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Synopsis
From the international best-selling author of Drive and The Ravenhood Trilogy comes a heartwarming holiday romance with all of the feels.
Now an AMAZON Top #10 Best Seller!
A #1 Best Seller Holiday Romance
A #1 Best Seller in Holiday Fiction
A #1 Best Seller in Inspirational Romance
A #1 Best Seller in Romantic Comedy
Clark Griswold was onto something, at least with his annual holiday meltdown. And since the last three weeks of my life have been riddled with humbug—another breakup, a broken toe, an office promotion I deserved and didn’t get—I’m not at all in the mood to celebrate nor have the happ, happ, happiest Christmas EVER.
When Mom insisted that we all gather at my Grandparent’s ancient cabin for an old school family Christmas, I fully intended to get into the holiday spirit with the help of the three wise men, Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, and Jim Beam. But those boys did absolutely nothing to offset the shock or temper the sting of seeing my EX on our doorstep the first day of our holiday soiree.
Apparently, Santa missed the memo, and this elf is pissed.
Stuck for a week with the man who obliterated my heart nearly two decades ago, I did the only thing I could do and put on my game face, thankful for the home advantage.
I knew better than to drink that last cup of eggnog.
I knew better than to get tongue tangled beneath the mistletoe with the only man to ever break my heart.
I knew better than to sleep with Satan’s wingman on the eve of the Lord’s birthday.
I could blame the nog. I could blame the deceitful light blue eyes, thick, angelic hair, and panty evaporating smirk…but mostly, I blame Eli because he always knew exactly which of my buttons to push.
I foolishly thought a family Christmas filled with nostalgia was going to turn my inner Scrooge around, but this year’s festivities went up in flames. Leave it to the ghost of my Christmas past to be the one to light the match.
Fa la la la la, la FML.
The Plight Before Christmas is a full length, second chance, Christmas themed romance and most definitely on SANTA'S NAUGHTY LIST!
Now an AMAZON Top #10 Best Seller!
A #1 Best Seller Holiday Romance
A #1 Best Seller in Holiday Fiction
A #1 Best Seller in Inspirational Romance
A #1 Best Seller in Romantic Comedy
Clark Griswold was onto something, at least with his annual holiday meltdown. And since the last three weeks of my life have been riddled with humbug—another breakup, a broken toe, an office promotion I deserved and didn’t get—I’m not at all in the mood to celebrate nor have the happ, happ, happiest Christmas EVER.
When Mom insisted that we all gather at my Grandparent’s ancient cabin for an old school family Christmas, I fully intended to get into the holiday spirit with the help of the three wise men, Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, and Jim Beam. But those boys did absolutely nothing to offset the shock or temper the sting of seeing my EX on our doorstep the first day of our holiday soiree.
Apparently, Santa missed the memo, and this elf is pissed.
Stuck for a week with the man who obliterated my heart nearly two decades ago, I did the only thing I could do and put on my game face, thankful for the home advantage.
I knew better than to drink that last cup of eggnog.
I knew better than to get tongue tangled beneath the mistletoe with the only man to ever break my heart.
I knew better than to sleep with Satan’s wingman on the eve of the Lord’s birthday.
I could blame the nog. I could blame the deceitful light blue eyes, thick, angelic hair, and panty evaporating smirk…but mostly, I blame Eli because he always knew exactly which of my buttons to push.
I foolishly thought a family Christmas filled with nostalgia was going to turn my inner Scrooge around, but this year’s festivities went up in flames. Leave it to the ghost of my Christmas past to be the one to light the match.
Fa la la la la, la FML.
The Plight Before Christmas is a full length, second chance, Christmas themed romance and most definitely on SANTA'S NAUGHTY LIST!
Release date: December 17, 2021
Publisher: KLS PRESS LLC
Print pages: 372
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Plight Before Christmas
Kate Stewart
Fa la la la la, la FUCK MY LIFE.
“Congratulations, Stuart,” I grit out, tapping my jingle-bell-covered plastic wine glass against his.
“That sounded really sincere,” amusement drips from his timbre as he shoots me a sideways glance, “but thanks, Whitney.” Side by side, we scan the escalating spectacle of our overindulging co-workers. Internally, I begin to place bets on those most likely to do some shame walking in the morning. My lips lift when my eyes land on Sophie, who appears to be in the midst of an intimate conversation with Jonathan, a man she’s pined for since he joined the firm a year and a half ago. They’re tucked into a corner, their posture suggestive—his more than hers—and though I can tell she’s trying to keep her cool, she’s glowing, her expression a mix of elation, shock, and desire. Despite the slight lift of my lips and my inner ‘you go girl’ chant, I can’t help but address the animosity for the man standing next to me, which takes precedence as my blood continues to simmer. Taking a sip of my wine, I let it rest on my tongue a full ten seconds in an effort to stop myself while the high road is still within reach. It’s the hard swallow of more than the wine that has me exiting to basic bitch street.
“We both know I deserved it. I worked the overtime. I landed the biggest account and ran the most successful campaign of the year.”
“There’s no I in team, Collins,” he smirks into his cup.
“Ah, but there is one in ass-kisser.”
“Whitney, Stuart, are you two playing nice?” Our boss, Rich, saunters up to us, looking every bit the business Santa with his snow-white hair, prominent bulging belly hanging over his suit slacks, and beet red cheeks due to his holiday party indulgence. Forcing a smile, I flash all of my teeth as if Rich didn’t drive an axe through my future when he announced Stuart would be the new Senior VP of marketing.
“I was just congratulating him,” I retort evenly.
“She did,” Stuart assures Rich as he speeds down the high road while pushing his glasses up his sleek brown-tinted nose. Well, maybe his nose isn’t brown, but his personality repulses me. Okay, he’s mostly a nice guy, some might say saintly, but he is an ass-kisser—I stand firm on that. Stuart is also an avid golfer, which gave him an advantage over me because Rich is his preferred golfing buddy, and the two have been gracing the office with twin shit-eating grins and matching sunburns since early spring. Their long ‘lunches’ and ‘Stepbrother’ karate in the basement bonding have made me the odd woman out. As much as I would like to believe sexism has become less frequent in the workplace, Rich is a prime example of why it still exists. Rich is old enough to have been wet behind the ears during the ‘Mad Men’ era, which means I was screwed before I ever earned my spot in the running for VP.
