My Two Best Friends and I Promised to Reunite on Christmas After 30 Years – Instead of One of the Guys, a Woman Our Age Showed Up and Left Us Speechless

On Christmas Day, thirty years after a childhood pact, two old pals meet together in a small-town café.

Buried realities start to emerge when a stranger shows up in place of the third, and nothing about the past is exactly as they remembered it.

Since 30 doesn’t seem like a long time, you assume you will keep your word when you make a commitment at that age.

You think that friendships made in youth would endure because they previously seemed impenetrable, that time will remain manageable, and that faces will remain recognizable.

However, thirty years is also a peculiar phenomenon.

You believe you will keep your word when you make a commitment at the age of thirty.

Not all of it comes in at once. Silently, it passes past, taking fragments with it, until one day you see how much has changed without your consent.

As I murmured to myself, “Man, I hope they show up,”

On Christmas morning, I stood outside May’s Diner and watched as snow slipped from the roof’s edge and melted into the ground.

“Man, I hope they show up.”

The location had the same appearance. The bell still hung crookedly above the entrance, the red vinyl booths were still visible through the front window, and the subtle smell of grease and coffee brought back memories of my early years.

We agreed to meet again at this location.

When I entered, Ted was already there. His coat was neatly draped next to him as he sat at the corner booth. It appeared as though he had been warming his hands around a mug for some time.

When I entered, Ted was already there.

Even though he had deeper lines around his eyes and his hair had turned silver at the temples, the smile he offered me was enough to instantly transport me back to our former selves.

“Ray,” he muttered as he got to his feet. “You actually made it, brother!”

“It would’ve taken something really serious to keep me away,” I said, embracing him. “What, you think I’d break the only pact I ever made?”

He slapped my shoulder and chuckled to himself.

“What, you think I’d break the only pact I ever made?”

“Ray, I wasn’t sure. I sent you an email about it, but you didn’t respond.

“I thought I would simply turn up. You know, sometimes that’s the only worthwhile response.

Without even looking at the menu, we slid into the booth and placed our coffee order.

He said, “I need another cup,” Ted. “This one is icy.”

“I wasn’t sure, Ray.”

My gaze continued to wander to the vacant seat across from us.

“Do you think he’ll come?” I inquired.

Ted said, “He better,” and shrugged. “This was his idea to begin with.”

My gut grew tight as I nodded. Rick and I had exchanged a few texts over the years, including birthday greetings, memes, and pictures of my newborn children, but I hadn’t seen him in thirty years.

“Do you think he’ll come?”

“Do you remember when we made the pact?”

Ted said, “Christmas Eve,” with a slight smile. “We were standing in the parking lot behind the gas station.”

Thirty Years Previously

It was shortly after midnight. We were resting against our cars, passing a bottle back and forth on the slick, snow-melt pavement. Pretending not to be chilly, Rick was shaking in that thin windbreaker he always wore.

It was shortly after midnight.

I kept attempting to unwind the cassette tape that had unraveled in the player while Ted’s audio was turned up too loud. Every time I swore at it, Rick chuckled.

We felt unstoppable, boisterous, and a touch inebriated.

Rick blurted out, “I say we meet again in 30 years,” his breath hazy. “Same date, same town. noon. The restaurant? No justifications. We can go in any direction in life, but we will always return. Alright?”

We shook on it and laughed foolishly.

“I say we meet again in 30 years.”

Now

Ted’s fingers tapped his coffee mug back in the café.

Ted remarked, “He was serious about that night,” “Rick was serious in a way we weren’t.”

The bell above the door chimed once more at twenty-four minutes past noon.

“Rick was serious in a way we weren’t.”

I expected to see Rick’s trademark slump and that pitying smile that he usually had when he was late—as if he wasn’t sorry enough to rush, but sorry enough to feel horrible about it afterwards—when I looked up.

Instead, a female entered.

Wearing a dark blue coat and holding a black leather purse near her side, she appeared to be around our age. She stopped just inside the doorway and looked around the diner with that unpredictability that you can’t fake.

Instead, a female entered.

Her expression shifted when her gaze fell upon our booth. Relief wasn’t it. Nor was it acknowledgment. Something heavier, as if she had practiced this moment but was still unprepared.

Her steps were deliberate and measured as she approached us cautiously. She paused at a courteous distance, just next to the table.

“Can I help you?” Trying to seem unbiased, I asked.

Relief wasn’t it. Nor was it acknowledgment.

She said, “My name is Jennifer,” and gave one nod. “You two must be Ted and Raymond. I served as Rick’s therapist.

Ted moved next to me. He tensed up. More than I could see, I felt it.

“I need to tell you something important,” Jennifer said.

I pointed to the vacant chair across from us.

“I was Rick’s… therapist.”

“Please, sit down.”

As though sitting itself could trigger something delicate, she slid herself into the booth with a sort of cautious grace. She folded her hands in her lap, put her bag next to her feet, and then unfolded them once more.

“Three weeks ago, Rick passed away. He had been a resident of Portugal. It was an unexpected heart attack.

Ted leaned back into the vinyl seat as if he had been struck in the ribs.

“Rick died three weeks ago.”

“No,” he muttered. “No, that can’t be right…”

“I’m sorry,” said Jennifer. “I wish I were here for a different reason.”

I tried to absorb the structure of her words as I glanced at her and blinked once.

“We didn’t know… did he have a cardiac problem?”

“He didn’t. That contributed to the shock.

“No, that can’t be right…”

Then, apparently oblivious, the waitress approached Jennifer and asked if she needed coffee before deciding what to order. She said no.

It felt harsh to interrupt, as if the world had not been informed that anything had changed in our lives.

