Page 4 of A Man for the Holidays

“Who the hell is that?” I whisper.

I pull the covers off, slide out of bed and quickly put on my robe. Opening my bedroom door, I look across the hall at Paige’s room. Her bedroom door is closed, and she no doubt has her headphones in her ears listening to music. She hates storms and finds it difficult to sleep, so she blocks out the sounds of rain, hail, and thunder with music in her ears, it’s the only way she can sleep. The knocking on my front door continues, and I tie a loose knot at the front of my robe as I switch on the light. With another yawn, I reach for the door handle and pull it open. There’s a man standing on my front stoop. A rather tall, blond great-looking man who looks strikingly familiar, is holding an umbrella and a large suitcase.

“Hi,” he says, with a smile.

I stand there and look at the man, trying to wrap my head around why the hell he looks so damn familiar.

“Do you mind if I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

Before I even have the opportunity to answer his question, he’s stepping over the threshold and into my foyer.

“Can you believe this storm, it’s crazy, right?”

I close the door behind him, as I continue to roam my eyes all over the length of his body, he’s wearing a tight-fitting white suit, which molds to his chest, a black shirt, a white tie and black boots which don’t quite reach up to his knees. Then there’s his piercing brown eyes and blond hair with a streak of silver running through the center, and the realization suddenly hits me.

No… it can’t be.

“Quinn?” I ask.

“Yes. And you’re Spencer; right?”

No. This can’t be happening.

“Y––yeah. Where did you come from?”

“Oh, I caught a cab from the mall.”

“The mall?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

He continues walking through the foyer then makes his way into the living room and over to the couch. I shake my head, as if trying to remove the ridiculous idea that this man is none other than the plastic life-like statue I’ve been obsessing about all year. No, there’s absolutely no way it can be him. I mean, impossible. He’s just a mannequin. He unclips the button of his jacket, then slides it off his shoulders, tossing it onto the armchair by the window.

“This is such a beautiful apartment; did you decorate it yourself?” he asks.

“Ah, no, it came like this when I bought it.”

I hear a door creak open behind me, and I turn to see Paige walk out of her room. Her eyes are closed, while she yawns, as she brushes past the living room. She wanders over to the kitchen and opens the fridge pulling out a bottle of juice, and pouring some into a glass, she then walks through the living room and stops when she approaches me.

“What are you doing awake?” she asks, sleepily.

“Oh, I’m… nothing.”

Quinn, or whoever the man is sitting on my couch, mutters something to himself, causing Paige to turn around. She notices him and her eyes widen instantly, waking her all the way up.

“Who’s that?” she asks.

“Quinn… I think,” I tell her.

“Quinn? As in Mr. Plastic with the fake dick, Quinn?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I reply.

We both turn our heads and stare at the mysterious stranger as he makes himself comfortable on the couch.

“I thought you said he was a mannequin?” she asks.

“He was…is.”

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