It was a hundred percent a boy’s club move that he got the position due to their bromance and Rich’s belief that the cock wielding man standing next to me is a better choice for the position. While I worked endless hours wooing the clients and spearheading the campaigns, Stuart took off at precisely six pm every night—even during crunch time—pulling the family first card.
As if that’s an excuse.
Okay, maybe the fact that he’s a youth minister and coaches in an inner-city program is an excuse to leave early a few days a week, but there are other days of the week he could have been at the office, working the hours I work.
Even if he insists he has to get home every night to his pregnant wife—a psychiatrist who specializes in helping army veterans integrate back into society after deployment—there’s no excuse.
Fuck Stuart.
Just because I’m on regular birth control, and don’t have a golf swing, doesn’t mean I’m not worthy.
I’m just…independent.
I don’t need a family or a selfless purpose outside of work to be a staple in my community. In addition to my ridiculous work ethic, I do, on occasion, bring coffee into the office. And I’m a believer of sorts. I just don’t believe that waking up at 7 a.m. on Sunday cements my commitment to the man upstairs.
Besides, I need my sleep to be able to work the hours Stuart doesn’t.
Trying my best to maintain my smile and nod when it’s appropriate, it dawns on me that I may be going to hell for this line of thinking.
I’m resentful at the moment because the last three weeks have been hell on earth. More recently, due to the announcement that Mr. Perfect, golf playing, #lifegoals, family man, and upstanding citizen has just snagged my promotion and reason for living. This news only confirmed that my losing streak wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Anyone who’s had my recent run of luck would be feeling a bit acrimonious and stabby, especially after the last few minutes of hearing how deserving Stuart was of the position. It was the bitter freaking maraschino cherry on top of the shit sundae I’ve been shoveling down for the last three weeks.
More resentment seeps in as I eye the spacious vacant office behind the two men congratulating each other for being able to spell their names when they urinate. An office I’ve pined and busted my ass for since I started at the firm. For years, I’ve strived to be at the top of my field, to be recognized. But as of late, life has pulled all the punches, the most recent to the throat.
It all started with my broken toe exactly three weeks ago, an accident I acquired dodging dog shit on my morning run. In a sick twist of irony, I leapt toe first into a fire hydrant coated in fresh piss, no doubt a gift from the same pooch. From then on, it’s been a slow-moving train wreck in every aspect of my life.
Exactly one week after I broke my toe, Kyle’s condom broke. This led to hysteria, my hysteria. My reasoning? The man I was canoodling with was easy on the eyes, but by a landslide, the most clueless man I’ve ever dated. Even with my prehistoric uterus and the odds of never conceiving in my favor, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Harsh? Definitely.
But our breakup went a little something like this.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in different places.”
“I don’t understand, Whitney. We’re both in my apartment.”
Game over.
I’d only been playing it because dodging him when I wasn’t in need was far too easy. He believed any excuse I gave him. At one point, it became a sport to see what excuses I could get away with. I had a very good reason to play with Kyle temporarily because, by guestimate, he has the most perfect eight-inch penis, and he was excellent at using it. Staying with him for that length of time, again, eight inches, I consider justified at this stage in my life.
While I pride myself on being a resourceful, capable gal, I was not about to give that dynamic up due to our complete and utter failure to communicate. With Kyle, I did not require romance or stimulating conversation. I needed release after a twelve-hour day at the office. The good thing about Kyle? He was always in a good mood. Good mood meant no nights I was in the mood were off the table. He was my human scratching post. But when the condom broke, and the fear that I might have procreated with the dumbed-down FRIENDS version of Joey set in, I had to end it.
I’ll take the guilt over objectifying him and discarding him over pregnancy with a walking dildo. In truth, some nights, the guilt wins. As I ignore the Rich and Stuart love fest, I send up a quick prayer that Kyle finds someone who deserves him because I did not warrant a second of his devotion. He might not have been my intellectual equal, but he was warm, caring, and present, which is the most I’ve gotten out of a relationship in years.
The next blow came when my car broke down on the way home—post-breakup—and the only mechanic I had on speed dial was, in fact, eight-inch Kyle. A car I planned on replacing the second I got my pay increase with the VP announcement.
Circling the drain, I again glance into Stuart’s new office and mourn over my now worthless redecorating plans when my assistant, Zoe, sidles up to me as Stuart and Rich inch their way toward the party, away from me.
Zoe follows my line of sight to see Rich place his hand on Stuart’s shoulder, and I feel the sting in my throat as I swallow down another sip of wine.
“You were robbed. You deserved it, and everyone here knows it. Even if Stuart is the nicest man on the planet.”
I turn to Zoe, an intern I recruited this past May, just after she graduated. From her expression, she’s genuinely upset for me, and it brings me some comfort. Shoulders easing back from two glasses of cheap wine—because Rich’s namesake is a farce, and the man is, ironically, the cheapest bastard I know—I turn to her and share my disappointment.
“Do you ever think, ‘what’s the point?’ When you get what you want, you only end up wanting more. I mean, you work hard your whole life and go after something, and then you get it, and then what? Maybe you realize it’s not worth it. I mean, it happens that way with everything anyway. You meet the perfect guy, you’re completely in sync, and the first time he kisses you, you discover he has halitosis. Or you finally buy and wear that pair of shoes you worshipped and saved for months to buy only to find they’re the most uncomfortable heels on the planet. I mean, for what? In the end, no one gives a shit you wore those heels. We should just save ourselves the back pain and buy flats and a vibrator because—at the end of the day—all we’re left with is the credit card bill for uncomfortable shoes we can’t afford and inevitable heartache. It’s like…no matter what we do, or what we want, we’re going to get disappointed, and then we age, wrinkle, and then you know…” I slide my finger across my throat.
My twenty-three-year-old assistant pales considerably as she gapes at me in pure terror while I tumble ass first into rock bottom.
Too far, Whit. Way too far!
Odd looks get shot my way when I belt out a Disney villain cackle that sounds foreign even to me. I clamp a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Kidding. I’m kidding.”
She graces me with an uncomfortable laugh and accompanying lie. “I know.”
It’s apparent she’s now terrified of me, or for me. I’m not sure which is worse. Though we’ve grown closer in the last six months, I’m too embarrassed to decipher which.
“Don’t worry, Zoe. I’m afraid of heights, so I won’t be headed for the roof tonight. Are you taking off?” She stalls, the picture of youth, beauty, and a bright future. One I hope I haven’t tainted with my rancorous tongue.
“Yeah, I’m going to meet up with my boyfriend. We’re driving to his parents tonight.”
