Page 6 of The Holiday Games

“So what? You don’t have the power to hire or fire him; I do. You’re ethically in the clear.”

She bites her lip. “Maybe, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like me that way.”

“Um, I think he might,” I say. “He’s buying you a sandwich, and he already knew your order. That’s man-speak for ‘I like you and want to make out with your face.’ Trust me, I know these things.”

She shakes her head hard enough to send her glasses sliding down her nose. As she pushes them back up, she insists, “No way. He’s just a nice person. He’s sweet to everyone. I’m not special.” Before I can argue she adds, “So, it looks like we won’t be able to bring in a previously vetted applicant, but there’s stillhope. Look at this.” She holds up her phone, revealing a brightly colored website.

I squint, reading aloud, “The 55thAnnual Hotelier’s Conference and Trade Show.”

“It’s this weekend, with over two thousand people attending from all over the country,” Ainsley says. “Surely, one of them has to be a sweet, upbeat innkeeper who’s up for extending his or her trip to the city and earning extra money and visibility for their business. I’ve already pulled up the names of the innkeepers attending from rural Vermont and New Hampshire. They’re from quaint mountain towns, most likely have experience being patient with obnoxious city folk coming to buy maple syrup, and may be less inclined to throw a punch if things get intense on set. Additionally, we’ll be able to send an assistant north to grab anything they might need for the shoot and have that back on set within a day.”

“Yes!” I clap my hands together. “You’re a genius.”

Ainsley beams. “I know. And I already booked us two tickets for the vendor expo. It starts this afternoon. After lunch, I’ll put together a few packets to hand out to potential candidates and meet you by the Javits Center at two thirty.”

“Perfect. But put together ten packets. We should cast a wide net. The more fish we drag on deck, the better the chances we’ll catch the sweet, patient one we need.”

And if worse comes to worst, I can always work with another personality type. Conventional reality show wisdom suggests casting at least one unproblematic person for the audience to root for, but Eduardo, the innkeeper from Miami, is a cinnamon roll beneath his sarcastic façade. Dirk from San Diego is a blowhard, but Millie from Bad Dog, Minnesota, also seems like a solid human being. She’s kooky and honestly believes her inn is haunted by spirits, including a ghost hamster, but she’s a sweetheart.

So, maybe I can work with another archetype.

Maybe another troublemaker in disguise, like Meredith was shaping up to be, but without the anger management issues…

I’m still thinking of troublemakers in disguise when Ainsley and I head into the Javits Center later that afternoon, and I find myself face-to-face with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

A woman with long ebony hair, the face of an angel, and an appetite for chaos made clear by the way she dashes down the wide exhibition aisle and dives into a blow-up igloo at the “Ice Camping in Quebec” booth.

Seconds later, a pink-cheeked man in brown jeans and a red flannel jacket that makes his broad shoulders look cartoonishly wide, jogs around the corner.

“Candy? Candy is that you?” He glances back and forth as he passes me, not thinking to check the igloo to see if “Candy” might be hiding inside.

But then, he doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy who wastes a lot of time on creative thought. He looks like one of the beefy farm boys who enjoyed pounding my face after school when I was growing up in Western Massachusetts.

Eastern Massachusetts is all lobster-loving beach towns and big city lights. Western Mass is cows, corn, and guys who don’t like it when you make jokes about them having intimate relations with their prize pig. (In my defense, the pounding started before the jokes, and back when I was still a skinny late bloomer, animal husbandry punchlines were my only form of self-defense.)

Now, I could easily defend myself from a farm boy with an axe to grind. I hit the gym almost every night after I leave the set. It’s my way of blowing off steam, of cleansing my mental palate before I head home to Greg “Satan” the cat, the angriest feline in the world.

But I’d be angry, too, if I’d been forced to move in with a jaded bachelor after spending the first six years of my life being pampered like a prince.

I still can’t believe Vivian left Greg behind.

I really thought she loved that stupid cat.

But then, I thought she loved me, too…

I never imagined she’d ghost me without a word. No explanation, no warning, not so much as an “it’s not you, it’s me” before she vanished. I would have suspected foul play if she hadn’t been spotted in Vermont a few days later, photographed making out with a lumberjack she hooked up with at a Scottish festival.

They’re married now and have two children. I know because I follow Vivian’s social media from Satan’s old pet account that she curated for him when she lived in the city. I keep waiting for her to notice her cat stalker and block me. Or text to demand that I send Greg to her in Vermont, post-haste.

Or at least slip into my DMs with an apology for bailing and leaving me with an evil cat who hates my guts.

But so far…nothing.

Four years later, the whole thing still chaps my ass.

It also makes me certain that I don’t have what it takes to win the game of love. I was with Vivian for two years, and I never saw it coming. None of it. The cheating, the lying, the ghosting, the cat abandonment—they were all a complete shock.

It left me determined never to be blindsided or played for a fool again. I’ve shut down the part of me that craved a relationship more meaningful than friends with benefits. I don’t flirt anymore. I barely notice women in that way. I don’t feel drawn to make conversation with attractive girls at happy hour or at the rare industry party I’m obligated to attend. I haven’t downloaded a dating app and have no future plans to swipe left or right. Not. Ever.

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