Page 11 of A Very Bossy Christmas
DECLAN: He looks nothing like Zac Efron.
MADDIE: Jake?
DECLAN: Hilarious. Are you going to list all of the actors with beards? Because I actually have to call him now-ish.
MADDIE: Declan. That was my niece. I was in the dressing room. His name is Tom Linklater.
DECLAN: She’s hired.
MADDIE: OMG I will totally work for you!!! LOL. You don’t even have to pay me lolol.
MADDIE: Sorry, I had to pay for something and she grabbed my phone. Let’s not add child labor law violations to the list of terrible things you’re capable of, Mr. Cannavale. I’m putting my phone away now. Have a good night.
DECLAN: There are exactly zero things on that list, FYI.
DECLAN: You don’t get to have the last word, Cooper.
DECLAN: Cooper.
DECLAN: Fine, I have to call Tom Linklater anyway. Have a very merry dinner at Panera.
Five
Declan
MAMA’S BOY TO THE WORLD
Fuck the holidays. Fuck family dinners. And fuck my life.
My mother’s voice mail has been burning a hole through my phone and my cold dead heart since six o’clock. It is now ten-thirty here and in Ohio. She’ll still be up. If I wait until after midnight to call and leave a message, she’ll know I was trying to avoid her. If I send her a text saying that I’ll call her in the morning, she’ll call me back immediately. If I don’t answer, she will not stop calling. She. Will. Never. Stop. If I don’t respond at all, I’m a dick. I literally have a degree in knowing whether or not I’m going to win an argument or not, and I am one hundred percent going down in flames with this one.
I don’t even know what I’m going to say at this point, so I just have to nut up, make the call, and get this terrible part of my life over with.
Two more fingers of whiskey, and I take the plunge. I open up the cutlery drawer so I can have a fork ready—for when I’ll have to stab myself in the thigh with it. For soul-crushing Catholic guilt reasons.
She answers before I even hear it ring. “Declan Sullivan Cannavale. You don’t join us for Thanksgiving, and now you’re avoiding us at Christmas too?”
“I’m not avoiding you, Ma. I’m busy. Hi.”
“You’re prioritizing work over family. Again. Hi. You sound hungry—did you eat dinner?”
“Yes. I had a steak.”
“Oh Mr. Fancypants Magee over there with his steaks and his penthouse and his gallivantin’ around town and his big important meetings that are more important to him than his own mother.” I can hear her grinning. Mary Margaret O’Sullivan Cannavale is a first-generation Irish-American from Boston with a first class Irish Mammy personality. Sometimes she wields it like an adorable five-year-old with a toy lightsaber. Sometimes she uses it like a shiv in an impromptu street fight. She’s going easy on me up front, but that just means she’ll escalate if I don’t head her off at the pass.
I scoff quietly. “I’m definitely not gallivanting around town.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that? Sleeping at the office again?”
“Nope. I didn’t want to say anything yet…but I’ve been seeing someone.”
What the fuck, mouth?!
She’s silent for a beat before saying, “Say that again so I know I didn’t dream it.”
“I’ve been seeing someone. I didn’t want to say anything because of what’s going on, but—”
“‘What’s going on?’What’s going on is you’ve been breaking my heart letting me think you’re all alone over there working all the time in that soulless crap hole. Now you’re telling me you’ve got a girlfriend and you’re keeping it a secret? Fromme?”
