Page 13 of Christmas With the Jerk

He shifts in his seat, sitting up straighter. “I’ll take the market analysis and projections. You’re better with the creative side anyway. Does that work for you?”

It's nice to hear him defer to me. Usually, he acts like he knows best. Maybe I should give him a little head every now and then to get him to chill out at the office.

“Sounds good.” I keep my voice even, trying to focus on the road, keeping the tires on the cleared parts of the highway.

Talking about work is safe. We both need to be on our A-game tomorrow if we’re going to win this campaign. “And the closing? I think we should tag-team that, keep the momentum going.”

“Agreed.” His tone is clipped, business-like. It’s like he’s trying just as hard as I am to keep things professional. We can do this, we can do this, I keep reminding myself.

I take another sip of coffee, the bitterness settling on my tongue. There’s more to say, but I can’t bring myself to address it. We both know it’s better left unsaid. At least for now.

“So, what do you think our odds are?” I ask, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “Winning this account, I mean.”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Our odds? I’d say they’re good. We’ve got a solid concept, and you’ve got the execution down. The client’s looking for innovation, and we’re giving them that. Not to mention, we are literally driving through a blizzard to show up. He can’t deny our tenacity and hunger.”

“Yeah, but the competition’s tough. You saw what else is on the table.”

“I’m not worried,” Thorne says, a little too confidently. “We’ve got this. Plus, it's Christmas. Who insists on a pitch days before the big guy comes down the chimney and then doesn't give us the job? I think that alone speaks to our odds.”

"Interesting outlook," I blurt out, trying to be kind while also unable to hide my amusement that he is talking about Santa Claus. Is he five?

"Just trying to bring a little levity. But I do think we only lose this if we shit the bed. It's ours for the taking."

His confidence rubs me the wrong way, just like it always does. Easy for him to say. He’s used to getting what he wants without having to fight for it. But I bite my tongue. Now’s not the time to dig into old wounds.

I focus on the road, watching the miles slip by. The trees lining the highway are dusted with snow, the sky gray and heavy with more to come. Five days until the big guy comes down the chimney, as young Thorne says.

I glance at the radio. It’s playing some soft instrumental track, but the silence between us feels louder than anything the radio could offer.

“It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” I find myself singing along with Michael Bublé. I love this version. As the song ends I look over to him and ask, “Any preferences on music? Feel free to change it if you like.”

An olive branch, of sorts.

Thorne shrugs. “Whatever you want. I’m easy.”

“Right. Of course.” I flick through the stations until something familiar comes on—"Houdini," by Dua Lipa. That's what I needright now: magic to disappear from this slow walk through hell frozen over.

The road stretches out ahead, the hours looming over us like a challenge we have to endure.

We’ve only just begun this drive, but it feels like the weight of last night, the pressure of tomorrow, and everything in between is pressing down harder than the snow outside.

I-95 North,New Haven, Connecticut

1:23 pm

As we passthe sign welcoming us to New Haven, my mind briefly goes to my mother. Her family is from here and I have fond memories of coming here as a child. I wonder if her Great Aunt Hilda still lives on Chapel Street.

The snow flurries outside seem to mirror the icy silence in the car. It’s been hours since we left that freezing motel, and aside from a few words about the GPS or which way to turn, we haven’t really talked.

The radio drones on, another holiday song playing softly in the background, but my mind is miles away. We stopped for a bathroom break about forty-five minutes ago, which feels like another lifetime ago.

The silence between us has stretched on for hours now, only interrupted by the occasional road sign or the occasional nostalgic song on the radio. The elephant in the car from thismorning still hangs in the air, but both of us seem committed to will it out of our consciousness.

I glance at Thorne again. He keeps checking his phone for something, but has for now resumed his constant staring out the window. His fingers haven't stopped drumming on his knee and it is about to drive me bonkers. He’s closed off, like a vault, and I wonder what it’s going to take to crack it open, just a little.

This pitch—it’s important to him. More important than he lets on. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens every time we mention it, the way his eyes flicker when the topic comes up. Maybe I underestimated him a smidge.

Even with his unnatural confidence that "we've got this,” felt almost like he was saying it more to himself than to me. But why? He’s the one who said himself he doesn’t need this job. So, why is he sticking around?

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