“So, it’s getting serious? We’re meeting the parents?”
“Yeah, it sort of happened this week.”
The fact that she seems to be apologetic about it only worsens my guilt. My own assistant can see the depths of my despair.
“That’s wonderful.” I give her my most genuine smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
It’s hard not to spot the relief in her eyes. “Thank you. I’m excited and nervous.”
“No need to be. They’ll adore you. He’s the lucky one, and don’t you dare forget it.”
Another dazzling flash of teeth. “Thanks, boss.”
“Zoe, for the millionth time, call me Whitney.” I turn back to the party as the deafening sound of feedback from the karaoke microphone blasts through the floor, announcing that most everyone will be calling an Uber.
“That’s my cue,” I jest. “I’m right behind you.”
Zoe nods and briefly lifts the iPhone she forever has plastered to her hand. “I’ll have my phone on, just in case.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say sternly. “I won’t. Take the time off. You’re going to need it. We may be down, but we’re not out.” Even I can hear the false bravado in that statement. My get up and go has fucking left the building, and I make the decision to follow it.
“Merry Christmas, Zoe.”
“You, too. And thanks so much for the bonus.”
“You earned it.” It’s all I can manage around the now consistent burn in my throat due to the unwelcome emotion threatening to overtake me.
Zoe does me a solid by playing immune to my rapidly glossing eyes and, with one last wave, walks toward the elevator.
Tiptoeing around the arrival of my mid-life crisis, I bid farewell to those closest to me as I grab my coat from my office. Ambling down the hall to make my overdue exit, I wince as the onslaught of the worst imaginable rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is belted out by our graphics guru, Paula.
Sophie appears by my side as I scan the party one last time, trying to muster the ability to match the same confidence I had in my step this morning.
“Oh, my God, Whitney, you’re not going to believe this!” Sophie belts in an intended whisper that ends up more like a scream, only matched by the donkey-sounding wails erupting from Paula. I pray to God no one is recording her because surely tomorrow she would deem it blackmail worthy with sober ears.
Turning to Sophie, I give her a grin. “I saw. Walk me to the elevator. I can’t handle this.”
Sophie giggles, giddy, a rare sound from the cynical friend I adore so much. But the cynic seems to have been swallowed up briefly by the six-foot shot of dopamine just injected by her crush. Love does that to people.
I knew what that felt like once.
“I know. She sounds like a donkey on crack.”
There’s my girl.
“I was just thinking the same.”
“You know you could blow the roof off this place, and you should.”
“Hard pass.” I glance over to soak in her glow. “I saw you two huddled in the corner. Spill.”
“He’s taking me for drinks after he shoots off one last email and locks up.” Snatching an oversized cupcake with a mountain of green icing, I flick off the paper Holy Jolly Santa standing atop it as we stride toward the elevator.
“We made small talk at first, it was innocent, but after a few minutes, it was like…we both finally had enough of skirting around the attraction. I was just about to speak up, and he beat me to it…and gah…” She practically bounces on her heels.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was tired of wondering what I was thinking. It was just, Jesus, the way he said it.”
For the second time in ten minutes, I manage a genuine smile. It seemed that the people in my every day were experiencing the opposite effect of the three-week kickoff to the winter of my discontent.
It was a boyfriend you didn’t have feelings for.
Your toe has almost healed.
You’ve needed a new car for years, not weeks.
Stuart got the promotion. You’ll deal.
Even as I try to coax myself into better thinking, the weight of the last blow is too heavy to ignore.
“Sounds like it’s going to be a good night. I’m so happy for you.”
Sophie gives me a concerned side-eye as I push the elevator button.
“I’m so sorry about the promotion. If it helps, you handled it like a rockstar. If you need me tonight, I can—”
“Don’t you dare. I’m leaving for North Carolina first thing tomorrow, and I still haven’t packed. I’ll deal. I really am so happy for you, and you better text me.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. I’m good, swear.”
She glances toward the party as Jonathan emerges from his office, his eyes searching for her in the crowd. We both watch as he scans the space, and I can feel the anticipation rattling from her frame.
“Go,” I urge, and she pulls me into a quick hug. I have to fight to keep my cupcake intact.
“Merry Christmas, Whit.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I shake off the emotion, too afraid for her to see just how much I needed her hug.
“Merry Christmas,” I murmur. “Go get your man, and don’t you dare forget to text me.”
She blinds me with her smile, and I see her demeanor shift as she tosses back her shoulders and confidently strides toward Jonathan—a slight sway in her hips. A sway Jonathan’s gaze doesn’t miss when his eyes land on her, a sexy, satisfied smile upturning his lips.
Soaking in the vicarious moment, I envy her as I live it with her, excited for the text to come. Even in my disgruntled state, I feel an ancient part of me—a part that constantly hoped for those types of moments—stir to consciousness as the elevator opens.
Once inside, I juggle my purse and my consolation cupcake and check my phone to see a missed text from my sister.
Serena: When are you coming?
Tomorrow.
Serena: What time are you getting here?
When I show up.
Serena: Give me a time.
Annoyed, I cram the enormous cupcake into my mouth to free my fingers.
Curious as to when your babysitter is arriving? You’re going to have to stick that duty on Grandma this year. Heads up, I’ll be drunk the entire time.
Serena: You’ve been so bitchy lately. I’m just excited to see you. Or I was.
Sorry. Just found out Stuart got the promotion.
Serena: I forgot you were going to find out today. I know how much you wanted it. I’m so sorry.
Thanks.
Serena: Well, hurry up and get here. I’ll cheer you up. And just wait until you see the place. Mom went all out. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.
Normally, I’d jump at the chance to spend time with my family, but no part of me is excited about the days to come because of the amount of enthusiasm I’ll have to fake to make it through. Any amount of Christmas mojo I had was snatched away with the VP announcement. At the same time, a tiny ray of hope buds inside of me that my family may just be the thing to knock me out of my slump.
K. Excited. Love you.
Mouth stuffed beyond capacity, I begin to wipe the excess from my face when the elevator door opens. It’s when I hear the strangled karaoke streaming in that I realize, along with a napkin, I forgot to push the lobby button. Not only that, the entirety of my mouth and chin are covered in neon green icing as I come face to face with the two most attractive of my co-workers, Jared and Wes. Both early thirties recruits Rich brought in this year, stating they were ‘the future of the firm.’ They came in guns blazing and snagged a campaign from beneath me. Two men I threatened to take down just minutes after the client left. Two men who now gape at me with widening eyes as I furiously wipe the icing away from my squirrel nut-filled mouth—humiliated. Wes lowers his eyes in embarrassment for me as I do my best to swallow some of it down.
