Page 12 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“That’s fine. I’m happy to fight the good fight,” she says as I step into my house, shaking my head with a light chuckle.
I spend an hour at my kitchen table with a notebook, trying to get some writing in. A dozen pages are balled up on the table,but I leave them to clean up in the morning when I decide it’s getting late and I should head to bed. When I pass the door to my office on my way to my room, a light catches my eye, making me pause and turn toward the room. As I enter, I notice the light in the room across from my office in Wren’s house is on once more. Tonight, she’s working on a new project, a sewing machine in front of her as she feeds red fabric through it. Her long hair is in a haphazard bun on the top of her head, and she’s washed her face of the makeup she was wearing at the bar, revealing the tired look of her eyes. I sigh when I check the time, realizing it’s after midnight.
Even though I’m tired myself, I sit at my desk, intrigued to see just how late she stays up. She continues to work as I listen to music and jot down words, trying to make something work. My mind is so stuck on all things Christmas decorations that I find myself jotting down words, lines, and a few notes before I realize they’re all holiday themed. I push the paper aside and am about to give in for the night when finally, she stands, turning off her light and leaving. I check the time. 1:02 a.m.
I usually go for my run at seven, no matter how late I stay up, and even though I’m usually the kind of person who doesn’t need much sleep, I can feel in my bones that I’ll be tired tomorrow. If she’s doing this night after night and then waking up at the crack of dawn to head out for the day, I don’t know how she’s not dead on her feet every day.
Not your problem, Porter, I remind myself.She’s a nuisance. Not your problem.
The next morning, I wake to find the rest of my candy cane walkway had been completed, and can’t even muster the annoyance to be annoyed. I do look across the way to see a smiling and waving Wren, though.
“Morning, Adam.”
“No more decorations,” I say, but the sternness I’m trying to keep in my tone seems to have left the building.
“Or what?” she asks, playfulness in the words.
My breath stops in my chest at the taunt.
A million responses move through my mind, each more inappropriate than the last, and I push each one back, but one makes it through my filter. “Or else I might have to retaliate.“ The threat does the opposite of what I intended, making her face light up, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” And then she’s prancing down her driveway, her sweet skirt swaying behind her as she goes.
Let the games begin, I suppose.
SIX
The next morning, I place a two-foot-tall gingerbread man on Adam’s front lawn and stand back, admiring my handiwork. He still has no lights, but we’re making slow progress. With less than a month until Christmas, I think I will manage to bring him around to the bright side and convince him to light up his house.
Just then, Adam steps out onto his front porch wearing a pair of gray sweats that should be illegal (I’m sure Hallie would have something to say about the noticeable bulge in his front) and a matching gray hoodie. For a split second, he almost looks like someone from one of those trashy tabloids Nat reads, but I lose my grip on who his doppelganger might be before quickly shaking my head to clear my thoughts.
His eyes scan his yard, already trained to look for some new addition, and when he spots it, his head turns to where I am as if he already knew I was there.
“More decorations?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, fighting to keep my face neutral and innocent.
“You’re playing with fire, Birdie.”
A wave of warmth washes over me at the nickname, the same way it did when he said it last night, but I push it aside, putting my hands on my hips and tipping my head in challenge.
“Is that supposed to scare me off?” He shrugs as if the answer isyes. “I have two older brothers. Threats of retaliation were a Sunday morning tradition in my house.” He gives me a small smile then, one he’s clearly trying to hide but does so ineffectively. It sends that increasingly familiar hit of warmth through me, like a glass of warm, spiked cider on an empty stomach. It even gives me the same lightheaded feeling.
“I don’t think anything could scare you off if you set your mind to it.”
“I can be very persistent when there’s something I want,” I say. “And Iamgoing to make you decorate your house by the end of the season, Adam Porter.”
“Is that so?” he asks, raising a thick eyebrow in my direction.
“I’m not going down without a fight, at the very least.
“Then I guess this is war, isn’t it?”
He’s been kind of an ass, but I’m finding I very much like this version of Adam. The fun, playful one. It’s much better than the grumpy one who sits in his boring, undecorated house by himself.
“I guess it is,” I say. Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to continue this back and forth, I do have to get to work, so I step toward my car and give him a little wave. “See you later, Adam.”
When I park in my driveway after work, I note with glee that Adam still hasn’t taken any of my decorations down. I’m enjoying this game between my neighbor and me, and I spenta good chunk of my day plotting up schemes for how to take it to the next level. I step out of my car, grab my things from the trunk, and trudge up the walkway toward my front door. As I approach my house, I notice something is off. But since the multiple bags and boxes in my hands are threatening to fall, I don’t stop to pinpoint what it is.
