Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Here’s what I shared:
A blow-up Santa, a tiny fake Christmas tree, and a plastic menorah, all of which I picked up on my way into the office this morning.
And because I’m one step ahead of them and their inevitable, “Katherine, what part of personal do you not understand,” I even rummaged around in my lone decades-old box of Christmas decorations to come up with an ancient string of lights and a few ornaments from my childhood.
I’m sure Hallmark will be calling any minute to write my story.
“Hey, don’t worry about the party thing,” Hunter says, giving me a light punch on the shoulder.
“I wasn’t.” I look pointedly at his hand, which he drops immediately. “What party thing?”
“The food was good, nobody minded that you forgot the decorations.”
I frown and cross my arms. “I wasn’t in charge of the food. And I didn’t forget the decorations.”
I take a few steps forward and look pointedly toward the glass walls of the conference room where I begrudgingly set up the decorations this morning.
“See?” I point.
Hunter comes to stand beside me. “Ah. Yes.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to see the decor through his eyes. Okay, so, the inflatable Santa didn’t quite inflate all the way. And maybe the tree’s got a little Charlie Brown energy to it. But the string lights from my childhood are downright vintage! People like that, right? Even if half of the bulbs are dead?
As if on cue, the remaining bulbs flicker out as well.
I turn back to Hunter. “So. The Hallinger brief?”
Hunter lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. I’m on it.” He tries that smile on me once more. “Anyone ever told you that you’ve got a little bit of a Grinch thing going on, Tate?”
I give his snowman tie a little pat. “I do love a good compliment, but flattery won’t get you an extension, Hunter. I want it before I leave today.”
He brightens. “So that’ll be, what, midnight?”
“Don’t get cocky, I’m leaving at three today.”
Late to arrive and early to depart. Who says I can’t cut loose?
“Good for you!” Hunter says. “You deserve a little holiday break. Doing anything fun before the storm rolls in?”
“Depends. You count Pap smears as fun?”
He winces. “I’ll have it on your desk by three.”
“There you go,” I say. I head to my office, giving the conference room that was the site of the “winter brunch” one last look.
And then I really do feel a little like the Grinch, or whatever, because the now dark strand of lights slips off the tiny, sad tree, throwing it off-balance.
Which knocks over the menorah.
And then the struggling, inflatable Santa apparently decides he’s over the whole scene and slowly deflates into a flaccid plastic mess, letting out a loud farting noise as he does so.
I feel my first genuine smile all day at the scene before me. That’ll have them think twice about putting me on decoration duty.
I’m almost back to my office when I come to a halt. I bite my lip and, after a moment of deliberation, walk back into the now deserted conference room and kneel in front of the pile of defunct decorations. I rummage among the crap, flicking aside a few plastic ball tree ornaments until I find what I’m looking for.
Gingerly, I lift a tiny ballerina. Her frayed pink tulle skirt has seen better days. And her dark brown bun that looks more like a helmet than hair has chipped off in some places, which has left her sporting a couple of bald spots.
I smile and stand, touching a finger to her tiny ballet shoe.
Bringing her in had been a whim, a rare nod to sentimentality, and it’s an impulse I’m regretting. How could I have left her in the conference room like that?
Carrying her carefully back to my office, I set her in my top desk drawer next to the blue-light-blocking glasses we got as a company gift, which I never wear.
Then I close the desk drawer without a second glance.
See, that ballerina ornament?
Precious, yes.
But also, a painful reminder of all the reasons I came to hate Christmas in the first place.
FOUR
TOM
December 23, 11:20 a.m.
“It’s absolutely stunning.”
The saleswoman says this with a touch of flirtatiousness that feels misplayed, given it’s her literal job to assist men in getting engaged to other women.
“Seriously,” she continues, touching my sleeve just briefly. “This is the one. She’s going to love it.”
I force a smile and nod because the woman isn’t wrong—Lolo is going to love it. I know because I sent links to three options to her mother and sister, and both had unhesitatingly confirmed this one.
I adjust the knot in my tie, trying not to chafe at how contrived this all feels.
It was, after all, me who asked for input from her family.
It was me who decided to forgo the family heirloom route this time and get Lolo something brand new, something just for her.