I take a step back as their collective colognes fill the elevator, and both turn their backs to me. Jared makes a show of pushing the L button, his frame shaking with silent laughter before he speaks up with a salty tongue.
“Tough break on the promotion, Collins.”
Wes—the less cut-throat of the two—glances at me over his shoulder, pity evident in his gaze.
This is rock bottom.
Suitcase open and waiting on my bed, I sip on the wine I uncorked last night, rather than popping the champagne I bought three months ago in preparation for celebration. An expensive bottle I charged when told I was in the running for VP. A few gulps in, I submerge into my waiting bath, body humming with relief when my phone pings. Unable to resist due to Sophie’s impending update on Jonathan, I lift it from the side of the tub to see yet another email chain from my father. Allen Collins—much like my mother—does not mess around when it comes to Christmas. Holiday enthusiasts would be an understatement where my parents are concerned.
Dad’s got a serious agenda this year and even included a mission statement. It amazes me how creative he’s become since retiring. So far, he’s got our family holiday mapped out to the point that it seems more like a war plan. Google documents have become his latest obsession. So far, I’ve filled out four. Tonight’s document is solely for the purpose of karaoke music requests. I blame my father for my organizational skills and the lack of sanity that occurs when things don’t go according to my grand plans. Hence the hard loss that I’m trying to numb myself from and the sting that I was supposed to be celebrating tonight, and possibly on the prowl for a new part-timer like Kyle. As my career aspiration bubble bursts, I fight to stay in relaxation mode as long as possible, knowing that the next week is going to be nothing short of chaotic. Foregoing a reply to drown in my pity tub, it becomes impossible with the slew of incoming replies.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Dear Clark,
I know you mean well by gathering intel on the importance of choices like Christmas turkey or ham, but my son just literally took a dump in my hand. So, while I understand the significance of a good karaoke selection, I must insist that we fly by the seat of our pants and live a little. Spontaneity never hurts anyone. Right now, I’m in the mood to sing gangster rap. Tomorrow might feel like an eighties rock ballad.
Sincerely,
Your son with literal shit to deal with.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Son,
In all the time you were ranting that you had no time, you could have filled out the form. Get it done. No excuses. And stop comparing me to Clark Griswold. He has an ass chin. I’m much, much better looking.
Dad
Donor of the sperm that created you.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I miss the days when you couldn’t figure out how to text, and you put LOL at the end of everything.
Best,
The only sperm that counts. Please keep in mind that this is my COMPANY email address.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
Serena chimes in next.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Filled it out Dad. Love you. -Serena O’Neal sent via iPhone
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Serena,
You’re in the next room. You could have told me.
Dad
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
You guys are blowing up my email. Stop replying all.
Serena is an ass-kisser.
Sincerely,
The only person worthy of carrying on the family name.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I don’t have your form in yet, Son.
Allen Collins
#BOSS
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
This isn’t social media, Dad. You don’t use hashtags on email. LOL.
-Serena O’Neal sent via iPhone
An automated reply from Brenden pops up immediately.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I’m currently out of the office until January 3rd. Please email my assistant for further assistance—[email protected]
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Happy Holidays Adria,
I’m writing in regard to my son’s lack of capability in filling out a simple form. I’m unsure at this point how he graduated from college and obtained the position necessary to occupy a CEO desk chair and take a salary. Please see attached Google document and assist him in filling it out. This is time-sensitive, so I appreciate your help in resolving this urgent matter.
Sincerely,
Allen Collins
President of all things Collins
#fillouttheformson
#imashamedyourethewinningsperm
I belt out my first genuine laugh of the day and set the phone down, knowing Brenden is going to have Dad’s ass for going there. I emerge from underwater a minute later when Adria’s reply comes through.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Dear Mr. Collins,
I’m not at all surprised by your request, nor your complaint. Your son has a self-inflated ego that can often compromise him at home. As his wife’s best friend and the sole reason they stay married, I sympathize completely. Also, I often hear him jamming out to old eighties girl groups, and last week, I believe he was belting out something by Heart. This should make an interesting selection. I will fill out the document on his behalf with a few more choice songs I think all will enjoy. All my sympathy for your embarrassment.
Adria Dillion
Senior Assistant, Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Christmas is canceled. Adria is fired. I hope you’re happy, Clark.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Heart and The Bangles? Really, son? Where are your balls?
Allen Collins
Father of two daughters
Thoroughly entertained but deciding not to engage, I unplug the drain, dry, dress, and fill out the form before packing. After lugging my case to the door, I glance around my lifeless apartment and decide that time with my family is exactly what I need to turn things around. Just as I go to turn off the TV, Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays in the background of a commercial. I decide to take it as a sign. The upside of bottoming out is that it can only get better from here…right?
Taking a right on the short road that dead-ends at my grandparent’s cabin, my engine whines in protest due to the steepness of the hill and the fact that my car is an outdated piece of shit incapable of handling mountainous terrain. Stupidly, I celebrated too soon when I crossed into North Carolina at the Tennessee border. Thirty seconds away from parking safely, I’m reminded the celebration was premature.
“No, God, no, no!” The engine begins to steam and stall as the incline plasters me back to my seat just as I catch sight of the cabin which sits to the left, perched only a handful of yards from the edge of the cliff. Terrified I’ll somehow backslide, I send up a thousand prayers and miraculously manage to take the sharp left, up another steep incline, and into the driveway.
Heart pounding, I peel my ghostly white fingers from the wheel and sigh in relief, knowing I should’ve bit the bullet in buying a new car months ago, but I waited in vain. With the increase in salary from my promotion, I planned on buying a shiny new SUV, something with leather seats that practically drives itself.
Though I make a good living with my executive salary, I’ve kept the sedan far past its reliable years for some inexplicable reason.
The car itself declares its existence and our time together over as it exacerbates sputtering to its death as the morning full of hope I mustered in the six-hour drive evaporates—much like the smoke seeping from all sides of my hood. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I kick back into my seat and slowly exhale. Reaching behind the passenger seat, I blindly rummage through my supply box and grip whatever bottle is closest. Once armed, I unscrew the top and down a mouthful of warm Jack Daniels to settle my nerves.
