The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Five

      “Happy Christmas, Liz!” Lauren cried, wrapping her arms tightly around me so any chance of breathing I had previously possessed evaporated within seconds.

      “Uh, happy Christmas,” I choked out.

      “This is for you!” she said vivaciously, handing me a small, red box with a white ribbon tied around it. Quizzically, I glanced down at the small present, wondering why she had given it to me. It was only Christmas, after all.

      “What is it and why are you giving to me?” my word choice didn’t come out as smooth as I had intended.

      “You have to open it, silly! It’s Christmas! How could I not? Besides, we’re friends!” a lively smile surfaced on her face.

      “Um, th—” I began, though stopped when I felt two arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in, until I was pressed up against the culprit’s firm chest.

      “Merry Christmas, Liz,” a voice whispered into my ear, sending my senses into hyper mode.

      “Eric,” I exhaled after quickly realizing who it was. “Merry Christmas, to you too.”

      “You two are so cute together!” Lauren squealed, staring dopily at the two of us.

      “Gee, uh, thanks,” I managed to get out, Eric’s arms still attached to my middle as Lauren’s gift remained in the palm of my hand.

      “Well, anyways, I’m going to go find the girls, but you two have fun!” she said merrily. “But not too much fun,” she quickly added with a suggestive tone.

      “Bye, Lauren,” Eric called after she had already departed. “So, uh, Liz, can I show you something?” His arms slacked from my torso, spinning me around so we were face to face. I set the item Lauren had given me on a side table, before replying.

      “Um, sure?” I said, hoping that it involved escaping the people-filled room in which we were currently residing. That was a big thing I hated about holidays: the people.

      For some, the festive times in which various things happen to be commemorated were spent with family members. Growing up with a single mother who grew up as an only child and whose parents lived all the way out in Vermont in the middle of nowhere, that wasn’t the case for me. Though we currently resided in New York, Vermont only a four or so hour drive, my mother had lost contact with her parents long ago.

      Long ago, Monica Turner was a young seventeen year old with a passion for, though it sounded as cheesy as can be, fashion, and wanted to live in a city. An expansive farm in the middle of Vermont was where she had spent her youth, and she was done. It was funny, now, thinking back to my mother growing up in the heart of nature. This was the same lady who hated walking on dirt because she thought that would “contaminate” her shoes.

      Basically, she worked hard and then met Kit. They hit it off from the start, and decided to launch a company. And thus, a shoe company and was born. The farmer’s daughter became the president of one of the most respected brand names in fashion, and that was where the tale concluded. It was your typical, American dream-like fairytale that had its happy ending like every story yearned for.

      Anyways, for holidays, we didn’t have family, so my mom invited just about every person with whom she had ever had a conversation. Currently, the house was packed with people— some I knew, others I had never seen. The majority of the people were her coworkers or people she had crossed paths with in the fashion industry. And then, there were the people I was associated with that she felt compelled to invite. To say that Monica Turner “liked” holidays would be the understatement of the millennium—she loved holidays.