Page 6 of The Bright Side of Christmas
I stare at it for a moment longer before the chill starts to seep into my bones. Staring at the godforsaken decoration won’t do a thing. I’ll take my run and handle it afterward, I guess.
But the entire time, I can’t stop thinking about the green monstrosity on my door.
Thirty minutes later, I’m rounding the corner and catch Wren out on her front porch, locking her door behind her. I do my best to ignore the woman, reaching for my door before I hear it.
“Nice wreath,” she calls across the gap between our houses.
I glare at her over my shoulder and see she’s juggling two bags, a coffee thermos, and her giant water bottle while balancing a cardboard box on her hip. Her body is angled to face me, feigned innocence written over her face.
“I’m sorry?” I’m slightly out of breath after my run, and my fingers are frozen, but despite that, I turn to her, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Nice wreath. Looks good on your door, don’t you think?” There’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and she’s doing a bad job at trying to hide it.
“Did you put it there?” I ask, even though I know the answer. If she wants to play this game, I can play right back.
“Why would I do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because you’re pissed I’m not taking part in your stupid decorating scheme?” That one hits a little too close, her jaw going tight, and I feel the warmth of a win rush through me, though it’s not as sweet as I would have thought.
“Have a very merry day, Adam,” she says, instead of continuing to argue, and then turns to move toward her car.
I turn back to my door, turn the doorknob, and walk into my warm house. But despite desperately needing a shower and to get my day moving, I stand at the window and watch her get intoher old, shitty car that should probably have been replaced years ago and drive off.
When she’s done, I sigh and head to the kitchen to grab a drink. I’m downing that and deciding on what I want to eat before I head upstairs and stare at a blank paper for hours on end once again, when my phone dings with a new incoming text. When I lift it, Trent’s name is on the screen.
Trent, the former lead singer of Midnight Ash, for whom I still write songs.
I should have left it on Do Not Disturb.
Trent:
Hey, man, anything new for me? The label’s bugging me about getting into the recording booth with something new, but you know I’m loyal to you.
I groan and fight the urge to throw my phone against a wall or worse, respond with what I’m actually thinking.
No, you’re not; you’re loyal to no one but yourself. You know my songs are likely to perform well for you, and I’m the only one who can handle your diva antics.
I type out and delete a dozen replies, half of which would probably get me blacklisted in this industry, before I finally reply.
I’ll let you know when I do.
Irritation fills my veins, both at Trent for only ever contacting me when he needs something and at myself for this never-ending writer’s block. Then I head outside, grab the wreath, and walk along the sidewalk to her front porch, where I toss the godforsaken thing down before trudging back home and trying to write the next big hit.
When she gets home from work, even though I tell myself I’m not, I’m paying attention. From my office, I watch her approach her front door and, despite the three bags and two cups in her hands, bend down to grab the wreath from where I left it. She looks across the way to my house, and I can’t confirm since it’s getting dark and the angle isn't great, but I imagine her jaw going tight with determination.
I wait to see if she’ll bring it back across the way, but she doesn’t. That’s why when I open my door the next morning and see it hanging merrily on my door again, I’m surprised. I leave it again, and this time, I don’t see her when I return from my run. Instead, I watch her house from inside until she leaves for work. Then, I head out, ripping the wreath off my door and tossing it onto her porch once more.
On the third day, I walk out, and there’s no wreath. Even though I’m happy to see my blank door, I can’t help but feel the slightest pang of disappointment that this game is over.
The disappointment is short-lived.
When I return from my run, the wreath is back on my door. Across the way, a stern-faced Wren stares me down, her arms crossed on her chest. Her cheeks are pink with cold, making me think she’s been waiting for me to see how I’ll react. I shake my head at her and reach up to remove it, but stop. This time, instead of just being hung on the nail in my front door, the wreath is tied with a combination of tape and wire. I can’t just easily take it off. With the amount of electrical tape on there, I think it would take me ten minutes and a knife to remove it.
Unfortunately, it isn’t that thought that has me confirming I won’t be taking down this wreath a third time.
It’s the happy look that takes over Wren’s entire face when she sees my hand drop with resignation, as if she knows that means I’m going to let it stay.
I wonder if that’s how she always gets her way: a pretty smile and a bit of determination. She could steamroll the entire town that way and get everything she wanted.