Two weeks. I have two weeks to formulate a course of action and decide on a new career goal. Six of those days will be spent here with my family to distract me from the pressure of making said plans. I’ll use every one of those six days to ignore the idea of putting on heels and striding through the office again as the powerhouse I had hoped to be.
Though I can’t deny the majority of my current dismay stems from the fact that I’m once again the only family member arriving alone.
Mr. Right never came, and after last night, I realized I may never be the career woman I hoped to become. Because if I were thriving at that, at least I would have ample excuse—a decent enough reason to be a failure in my personal life.
No one girl can have it all, right?
And with the death of my white horse, I’m officially the poor man’s version of Bridget Jones. Except I don’t expect to meet the love of my life wearing an ugly Christmas jumper, nor do I see myself forgoing alcohol units only to have two devastatingly gorgeous British men engaging in a street fight over my affection in the near future.
If only.
Screwing the cap back on, I pop in a breath mint and mentally note my first New Year’s resolution.
“Pity party over, Whitney. You’ll buy a new car and a kickass pair of heels to match. Gloves up. You’ll come back swinging.”
As the Jack warms me, I survey the cabin, the sight of it bringing me unexpected solace because it’s exactly as I remember it.
It’s been far too long since we’ve all gathered here. Our Christmases usually take place in my parent’s home back in Nashville, where Serena and I still live. My brother, Brenden, left Nashville and moved his family—his life—to Charlotte a year ago to base his company out of the city where a majority of his top billing clients live.
Nestled together in the seventies built, two-story A-Frame, it’s here where we’ll congregate for the next six days. Chest tightening with nostalgia, my Grampa Joe’s voice rings clear in my head.
“Just remember when times get hard, when your problems are blinding you, that you’re on a floating planet in the middle of a vast galaxy filled with the unexplainable, and the only thing holding you to it is an invisible force you can’t see.”
“Gravity,” I whisper softly, the effect of the cabin itself a balm to the knowledge that Grammy and Gramps aren’t inside waiting to greet me. Grams and I will never again have a
“Congratulations, Stuart,” I grit out, tapping my jingle-bell-covered plastic wine glass against his.
“That sounded really sincere,” amusement drips from his timbre as he shoots me a sideways glance, “but thanks, Whitney.” Side by side, we scan the escalating spectacle of our overindulging co-workers. Internally, I begin to place bets on those most likely to do some shame walking in the morning. My lips lift when my eyes land on Sophie, who appears to be in the midst of an intimate conversation with Jonathan, a man she’s pined for since he joined the firm a year and a half ago. They’re tucked into a corner, their posture suggestive—his more than hers—and though I can tell she’s trying to keep her cool, she’s glowing, her expression a mix of elation, shock, and desire. Despite the slight lift of my lips and my inner ‘you go girl’ chant, I can’t help but address the animosity for the man standing next to me, which takes precedence as my blood continues to simmer. Taking a sip of my wine, I let it rest on my tongue a full ten seconds in an effort to stop myself while the high road is still within reach. It’s the hard swallow of more than the wine that has me exiting to basic bitch street.
“We both know I deserved it. I worked the overtime. I landed the biggest account and ran the most successful campaign of the year.”
“There’s no I in team, Collins,” he smirks into his cup.
“Ah, but there is one in ass-kisser.”
“Whitney, Stuart, are you two playing nice?” Our boss, Rich, saunters up to us, looking every bit the business Santa with his snow-white hair, prominent bulging belly hanging over his suit slacks, and beet red cheeks due to his holiday party indulgence. Forcing a smile, I flash all of my teeth as if Rich didn’t drive an axe through my future when he announced Stuart would be the new Senior VP of marketing.
“I was just congratulating him,” I retort evenly.
“She did,” Stuart assures Rich as he speeds down the high road while pushing his glasses up his sleek brown-tinted nose. Well, maybe his nose isn’t brown, but his personality repulses me. Okay, he’s mostly a nice guy, some might say saintly, but he is an ass-kisser—I stand firm on that. Stuart is also an avid golfer, which gave him an advantage over me because Rich is his preferred golfing buddy, and the two have been gracing the office with twin shit-eating grins and matching sunburns since early spring. Their long ‘lunches’ and ‘Stepbrother’ karate in the basement bonding have made me the odd woman out. As much as I would like to believe sexism has become less frequent in the workplace, Rich is a prime example of why it still exists. Rich is old enough to have been wet behind the ears during the ‘Mad Men’ era, which means I was screwed before I ever earned my spot in the running for VP.
It was a hundred percent a boy’s club move that he got the position due to their bromance and Rich’s belief that the cock wielding man standing next to me is a better choice for the position. While I worked endless hours wooing the clients and spearheading the campaigns, Stuart took off at precisely six pm every night—even during crunch time—pulling the family first card.
As if that’s an excuse.
Okay, maybe the fact that he’s a youth minister and coaches in an inner-city program is an excuse to leave early a few days a week, but there are other days of the week he could have been at the office, working the hours I work.
Even if he insists he has to get home every night to his pregnant wife—a psychiatrist who specializes in helping army veterans integrate back into society after deployment—there’s no excuse.
Fuck Stuart.
Just because I’m on regular birth control, and don’t have a golf swing, doesn’t mean I’m not worthy.
I’m just…independent.
I don’t need a family or a selfless purpose outside of work to be a staple in my community. In addition to my ridiculous work ethic, I do, on occasion, bring coffee into the office. And I’m a believer of sorts. I just don’t believe that waking up at 7 a.m. on Sunday cements my commitment to the man upstairs.
Besides, I need my sleep to be able to work the hours Stuart doesn’t.
Trying my best to maintain my smile and nod when it’s appropriate, it dawns on me that I may be going to hell for this line of thinking.
I’m resentful at the moment because the last three weeks have been hell on earth. More recently, due to the announcement that Mr. Perfect, golf playing, #lifegoals, family man, and upstanding citizen has just snagged my promotion and reason for living. This news only confirmed that my losing streak wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Anyone who’s had my recent run of luck would be feeling a bit acrimonious and stabby, especially after the last few minutes of hearing how deserving Stuart was of the position. It was the bitter freaking maraschino cherry on top of the shit sundae I’ve been shoveling down for the last three weeks.
More resentment seeps in as I eye the spacious vacant office behind the two men congratulating each other for being able to spell their names when they urinate. An office I’ve pined and busted my ass for since I started at the firm. For years, I’ve strived to be at the top of my field, to be recognized. But as of late, life has pulled all the punches, the most recent to the throat.
