Page 2 of Pity Present

Tipping her head to the side until her left ear is nearly touching her shoulder, she says, “Exciting things happen in December.”

“There’s Christmas and New Year’s Eve,” I tell her. “And I’ll be back home for both.”

Ellen ignores me. “This could be like your very own Hallmark movie. Stylish young city gal flees her urban home for a quaint inn and falls in love with the surly lumberjack who lives next door.”

“Except I’m going to Wisconsin and all those Hallmark movies take place in Vermont.” Pulling my suitcase out of my bedroom, I add, “And I’m not looking for a lumberjack to share my life with. I’m perfectly happy the way things are.”

“Liar,” Ellen hisses.

“I’m not lying. I love my life in Chicago. I have a great job, and a nice apartment. I have friends. I’m perfectly content.”

“You’re still pining after Kyle, aren’t you?”

“Kyle and I broke up over two years ago,” I remind her. “I’m not pining, nor have I ever pined. I was sad, then I got over it.”

She cocks her left eyebrow like she’s inspecting an invasion of tiny laugh lines around her eyes. “Which is why you never date. Because you’re over it?”

“I don’t date because I’m not interested in dating right now,” I tell her. “I’m building my career. I’m taking care of myself. You of all people should understand the importance of that.” Ellen is always talking about how women should put themselves first. Case in point, she called Henry on his last birthday and told him she couldn’t go to the party celebrating his big 4-0 because she’dbooked herself a spa weekend. And while I admire her love of self, she can take it too far.

My sister finally concedes. “If you say so. Just keep an open mind.”

“I’ll be gone for two weeks, Ellen. No one falls in love in two weeks.”

She slides into her parka and zips it. “Christmas is a time for miracles.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree. “Maybe our Christmas miracle will be you getting engaged so you can make me an aunt.”

Instead of playing along, Ellen picks up her purse and blows me a kiss. “Call me as soon as you get there. Love you, Boo!”

I wait until she’s gone before opening my refrigerator and chucking out the things that will go bad before I get home. Being that I travel a lot for work, my fridge is usually bare bones. As such, the only items I toss are a pint of milk for my coffee, a wedge of brie that’s been in there for months, and a bag of lettuce that’s past rusty and has started to resemble a thick soup.

Once I dump the garbage bag down the chute, I go back into my apartment to retrieve my suitcase. Looking around, I decide that my bachelorette pad looks sad. I decorated it when I was in the height of my beige phase, so pops of color are few and far between. I wonder if that’s how people see me. Boring, beige Molly with no boyfriend and no life outside of work.

The fact that I haven’t put up any Christmas decorations yet adds to the feeling of sterility. I have to force myself out of my current contemplation before I fall into a real existential crisis. No good can come from this kind of navel gazing.I’m fine, I tell myself. My life is good. I’m perfectly content.

That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

CHAPTER TWO

BLAKE

“I moved to Chicago to cover sports,” I remind my boss with a death glare. “You know, the Bulls, the Bears, the Cubs?”The Blackhawks, the Sox, the Windy City Thunderbolts …If a ball or puck is involved, I’m all over it.

“That was the plan,” Gillian says, still typing away on her computer like my presence is of no consequence whatsoever. When I first interviewed for this job, I thought Gillian was a total bombshell—all sleek and sophisticated without a single hair out of place. While not my normal type, she made such an impression I considered venturing beyond the LA standard of bleach blonde, fake tan, and often more than one surgically altered feature.It wasn’t until I saw a wedding picture on my new boss’s desk that I realized she wasn’t looking.

Widening my stance like a boxer squaring off with his opponent, I respond, “That was not theplan,Gillian. That was thejobI was offered.”

She continues to click on the keyboard for several moments before deigning to look up. “I agree that was the job you thought you got, but what can I say? Things change.”

I’m so boiling mad right now I feel like I’m standing on the Vegas Strip at high noon in the middle of an August scorcher. I inhale slowly, and on the exhale tell her, “I left LA to cover Chicago sports. I’m a sportswriter. It’s what I do and why you hired me.”

She finally lifts her fingers from the keyboard before pushing her chair back from the desk. With one well-manicured hand, she gestures for me to sit down. “Blake,” she sounds like she’s talking to a preschooler, which I find highly condescending, “we had a little bit of a snafu when Charlie decided he didn’t want to retire until basketball season was over.”

Not only is Charlie Clark a legend in sports journalism, he’s also a hometown hero. He played for the NBA for a record twenty years before retiring. Yet, as much as I respect the guy, I can’t help but say, “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“I understand your confusion.”I’m sorry you wet your pants, and I’ll call your mommy to pick you up if you need me to.

“My contract states quite clearly what my job title is,” I remind her.

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