Unfortunately, when I open the door, I find a heavyset guy holding up an envelope.

He looks me up and down for a second, obviously unimpressed by my appearance. I know what he’s seeing. I accidentally caught my reflection in a mirror in the hall earlier and had to look twice: dark circles under my eyes, dirty hair, angry scowl.

“You, uh…” He squints as he reads from his iPhone. “Emmett Mercier?”

With his thick Boston accent, my last name comes out butchered.

“Mer-see-AYE,” I snip, to which he replies, “Like I could give two shits.”

And oddly enough, it makes me laugh.

I tip him well and close the door, studying the small envelope. Instead of opening it right away, I set it down and go to retrieve my eggnog. I drink as I stare down at where the envelope rests on the edge of my entry table.

Like I’m scared it’ll burn me, I flick it with the tip of my finger so it turns over. As I suspected there would be, embossed letters boldly stretch across the sealed flap: EED.

I swallow down the rest of my drink and decide it’s probably best to just get it over with. I don’t know why I’m putting it off.

I open it and withdraw a thick stationery card. There’s a single line of text written in small, looping letters.

I’ve called it off. You’re free.

I read it three times, trying to decide if it will catch new meaning if only I read it in a different cadence.

I’ve called it off. You’re…free.

I’ve called it off…You’re free.

I’ve called it off. You’re free.

None of them help.

The weightlessness I’d hoped would come from the declaration is absent. In fact, I feel like I might throw up.

Eggnog for breakfast will do that to a person.

EED are obviously Lainey’s initials. I know this is her way of calling off our old-fashioned fake engagement. I know I’m supposed to pop champagne and toast to my victory in this hard-fought war, only now, suddenly…I don’t want it.

Isn’t that hilarious.

It’s so funny I pour myself another round of eggnog. I’m good and drunk before 10 AM. I put on Christmas carols and sing, and when my voice gets tired and my stomach rumbles, I slip on some shoes and go out looking for food, only every fucking place is closed because it’s Christmas Day. I wander in aimless circles until I find a small Chinese food restaurant that’s open. The sign says takeout only. I go in to order, and an elderly woman hands me a menu and, with a no-nonsense tone, asks me what I want.

“What?” I ask, looking up at her with astonishment, tears suddenly clouding my eyes.

“What do you want?” she asks again, prodding my menu with her pen impatiently.

“The thing is…I don’t know anymore. I thought I did. I really fucking thought I did, only now I’m not so sure.” My brows crinkle with frustration. “Do you understand?”