It all started with my broken toe exactly three weeks ago, an accident I acquired dodging dog shit on my morning run. In a sick twist of irony, I leapt toe first into a fire hydrant coated in fresh piss, no doubt a gift from the same pooch. From then on, it’s been a slow-moving train wreck in every aspect of my life.
Exactly one week after I broke my toe, Kyle’s condom broke. This led to hysteria, my hysteria. My reasoning? The man I was canoodling with was easy on the eyes, but by a landslide, the most clueless man I’ve ever dated. Even with my prehistoric uterus and the odds of never conceiving in my favor, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Harsh? Definitely.
But our breakup went a little something like this.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in different places.”
“I don’t understand, Whitney. We’re both in my apartment.”
Game over.
I’d only been playing it because dodging him when I wasn’t in need was far too easy. He believed any excuse I gave him. At one point, it became a sport to see what excuses I could get away with. I had a very good reason to play with Kyle temporarily because, by guestimate, he has the most perfect eight-inch penis, and he was excellent at using it. Staying with him for that length of time, again, eight inches, I consider justified at this stage in my life.
While I pride myself on being a resourceful, capable gal, I was not about to give that dynamic up due to our complete and utter failure to communicate. With Kyle, I did not require romance or stimulating conversation. I needed release after a twelve-hour day at the office. The good thing about Kyle? He was always in a good mood. Good mood meant no nights I was in the mood were off the table. He was my human scratching post. But when the condom broke, and the fear that I might have procreated with the dumbed-down FRIENDS version of Joey set in, I had to end it.
I’ll take the guilt over objectifying him and discarding him over pregnancy with a walking dildo. In truth, some nights, the guilt wins. As I ignore the Rich and Stuart love fest, I send up a quick prayer that Kyle finds someone who deserves him because I did not warrant a second of his devotion. He might not have been my intellectual equal, but he was warm, caring, and present, which is the most I’ve gotten out of a relationship in years.
The next blow came when my car broke down on the way home—post-breakup—and the only mechanic I had on speed dial was, in fact, eight-inch Kyle. A car I planned on replacing the second I got my pay increase with the VP announcement.
Circling the drain, I again glance into Stuart’s new office and mourn over my now worthless redecorating plans when my assistant, Zoe, sidles up to me as Stuart and Rich inch their way toward the party, away from me.
Zoe follows my line of sight to see Rich place his hand on Stuart’s shoulder, and I feel the sting in my throat as I swallow down another sip of wine.
“You were robbed. You deserved it, and everyone here knows it. Even if Stuart is the nicest man on the planet.”
I turn to Zoe, an intern I recruited this past May, just after she graduated. From her expression, she’s genuinely upset for me, and it brings me some comfort. Shoulders easing back from two glasses of cheap wine—because Rich’s namesake is a farce, and the man is, ironically, the cheapest bastard I know—I turn to her and share my disappointment.
“Do you ever think, ‘what’s the point?’ When you get what you want, you only end up wanting more. I mean, you work hard your whole life and go after something, and then you get it, and then what? Maybe you realize it’s not worth it. I mean, it happens that way with everything anyway. You meet the perfect guy, you’re completely in sync, and the first time he kisses you, you discover he has halitosis. Or you finally buy and wear that pair of shoes you worshipped and saved for months to buy only to find they’re the most uncomfortable heels on the planet. I mean, for what? In the end, no one gives a shit you wore those heels. We should just save ourselves the back pain and buy flats and a vibrator because—at the end of the day—all we’re left with is the credit card bill for uncomfortable shoes we can’t afford and inevitable heartache. It’s like…no matter what we do, or what we want, we’re going to get disappointed, and then we age, wrinkle, and then you know…” I slide my finger across my throat.
My twenty-three-year-old assistant pales considerably as she gapes at me in pure terror while I tumble ass first into rock bottom.
Too far, Whit. Way too far!
Odd looks get shot my way when I belt out a Disney villain cackle that sounds foreign even to me. I clamp a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Kidding. I’m kidding.”
She graces me with an uncomfortable laugh and accompanying lie. “I know.”
It’s apparent she’s now terrified of me, or for me. I’m not sure which is worse. Though we’ve grown closer in the last six months, I’m too embarrassed to decipher which.
“Don’t worry, Zoe. I’m afraid of heights, so I won’t be headed for the roof tonight. Are you taking off?” She stalls, the picture of youth, beauty, and a bright future. One I hope I haven’t tainted with my rancorous tongue.
“Yeah, I’m going to meet up with my boyfriend. We’re driving to his parents tonight.”
“So, it’s getting serious? We’re meeting the parents?”
“Yeah, it sort of happened this week.”
The fact that she seems to be apologetic about it only worsens my guilt. My own assistant can see the depths of my despair.
“That’s wonderful.” I give her my most genuine smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
It’s hard not to spot the relief in her eyes. “Thank you. I’m excited and nervous.”
“No need to be. They’ll adore you. He’s the lucky one, and don’t you dare forget it.”
Another dazzling flash of teeth. “Thanks, boss.”
“Zoe, for the millionth time, call me Whitney.” I turn back to the party as the deafening sound of feedback from the karaoke microphone blasts through the floor, announcing that most everyone will be calling an Uber.
“That’s my cue,” I jest. “I’m right behind you.”
Zoe nods and briefly lifts the iPhone she forever has plastered to her hand. “I’ll have my phone on, just in case.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say sternly. “I won’t. Take the time off. You’re going to need it. We may be down, but we’re not out.” Even I can hear the false bravado in that statement. My get up and go has fucking left the building, and I make the decision to follow it.
“Merry Christmas, Zoe.”
“You, too. And thanks so much for the bonus.”
“You earned it.” It’s all I can manage around the now consistent burn in my throat due to the unwelcome emotion threatening to overtake me.
Zoe does me a solid by playing immune to my rapidly glossing eyes and, with one last wave, walks toward the elevator.
Tiptoeing around the arrival of my mid-life crisis, I bid farewell to those closest to me as I grab my coat from my office. Ambling down the hall to make my overdue exit, I wince as the onslaught of the worst imaginable rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is belted out by our graphics guru, Paula.
Sophie appears by my side as I scan the party one last time, trying to muster the ability to match the same confidence I had in my step this morning.
“Oh, my God, Whitney, you’re not going to believe this!” Sophie belts in an intended whisper that ends up more like a scream, only matched by the donkey-sounding wails erupting from Paula. I pray to God no one is recording her because surely tomorrow she would deem it blackmail worthy with sober ears.