Jennifer turned to face us as the waitress departed. However, Rick informed me of this agreement. This eatery, Christmas, lunchtime. Everything. He stated that someone had to come in his place if he was unable to do it himself.

“That was part of the shock.”

“And he picked you?” Ted’s jaw tensed as he asked. “Why?”

“Because I was aware of the things he didn’t tell you. Additionally, I promised him that I would attend.

I was unable to determine the precise duration of our visit, but it felt like hours.

Time had begun to collapse in on itself. Other than the weight of what Jennifer was saying us and the gentle sweep of her voice, nothing moved outside that booth.

“And he picked you?”

She claimed to have met Rick shortly after his move abroad.

Their chats continued long after therapy finished. She eventually became to be his best friend and the only person he trusted enough to be himself around, according to her.

“He talked about you both all the time,” she said. “Mostly in a cozy manner. There was also some melancholy, but never resentment. He claimed that there were years when he felt like he was a part of something special because of the two of you.

“He talked about you both all the time.”

With his arms folded, Ted moved next to me.

“We were children. We all had no idea what we were doing.

“That’s true,” Jennifer said with a small nod. However, Rick had the impression that he was constantly on the brink. Never exactly in the circle, but close enough to sense the warmth.”

“Rick felt like he was always watching from the edge.”

Leaning forward, I tried to take in the silence between her sentences.

“It wasn’t like that. Although we weren’t flawless, we did include him.

“You thought you did,” said Jennifer. “But that’s not how he experienced it.”

She took a picture out of her bag and slid it across the table.

The three of us at 15, standing beside to Rick’s father’s old truck, was one I hadn’t seen in years. With our arms wrapped around one another, Ted and I stood shoulder to shoulder.

She took a picture out of her bag.

Rick stood a single step away, grinning, but in a different way.

“He kept this on his desk,” she stated. “Until the day he died.”

“I don’t remember him standing off like that,” Ted remarked, frowning as he examined the picture.

Jennifer’s gaze remained fixed. Recall the day at the lake, do you? He claimed to have forgotten his towel.

“I don’t remember him standing off like that.”

Yes, I do recall thinking he was exaggerating. I responded, “He could dry off without a towel because it was hot enough.”

“Well, you and Ted were discussing girls that day, so he walked home. You had never once asked him who he liked, he realized. You never inquired about his interests. He thought he was invisible.

That struck a chord. Ted’s palm tightened over his mug, as I could see. “Jennifer, shouldn’t you take an oath or something? What about confidentiality and everything? We shouldn’t hear all of this from you.”

Ted’s palm tightened over his mug, as I could see.

“Yes,” Jennifer answered, grinning a little. However, I was Rick’s therapist at the time. When we started to feel something for one another, that ended. As his… long-term companion, I am here.”

She let out a long sigh.

“See, he was aware that you had no malicious intent. For years, however, he carried that quiet. He once told me that he was never sure if he was allowed inside the house, but that being close to the two of you was like standing at a doorway.”

“I’m here as his… long-term partner.”

We were certain Rick had attended the high school dance, but she informed us about it. In addition, he sat outside till the music ended during the Christmas celebration.

In addition, he drafted responses to the postcards we sent but never mailed them.

“He kept every one of them,” she remarked. “He just didn’t know if they were meant for him.”

I rubbed my hands together, as I do when I’m attempting to maintain my composure.

She told us about Rick’s failure to attend the high school dance.

I questioned, “Why did he never say anything?”

“He was afraid, Raymond,” she remarked. “He was afraid the silence would confirm what he already believed.”

“And what was that?” Ted looked down at the table and inquired.

“That he mattered less.”

“Why did he never say anything?”

After a while, Jennifer put a folded letter in front of us. The edges were soft from handling, and it was sealed.

“He wrote this for you,” she said. “I was asked not to read it out loud by him. “That was yours,” he said.

I took a moment to pick it up. I unfolded the page with unsteady fingers.

Ted leaned a little closer, his gaze moving over Rick’s calligraphy as if it were a language he spoke.

“He wrote this for you.”

“Ted and Ray,

I didn’t make it to our agreement if you’re reading this. I suppose I still showed up, though.

Even when I wasn’t sure where I belonged, I always had you with me. Even though I felt like a footnote in my childhood, you were the best part of it.

“If you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it to our pact.”

I recalled the jokes, the music, the lake, and the feeling of belonging.

I simply wasn’t sure if I still belonged to it. I appreciate your love for me in the ways that you were able to.

I always wanted brothers like you.

I cherished both of you. I always did.

— Rick.

“You were the brothers I always wanted.”

As I handed Ted the letter, my hands shook. Neither of us spoke for a long time.

He read it slowly at first, then again. His voice was strained when he did speak.

“He did, hon,” Jennifer replied. “He just said it in his death.”

We took a car to Rick’s childhood home later that night. Jennifer informed us that it will shortly be sold. The windows were hollow and the home was gloomy.

We took a car to the house where Rick grew up.

The chill was seeping up our backs as we sat on the front steps, knees touching. Ted took out the little cassette player Jennifer had given us from inside his coat.

Rick’s voice, weaker than I remembered, but clearly his, came through the static.

“I didn’t break the agreement if you’re listening to this… All I needed was assistance in retaining it. Don’t let this become a regret. Put it in your memories. I’ve only ever wanted that. All of our favorite music from our early years are on this playlist.

“Don’t turn this into regret.”

“He was always late,” Ted remarked, laughing softly as he wiped his eyes.

“Yes,” I replied as I glanced up at the vacant windows. “But he still came, in his own way.”

There are situations when the reunion doesn’t go as planned.

It occasionally occurs when you eventually master listening.