Page 3 of The Bright Side of Christmas
I don’t mean it, really, I don’t. Arguing isn’t really my thing, but the way he’s so casually brushing off my request lights some kind of irritation in my chest I can’t seem to tamp down. “Why? It wouldn’t have to be anything crazy, just a couple of strands of lights, something easy. I’ll even do it for you! I have tons of extra decorations; you won’t even have to buy any.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m fully capable.”
Hope sparks in my chest as the panic about failing in my very first year as decorating committee head, of letting everyone down, dissipates.
“So you’ll put up some lights?”
“No,” he says simply. That hope shatters to the ground like a delicate ornament.
My jaw tightens, and I kind of want to stomp my foot, throw a full-blown temper tantrum right here on his front porch. “Why not?”
He sighs, and I can tell he’s losing whatever patience he had for me, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“Because I don’t like Christmas, and I didn't move here to get into some kind of community decorating contest. I’m just trying to live my life.”
“You don’t like Christmas?” I ask, aghast. “Why not?”
“I just don’t. It’s my least favorite time of year.”
He says it so plainly, as if he just told me he doesn’t like pizza or chocolate instead of admitting he doesn’t like the most magical time of the year. My jaw drops. Not liking the holiday season is…unthinkable. Absolutely ridiculous. Who doesn’t likeChristmas?
Before I can come up with anything to say through my shock, some argument to pull him to my side, his phone starts ringing. He looks toward his kitchen where the sound is coming from before turning back to me.
“I’m going to have to answer that. Have a nice day, Wren.” And then he closes the door in my face.
I stand there for far too long, probably looking like an idiot staring in shock at a closed door, before I slowly turn and trudge down his walkway. With each step, the shock melts away, irritation filling its place.
“I think you’re right,” I say with a sigh, slamming the door behind me and kicking my shoes to the side. Hallie is standing beside the window facing my neighbor’s house, so I know she probably watched the entire, thoroughly embarrassing interaction. I lean my back against the door and sigh.
“I always am,” she says. “What am I right about this time, though?”
“He’s a serial killer.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, what did you see? Blood on his hands? Rope hidden in a corner? Or did you hear shouts or something?”
“Worse,” I say. “He said he hates Christmas.”
TWO
“Got anything new for me?” my agent asks when I hitaccepton my phone.
“Hey, Greg, how are you? I’m great, settling into my new home well, thanks so much for asking,” I grumble. I already regret answering his call, even if it did get me out of talking to my neighbor, who looked like I just told her I actuallywasa serial killer when I told her I don’t like Christmas.
“You moved?” Greg asks with genuine confusion in his words. I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, moving across my living room to the side window facing my neighbor—Wren’s—house. “Oh, yes, that’s right, to some middle-of-nowhere town, right? Wanted to clear your mind or some shit.” The downside of not having any real friends in this fake-as-fuck industry is that the only person I’ve told my problem to is, in fact, Greg. “Well, did it do the job? Are you feeling inspired?”
I sigh as Wren finally makes her way down my front walkway, frustration in each step. Despite my shitty mood, I find myself smiling at the look of it.
“You know how the muses work,” I say, trying to play down my issue.
“Look,” he starts. “Writer’s block is totally normal. Really, it is. But we promised multiple artists some options by the new year?—”
I cut him off, that all too familiar flare of frustration that’s been toeing into anger blooming in my chest.
Greg has been my agent since he signed Midnight Ash when I was barely eighteen years old. When Trent decided to pursue a solo career and the band came to an end, I approached him about collaborating on songwriting and production. Despite my frustration with the man and the way he kind of makes my skin crawl, he’s really fucking good at his job, and he’s the reason my office is lined with awards and the reason I have worked with so many amazing artists over the years.
But if I’m being honest with myself, he’s also a big part of the reason I’m facing the worst burnout of my career.
“No,youpromised, Greg. You promised people things on some timeline you created without consulting me, knowing damn well I don’t work onyourtimeline. I work onmytimeline. I’ll have the material when I have the material, but you calling me up every few days to ask if I have anything new isn’t helping.” I think about the empty sheet music and the blank pages, which only make me more frustrated. “I’m doing what I can, but I’ve been creating nonstop for years. I need to recharge. I need time. If that’s not something you’re willing to work with, then maybe it’s time we go our separate ways.”