Turning to Sophie, I give her a grin. “I saw. Walk me to the elevator. I can’t handle this.”
Sophie giggles, giddy, a rare sound from the cynical friend I adore so much. But the cynic seems to have been swallowed up briefly by the six-foot shot of dopamine just injected by her crush. Love does that to people.
I knew what that felt like once.
“I know. She sounds like a donkey on crack.”
There’s my girl.
“I was just thinking the same.”
“You know you could blow the roof off this place, and you should.”
“Hard pass.” I glance over to soak in her glow. “I saw you two huddled in the corner. Spill.”
“He’s taking me for drinks after he shoots off one last email and locks up.” Snatching an oversized cupcake with a mountain of green icing, I flick off the paper Holy Jolly Santa standing atop it as we stride toward the elevator.
“We made small talk at first, it was innocent, but after a few minutes, it was like…we both finally had enough of skirting around the attraction. I was just about to speak up, and he beat me to it…and gah…” She practically bounces on her heels.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was tired of wondering what I was thinking. It was just, Jesus, the way he said it.”
For the second time in ten minutes, I manage a genuine smile. It seemed that the people in my every day were experiencing the opposite effect of the three-week kickoff to the winter of my discontent.
It was a boyfriend you didn’t have feelings for.
Your toe has almost healed.
You’ve needed a new car for years, not weeks.
Stuart got the promotion. You’ll deal.
Even as I try to coax myself into better thinking, the weight of the last blow is too heavy to ignore.
“Sounds like it’s going to be a good night. I’m so happy for you.”
Sophie gives me a concerned side-eye as I push the elevator button.
“I’m so sorry about the promotion. If it helps, you handled it like a rockstar. If you need me tonight, I can—”
“Don’t you dare. I’m leaving for North Carolina first thing tomorrow, and I still haven’t packed. I’ll deal. I really am so happy for you, and you better text me.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. I’m good, swear.”
She glances toward the party as Jonathan emerges from his office, his eyes searching for her in the crowd. We both watch as he scans the space, and I can feel the anticipation rattling from her frame.
“Go,” I urge, and she pulls me into a quick hug. I have to fight to keep my cupcake intact.
“Merry Christmas, Whit.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I shake off the emotion, too afraid for her to see just how much I needed her hug.
“Merry Christmas,” I murmur. “Go get your man, and don’t you dare forget to text me.”
She blinds me with her smile, and I see her demeanor shift as she tosses back her shoulders and confidently strides toward Jonathan—a slight sway in her hips. A sway Jonathan’s gaze doesn’t miss when his eyes land on her, a sexy, satisfied smile upturning his lips.
Soaking in the vicarious moment, I envy her as I live it with her, excited for the text to come. Even in my disgruntled state, I feel an ancient part of me—a part that constantly hoped for those types of moments—stir to consciousness as the elevator opens.
Once inside, I juggle my purse and my consolation cupcake and check my phone to see a missed text from my sister.
Serena: When are you coming?
Tomorrow.
Serena: What time are you getting here?
When I show up.
Serena: Give me a time.
Annoyed, I cram the enormous cupcake into my mouth to free my fingers.
Curious as to when your babysitter is arriving? You’re going to have to stick that duty on Grandma this year. Heads up, I’ll be drunk the entire time.
Serena: You’ve been so bitchy lately. I’m just excited to see you. Or I was.
Sorry. Just found out Stuart got the promotion.
Serena: I forgot you were going to find out today. I know how much you wanted it. I’m so sorry.
Thanks.
Serena: Well, hurry up and get here. I’ll cheer you up. And just wait until you see the place. Mom went all out. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.
Normally, I’d jump at the chance to spend time with my family, but no part of me is excited about the days to come because of the amount of enthusiasm I’ll have to fake to make it through. Any amount of Christmas mojo I had was snatched away with the VP announcement. At the same time, a tiny ray of hope buds inside of me that my family may just be the thing to knock me out of my slump.
K. Excited. Love you.
Mouth stuffed beyond capacity, I begin to wipe the excess from my face when the elevator door opens. It’s when I hear the strangled karaoke streaming in that I realize, along with a napkin, I forgot to push the lobby button. Not only that, the entirety of my mouth and chin are covered in neon green icing as I come face to face with the two most attractive of my co-workers, Jared and Wes. Both early thirties recruits Rich brought in this year, stating they were ‘the future of the firm.’ They came in guns blazing and snagged a campaign from beneath me. Two men I threatened to take down just minutes after the client left. Two men who now gape at me with widening eyes as I furiously wipe the icing away from my squirrel nut-filled mouth—humiliated. Wes lowers his eyes in embarrassment for me as I do my best to swallow some of it down.
I take a step back as their collective colognes fill the elevator, and both turn their backs to me. Jared makes a show of pushing the L button, his frame shaking with silent laughter before he speaks up with a salty tongue.
“Tough break on the promotion, Collins.”
Wes—the less cut-throat of the two—glances at me over his shoulder, pity evident in his gaze.
This is rock bottom.
Suitcase open and waiting on my bed, I sip on the wine I uncorked last night, rather than popping the champagne I bought three months ago in preparation for celebration. An expensive bottle I charged when told I was in the running for VP. A few gulps in, I submerge into my waiting bath, body humming with relief when my phone pings. Unable to resist due to Sophie’s impending update on Jonathan, I lift it from the side of the tub to see yet another email chain from my father. Allen Collins—much like my mother—does not mess around when it comes to Christmas. Holiday enthusiasts would be an understatement where my parents are concerned.
Dad’s got a serious agenda this year and even included a mission statement. It amazes me how creative he’s become since retiring. So far, he’s got our family holiday mapped out to the point that it seems more like a war plan. Google documents have become his latest obsession. So far, I’ve filled out four. Tonight’s document is solely for the purpose of karaoke music requests. I blame my father for my organizational skills and the lack of sanity that occurs when things don’t go according to my grand plans. Hence the hard loss that I’m trying to numb myself from and the sting that I was supposed to be celebrating tonight, and possibly on the prowl for a new part-timer like Kyle. As my career aspiration bubble bursts, I fight to stay in relaxation mode as long as possible, knowing that the next week is going to be nothing short of chaotic. Foregoing a reply to drown in my pity tub, it becomes impossible with the slew of incoming replies.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Dear Clark,
I know you mean well by gathering intel on the importance of choices like Christmas turkey or ham, but my son just literally took a dump in my hand. So, while I understand the significance of a good karaoke selection, I must insist that we fly by the seat of our pants and live a little. Spontaneity never hurts anyone. Right now, I’m in the mood to sing gangster rap. Tomorrow might feel like an eighties rock ballad.
