Page 12 of Flirting with the Scrooge

A mischievous glint sparkles in her eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

* * *

“Are the ski masks necessary?” Olivia trails behind me as I climb over a snowbank. Her white parka and fur lined boots are an obvious telltale sign we’re not very good at being stealthy. If anyone drove past, we’d look like a couple of drunk girls stumbling through the yard. Which is kinda true. Yes, we’re two bottles of wine in, but we know exactly what we’re doing. Maybe.

I freeze and hold up my mitten covered hand over my mouth to shush her, but the mitten makes it less effective. “Yes. What if he comes out and sees us?”

“And how are we going to escape in knee deep snow?” She pulls the bottom of her ski mask up, exposing her face. “I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. My only plan was to not get caught.” A light toward the side of the house flickers to life and my heart jumps to my throat. I twist around and motion for Olivia to pull her mask down. Even in the dark, I can see her roll her eyes. She tugs the ski mask down but loses her balance and topples to the side. She’s basically face down, ass up. My hands fly up to muffle my laugh. Once I regain my composure, I whirl around to zero in on the closed, curtained window, watching for any silhouettes moving. My eyes go dry from not blinking. After the light shuts off and the room goes dark, I exhale a sigh of relief.

I hike up the wreath and hold it close under my arm. We trudge a few more feet in the deep snow, trying to be as quiet as possible. I toss the wreath to the side. A plume of freshly fallen snow floats up into the air and sparkles in the moonlight as it flutters down. “Alright. This is the perfect spot.”

Over the next hour or what feels like an hour, but was more like twenty minutes, we haphazardly collect all the snow in the surrounding area. The recent snowfall makes it a little harder, but the snow underneath is perfect for constructing our masterpiece. Once we’re finished, we step back and admire our handy work.

“Why do people do this? I now have snow in my bra.” Olivia pulls at the front of her coat. “You know this would have been more fun if we built a giant dick instead of a snowman.”

“It’s a family neighborhood.” I hold up a can of hot pink spray paint. “Now to add the finishing touch.” Rounding the three balls of snow, I put my graffiti skills to the test. This should get my point across. I rise to my feet and puff out my chest.

Olivia moves to stand next to me, a hand on her hip. “Well, that will show him exactly how you feel. What are you doing with this?” She holds the wreath toward me.

“Oh yes! Can’t forget that.” I trudge out of the snow, following our original path, and tip toe my way up the sidewalk to the front door. I pull out a sticky clip from my pocket. With my teeth, I remove the paper backing, stick the hook to the door, and hang the wreath. I take a step back and make sure it’s straight. A wide grin spreads over my face and I whisper, “Merry Christmas Scrooge McAssface.”

EIGHT

HOT PINK DICK

Connor

I stir awake and roll onto my back. I stretch my legs and wince. Everything hurts, including my eyelids as I struggle to open them. All day and well into the evening, I was busy working. First, I wanted to rip up the old, musty, dated carpet in the living room. Since I’ve never ripped up carpet, I wanted to make sure I knew what I was doing, so I watched a couple of how-to videos. An hour later, I was YouTube certified.

It was a pleasant surprise to find real maple flooring underneath, and it was in good condition. Maybe a quick sand and a new coat of lacquer and it’ll be as good as new. I pray it’s the same under the laminate flooring in the kitchen, then it will create a nice flow between the two spaces.

I groggily roll out of bed, still half asleep. To my left there’s a chair with a t-shirt draped over the back. I pick it up, do a sniff test and determine it to be okay, then yank it over my head. I rake my hand through my hair and drag myself to the kitchen, weaving in and out of stacks of boxes.

I drop a scoop of coffee into the basket, fill the reservoir with water, and press the button. Five agonizing minutes pass before there’s enough coffee to fill my mug. My phone buzzes on the counter next to me. Glancing down,Satan’s Ballsackflashes on the screen. I groan. Spence is like the ex-girlfriend who just doesn’t understand you don’t want to talk. If he’s not calling, he’s sending text messages. At least those are easier to ignore than the incessant calls.

Reluctantly, I press the talk button. “Hey Spen—”

“Finally, you answer. Everyone’s asking about you. This ‘I’m away’ will only fend them off for so long.”

Finally? I talked to him yesterday. I scrub my hands down my face. “Tell everyone I’m taking some personal time. Don’t I get some personal time?”

“Whenever someone says they are taking some personal time it’s usually another way of saying they’re in rehab. Wait. Are you really in rehab?”

“No.”

“It’s okay if you are. You should get the help you need. We’ll just have to find a way to spin it—”

“I’m not in rehab.”

“So, what do we tell them? That you’re spending time with your grandma.”

“No. Then people will come looking and I don’t need that.”

“After the success of your last tour, everyone in Hollywood wants you to make an appearance at their birthday party, their launch party, movie premier, you name it. This is the perfect opportunity for more exposure. Keep the momentum going.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

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