Christmas Alexandra takes pity on me. She pats my shoulder. “You’re not really that bad. You’re just a little self-absorbed sometimes. You don’t see things from others’ perspectives—how your actions may affect them.”

Back in the apartment, Kate brushes back the locks of James’s hair that have fallen over his forehead. “You are the smartest, sweetest little boy ever, you know that?”

He grins. “Yeah, you’re pretty lucky.”

My wife laughs. Then she kisses his forehead and moves back to the love seat, next to her best friend. She glances worriedly down the hall toward the front door, and there’s sharp anger in her tone when she whispers to Delores, “If James gets hurt tonight because of Drew, he and I are going to have a major problem.”

Delores nods. But then—maybe Christmas really is magic, because she defends me. Kind of. “Don’t give up hope, Katie. Dipshit may actually pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize where he should be. He’s come through before when I didn’t think he would. So . . . keep the faith. You never know.”

Kate sips her wine, looking distinctly uncomforted.

Then the Ping-Pong participants shout loudly as Michael gets the ball past his uncle—scoring the winning point. His father gives him a high five and a hug.

“Well played, sir,” Steven congratulates.

“Nice shot,” my son calls sincerely.

Then he sighs. And goes back to watching the door.

Though I know he can’t hear me, I start to move toward him so I can explain how crucial tonight’s conference call is. So he’ll understand. But even in my head, the justifications sound pretty fucking hollow.

And I don’t get the chance to, anyway. My sister’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “Come along—we still have another stop to make.”

“So I can feel even worse than I do right now?” I give a sarcastic two-thumbs-up. “Yay.”

She takes my hand and I reluctantly follow her out the front door.

And we step seamlessly into my apartment.

There’s a fire burning in the living room fireplace but the lights are turned down low. And it’s quiet—the only sound to be heard is Kate’s singing voice floating softly down the hall from James’s bedroom. She does that sometimes—sings him to sleep. At the moment, she’s doing a fucktastic rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I imagine her running her fingers through his soft hair as his eyes grow heavy. Then, when he’s finally out—she’ll kiss his forehead and smell the still-child-sweet scent of his skin.

“This is later tonight,” my sister informs me. “While you’re at the office on your video business meeting.”

A few seconds later, the song ends and Kate comes walking down the hall. Her hair is pulled up and she’s wearing a dark green silk nightshirt that accentuates the green flecks in her eyes. With white socks, because hardwood floors are freaking freezing in the winter.

In her hands, Kate holds a bottle of wine and a single glass. She uncorks it on the coffee table and pours a double serving into the glass. Then she opens the hall closet and sticks her head inside. As she rummages around, pulling out baseball bats and ski jackets that I astutely used to camouflage the presents inside, the back of her nightgown starts to ride up, and the “Ho, ho, ho” written across the ass of her red panties peeks out.

I tilt my head for a better angle of the luscious sight.

Addiction is an illness. But there are times—like this one—that it’s an enjoyable one. I can’t help myself, and if I’m being honest, I don’t really want to.

Alexandra frowns at me. “Focus, please.”

I clear my throat and nod.

Eventually, Kate succeeds in dragging out two boxes that are longer than she is.

She opens them, lays out all the pieces neatly, and settles herself among them on the floor. She takes a sip of her wine, opens the instruction manual, and gives herself a pep talk.

“If Drew wants to work, he can work. I got this covered. How hard could it be?”

We should pause here briefly and think about that statement. How hard can putting a child’s toy together really be?

Past experience tells me—pretty fucking hard. If you have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I don’t get it. Clear illustrations, simple direct steps—is that really too goddamn much to ask for? And don’t get me started on the packaging. I realize that shoplifting is a drain on stores, but is it necessary to wrap every single fucking component in plastic, wire, and industrial-strength tape? The only people that deters are the parents trying to put it together.

I’ve wondered who makes that call at the toy companies. Who decides which pieces get tied down and at what potency. Whoever it is—I bet he was bullied in high school. Or maybe he was poor and didn’t get to play with any toys when he was a kid. So now—every day—he takes his sick, twisted revenge by making it as difficult as humanly possible for anyone to put together a toy that should be a piece of fucking cake.

I feel better now that I got that off my chest. Thanks.

So, back to Kate: fifteen minutes after getting started, she’s got all of three pieces put together on James’s bicycle.

She picks up the instructions and turns them sideways. Then she holds them upright and tries turning her head sideways.

“Are you kidding me?” she yells at the paper, flinging it to the ground. Then she speaks threateningly to the bike parts as she tries to force them to connect. “Just. Go. In. You. Bastard!”

When that doesn’t work, she takes a breath and a sip of wine. She brushes the wisps of hair that’ve escaped her bun away from her face. Then she picks up a blue metal rod. “You are component A. You need to be inserted into component B’s hole. Work with me, here.”

And now she’s back to shoving.

I squat down next to her. “It looks like rod A is too well endowed for B’s hole. Maybe they need some lube.”

If she could hear me, Kate would chuckle. And she’d look at me like I was the cleverest man in the world.

But she can’t. So she just continues to grit her teeth and struggle with the metal bars.

Until her hand slips.

And her finger gets pinched between two pieces of steel.

With a curse, Kate drops the bike pieces and flaps her hand, trying to shake the pain away. Then she puts her finger in her mouth.

It’s something I would’ve done if I were here. Sucked her finger until it was all better. Then I would’ve gotten her a Band-Aid or ice.

Once her finger is probably just a dull throb, Kate rubs her forehead. She looks tired.

And sad.

And for the first time tonight, I wish I’d chosen differently. It’s not only because I feel guilty—though I do. But if I could go back, I’d be here with her right now. And it would be a shitload more enjoyable for both of us.

Kate picks up her glass of wine, eyes the red liquid, then holds it up unhappily. “Merry Christmas, Kate.”

And I’m done.

I don’t want to watch this anymore. I don’t want to know that my actions have hurt the feelings of the two people who mean the most to me.

Because I’m a guy. And to the great annoyance of women everywhere—guys are doers. We don’t just listen to you babble about your problems; we tell you how to fix them.

And we never understand why you get pissed off about that. Why you just want us to be a “sounding board” or a “good listener.” What the fuck is the point of sounding off if you’re not going to do anything about it?

So I’m going back to my office, and then I’m going to haul ass home to help Kate assemble James’s presents. And I’m going to wake up my son and tell him I’m sorry. That I’ll play Ping-Pong with him every damn day if it makes him happy.

I stand up and look into the eyes of my big sister. Almost like she can read my mind, she says, “Okay. Let’s go, then.”