Sincerely,
Your son with literal shit to deal with.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Son,
In all the time you were ranting that you had no time, you could have filled out the form. Get it done. No excuses. And stop comparing me to Clark Griswold. He has an ass chin. I’m much, much better looking.
Dad
Donor of the sperm that created you.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I miss the days when you couldn’t figure out how to text, and you put LOL at the end of everything.
Best,
The only sperm that counts. Please keep in mind that this is my COMPANY email address.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
Serena chimes in next.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Filled it out Dad. Love you. -Serena O’Neal sent via iPhone
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Serena,
You’re in the next room. You could have told me.
Dad
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
You guys are blowing up my email. Stop replying all.
Serena is an ass-kisser.
Sincerely,
The only person worthy of carrying on the family name.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I don’t have your form in yet, Son.
Allen Collins
#BOSS
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
This isn’t social media, Dad. You don’t use hashtags on email. LOL.
-Serena O’Neal sent via iPhone
An automated reply from Brenden pops up immediately.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
I’m currently out of the office until January 3rd. Please email my assistant for further assistance—[email protected]
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Happy Holidays Adria,
I’m writing in regard to my son’s lack of capability in filling out a simple form. I’m unsure at this point how he graduated from college and obtained the position necessary to occupy a CEO desk chair and take a salary. Please see attached Google document and assist him in filling it out. This is time-sensitive, so I appreciate your help in resolving this urgent matter.
Sincerely,
Allen Collins
President of all things Collins
#fillouttheformson
#imashamedyourethewinningsperm
I belt out my first genuine laugh of the day and set the phone down, knowing Brenden is going to have Dad’s ass for going there. I emerge from underwater a minute later when Adria’s reply comes through.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Dear Mr. Collins,
I’m not at all surprised by your request, nor your complaint. Your son has a self-inflated ego that can often compromise him at home. As his wife’s best friend and the sole reason they stay married, I sympathize completely. Also, I often hear him jamming out to old eighties girl groups, and last week, I believe he was belting out something by Heart. This should make an interesting selection. I will fill out the document on his behalf with a few more choice songs I think all will enjoy. All my sympathy for your embarrassment.
Adria Dillion
Senior Assistant, Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Christmas is canceled. Adria is fired. I hope you’re happy, Clark.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke
Heart and The Bangles? Really, son? Where are your balls?
Allen Collins
Father of two daughters
Thoroughly entertained but deciding not to engage, I unplug the drain, dry, dress, and fill out the form before packing. After lugging my case to the door, I glance around my lifeless apartment and decide that time with my family is exactly what I need to turn things around. Just as I go to turn off the TV, Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays in the background of a commercial. I decide to take it as a sign. The upside of bottoming out is that it can only get better from here…right?
Taking a right on the short road that dead-ends at my grandparent’s cabin, my engine whines in protest due to the steepness of the hill and the fact that my car is an outdated piece of shit incapable of handling mountainous terrain. Stupidly, I celebrated too soon when I crossed into North Carolina at the Tennessee border. Thirty seconds away from parking safely, I’m reminded the celebration was premature.
“No, God, no, no!” The engine begins to steam and stall as the incline plasters me back to my seat just as I catch sight of the cabin which sits to the left, perched only a handful of yards from the edge of the cliff. Terrified I’ll somehow backslide, I send up a thousand prayers and miraculously manage to take the sharp left, up another steep incline, and into the driveway.
Heart pounding, I peel my ghostly white fingers from the wheel and sigh in relief, knowing I should’ve bit the bullet in buying a new car months ago, but I waited in vain. With the increase in salary from my promotion, I planned on buying a shiny new SUV, something with leather seats that practically drives itself.
Though I make a good living with my executive salary, I’ve kept the sedan far past its reliable years for some inexplicable reason.
The car itself declares its existence and our time together over as it exacerbates sputtering to its death as the morning full of hope I mustered in the six-hour drive evaporates—much like the smoke seeping from all sides of my hood. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I kick back into my seat and slowly exhale. Reaching behind the passenger seat, I blindly rummage through my supply box and grip whatever bottle is closest. Once armed, I unscrew the top and down a mouthful of warm Jack Daniels to settle my nerves.
Two weeks. I have two weeks to formulate a course of action and decide on a new career goal. Six of those days will be spent here with my family to distract me from the pressure of making said plans. I’ll use every one of those six days to ignore the idea of putting on heels and striding through the office again as the powerhouse I had hoped to be.
Though I can’t deny the majority of my current dismay stems from the fact that I’m once again the only family member arriving alone.
Mr. Right never came, and after last night, I realized I may never be the career woman I hoped to become. Because if I were thriving at that, at least I would have ample excuse—a decent enough reason to be a failure in my personal life.
No one girl can have it all, right?
And with the death of my white horse, I’m officially the poor man’s version of Bridget Jones. Except I don’t expect to meet the love of my life wearing an ugly Christmas jumper, nor do I see myself forgoing alcohol units only to have two devastatingly gorgeous British men engaging in a street fight over my affection in the near future.
If only.
Screwing the cap back on, I pop in a breath mint and mentally note my first New Year’s resolution.
“Pity party over, Whitney. You’ll buy a new car and a kickass pair of heels to match. Gloves up. You’ll come back swinging.”
As the Jack warms me, I survey the cabin, the sight of it bringing me unexpected solace because it’s exactly as I remember it.
It’s been far too long since we’ve all gathered here. Our Christmases usually take place in my parent’s home back in Nashville, where Serena and I still live. My brother, Brenden, left Nashville and moved his family—his life—to Charlotte a year ago to base his company out of the city where a majority of his top billing clients live.
Nestled together in the seventies built, two-story A-Frame, it’s here where we’ll congregate for the next six days. Chest tightening with nostalgia, my Grampa Joe’s voice rings clear in my head.
“Just remember when times get hard, when your problems are blinding you, that you’re on a floating planet in the middle of a vast galaxy filled with the unexplainable, and the only thing holding you to it is an invisible force you can’t see.”
“Gravity,” I whisper softly, the effect of the cabin itself a balm to the knowledge that Grammy and Gramps aren’t inside waiting to greet me. Grams and I will never again have a
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The Plight Before Christmas
Kate Stewart
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