The Promise

Chapter Eleven The Birds Had a Merry Christmas

Benny came in his back door, shook the cold off, as well as the snow, and dumped his workout bag on the kitchen table, tossing his keys there next.

He had to get showered, dressed, and to the restaurant. He turned on his way to do that when his cell in his bag rang.

He turned back, zipped open his bag, dug it out, and looked at the screen.

He took the call and put it to his ear, moving back to the door, greeting, “Hey, Ma.”

“Hey there, Benny. You remember Carm, Ken, and the kids are flyin’ in tomorrow?”

He jogged up the stairs, saying, “I remember, Ma.”

“Dinner tomorrow night at the pizzeria. Manny knows to have the table ready.”

“Yeah.”

“Be sure to find time to come out and say hi, yes?”

He gritted his teeth as he walked down the hall, wondering why his mother would think in a million years he’d forget his sister, who he hadn’t seen in over a year, was flying in with her entire family to be there for a week over Christmas and he wouldn’t come out when they were at the restaurant and say hi.

But he didn’t ask her that question.

He said, “I’ll be sure.”

“You sure you won’t sleep on the couch Christmas Eve?”

He walked into the bathroom and straight to the shower to turn it on and get it hot, so when he was done with this ridiculous call, he could waste no time getting ready.

“I live ten minutes away from you,” he reminded her. “I can come first thing in the morning and not have to sleep on your couch.”

“Kids get up early on Christmas Day,” she snapped.

“Then I’ll get up and come over early,” he returned.

“They get up really early.”

“Then I’ll come over really early.”

“Benny—”

“Ma,” he cut her off. “We’ve had this conversation.” He paused for emphasis. “Twice. I’m not sleepin’ on the couch. I don’t get there at the crack of dawn when Carm’s kids get up and go ballistic, I’ll be there five minutes after the crack of dawn, yeah?”

He heard her sigh before she said, “All right, Benny.”

“Now, I just got back from the gym. Gotta shower and get to the restaurant.”

“Okay, caro, see you tomorrow night.”

“Right.”

“’Bye, Benny.”

“Later, Ma.”

He disconnected, tossed the phone on the sink, took off his clothes, dropped them to the floor, and stepped in the shower.

Ten minutes later, hair wet, tee, jeans, and boots on, he was downstairs at his hall closet, reaching in to yank out his leather jacket, when the doorbell rang.

He took in an annoyed breath and moved to the door, seeing his neighbor Tony standing outside.

He unlocked it, opened it, and saw Tony had a brown paper-wrapped box.

“Postman came, bud. Left this with me,” Tony said, holding the box out to Benny.

Ben took it and muttered, “Thanks, man.”

“Not a problem,” Tony replied, then lifted a hand and mumbled, “Later,” before he jogged down the steps and made his way next door to his own house.

Benny closed the door, locked it, turned, and was moving back down the hall when he looked at the box, saw the postmark, and stopped dead.

Indianapolis.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forcing himself to come unstuck and move back to the closet.

Juggling the box, he grabbed his coat, closed the door, and headed to the kitchen, thinking whatever it was could be from Vi. She, Cal, and the kids were in Florida, but she could have sent it before she left. And it was something a woman like Vi would do, sending a Christmas gift to a guy who would not send any in return, even a card.

But if it was from Vi, it would not be postmarked Indy unless she was in the city doing errands and happened by a post office, which was unlikely.

So he knew who it was from.

And he knew he should at the very least set it aside, but the better choice was dump it in the trash.

He did not do either.

He should have picked one, most definitely the last one.

Instead, he opened the fucker and pulled out a square tin decorated in a red, green, and gold Christmas plaid. It had a small card attached to the top with a circular gold foil sticker.

It said, Benny.

He set the tin down, ripped the card off, and opened it, sliding out a Christmas card with a snowman on it, decorated in way too much fucking glitter, with the words Happy Holidays! printed on it.

He opened it.

Inside it said, Merry Christmas, Benny. Enjoy and have a happy one. Love, Frankie.

He clenched his teeth, and that was when he should have taken the tin and card to the trash.

He didn’t.

He opened the tin and the sweet, nutty smell of doughy goodness wafted out as he saw a massive mound of Frankie’s chocolate-filled, powdered-sugar-rolled Christmas cookies sitting in it.

Fuck. The thing came through the mail, and still, there was a hint of condensation on the lid, which meant she’d packed them warm and sent them immediately.

He stared at the cookies, remembering one more time, in a line of way too much remembering, that she was trying.

She had a game going where she phoned when she knew he wouldn’t answer, primarily when he was at the restaurant, and her voicemail would say, “Just checkin’ in. Oh, it’s Frankie,” like he didn’t have caller ID or wouldn’t know her voice in the dark with a dozen other voices yammering at him, this happening fifteen years from now.

Or she’d say, “Just callin’ to let you know things are good. Like my job. Thinkin’ of gettin’ a dog. Hope you’re good. If you want, call me.”

Or she’d say, “Hey, Ben. Thought of you, had a minute, thought I’d call. You wanna chat, you know my number.”

He didn’t fucking call.

Nearly three months ago, he’d walked out of his bathroom, put on a tee, jeans, and boots, and walked out of his house. When he came home, it was empty.

No Frankie.

She didn’t come back.

She phoned.

But she left his house, left town…and she didn’t come back.

She wanted him in her life.

She wanted to be friends.

She wanted to stay in her fucked-up world with her fucked-up head making fucked-up decisions and living a fucked-up life.

And she could stay there.

He didn’t need that shit.

He stared at the cookies, thinking he also sure as fuck didn’t need her cookies.

But he kept staring at them.

I’m falling in love with you.

Those words assaulted his brain one more time, in a line of way too much remembering, and it was one time too many.

Twisting his torso, with a brutal arm slice, he sent the tin sailing across the room. It slammed with a loud metallic sound against the wall and cookies flew everywhere, landing and exploding in powdered-sugar puffs, the dough breaking and crumbling, exposing chocolate kisses.

Ben didn’t look at it.

He shrugged on his jacket, nabbed his keys, and his boots crunched into the cookies as he walked out the door.

The next day, he swept that shit out his back door, sending it flying down the stoop and into his yard.

He threw the tin right in his bin at the back of the house, along with the card.

And the birds had a Merry Christmas.