to disturb him. Even the way we sit in the sand and stare at the ocean is the same. I used to think we had nothing in common, that we were not alike in any way, except by a strange quirk of genetics that made us look exactly the same. But we are so alike. It’s strange how I didn’t see that until this year.

I lean my head back against the cushion. I close my eyes. I am my father’s daughter. And that’s OK.

CHAPTER FOUR

I relax on a backyard lounge chair, staring out at the ocean. Christmas morning in Santa Barbara is sunny and seventy-four degrees. Jack and I had a quiet breakfast on the patio. The gift exchange lasted about twenty minutes. Since 9 a.m. the phone has been ringing nonstop for Jack with wishes for a Merry Christmas. I’ve only had one call. Rene.

A part of me, pathetic and definitely unrealistic, sort of thought Alan might call me today. Our time together was short. But it was significant for us both. I wonder where Alan is. I wonder if I haunt his thoughts, too.