The fire felt warm on my face, warmer than I’d felt in years.
My phone buzzed with a text message—probably Michael wanting to apologize, or Isabella needing money for something essential, like new throw pillows.
I didn’t check it.
Instead, I poured myself a glass of the good whiskey, the bottle I’d been saving for a special occasion that never seemed to come.
Tonight felt special enough.
I raised my glass to the empty room, to Maria’s photo on the mantle, to the man I used to be and the man I was becoming.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I said, and meant it.
Part Five: Isabella’s Provocation
The next morning arrived crisp and clear, December sunlight streaming through my kitchen windows as I nursed my second cup of coffee.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t calculating how much money would disappear from my account in three days.
The freedom tasted better than the Colombian blend I’d finally allowed myself to buy.
My phone rang at exactly 10:47 a.m.
Isabella’s name flashed on the screen like a warning label.
“Dennis,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar tone of barely concealed impatience. “I need you to pick up my parents from Spokane airport. Their flight from Portland arrives at two.”
I set down my mug carefully, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.
“Isabella, did you forget about our conversation yesterday?”
“Look, whatever that was about, we need to focus on practical matters now. My parents need transportation, and you’re the only one with time during the day.”
The audacity was breathtaking.
Less than twenty‑four hours after telling me I wasn’t worthy of sharing Christmas dinner with her family, she expected me to serve as their personal chauffeur.
“And you’re asking me because…?” I prompted.
“Because that’s what family does, Dennis. They help each other.” Her voice sharpened with irritation. “Besides, let’s be honest here. You’re not my rival. You’re too weak to be my rival. So just get in your truck and pick them up.”
There it was—the final insult wrapped in a command.
“What airline?” I asked quietly.
“Alaska Air, Flight 447. They’ll be at baggage claim, carousel three. And Dennis, they’re expecting someone who can handle their luggage properly. Don’t embarrass us.”
I could hear her nails tapping against something hard—probably her granite countertop, the one I’d paid for when she decided laminate wasn’t suitable for her dinner parties.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good. And wear something decent. Maybe that blue shirt you wore to Michael’s graduation. They notice things like that.”
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