Page 39 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“Bite your tongue. There are no bad restaurants in Hideaway.”
“That’s not true,” Lars says as he pours the wine into glasses for us. “One of my friends swears he got food poisoning at The Chowder House Rules, from the crab bisque. I think he just had a bad hangover, though.”
“Even so. Bad food wouldn’t be enough,” she insists, then rubs her nails over her lips, an old habit that always suggests she’s thinking extra hard.
“Uh-oh,” Lars says, grinning at me. “Charlie’s plotting.”
I grin back, feeling a rush of affection for him. He makes Charlie happy, and he’s accepted me as her family. He didn’t have to, but he did.
Lars knows that family is more than matching DNA.
She points at him, her eyes lighting up. “You know Enzo. You dated Aria.”
“I remember,” he replies wryly.
“What can you tell us that will help us ruin his night?”
“I only met him once, when he said he’d destroy me if I upset his sister. I’d prefer not to remind him of that promise.”
I make a mental note of this anecdote as further evidence of Enzo’s psychopathy. I can use it to convince Eileen he’s a problem.
Is it Eileen you want to convince or yourself?
Definitely Eileen, I decide.
He’s a menace to all of us. And a pig, offering to take my virginity, like it would be some kind of favor.
I’m almost, maybe, completely positive his offer isn’t appealing to me.
“What would be the worst thing that could happen to him on this date?” Charlie asks Lars. “Psychoanalyze him like you would one of your birds.”
He laughs. “Lesson one of conservation work: don’t anthropomorphize wildlife. But sure, I’ll play. What would he hate? I think he’d probably be pissed off if I showed up to be his dinner date instead of Lucy. But I won’t do it. Not even for you.”
She reaches up and squeezes his chin. “Yes, I like your face exactly like it is. No Enzo for you.”
He tilts his head in thought before glancing at me. “What if you stood him up, but still showed up for dinner at the same restaurant with another man?” He snaps his fingers. “That would probably do it.”
“You’re an evil genius,” Charlie says lovingly.
“But who would I go with?” I ask.
“You work for the town matchmaker,” Charlie says with agrin. “Remember that list of men she wants to set you up with?”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling a swell of positivity. “This is going to be great. He won’t know what hit him.”
We spend a couple of hours chatting, and I help Charlie choose a few of her paintings to sell in the local Christmas market. It’s on the edge of the town square next to the library, an adorable little assemblage of wooden booths selling Christmas gifts and treats. She’s sharing a stall with a few other vendors, working around her painting schedule and hours at the shop.
The walkability of Hideaway Harbor is one of my favorite parts of this town, and my apartment building is a short jaunt from Charlie’s house. She and Lars insist on escorting me home, though, and I don’t put up a fuss. We take some mulled wine in to-go cups and stroll around for a while, checking out the holiday light displays. My heart fills with love for this place and for my friends as we soak everything in and greet people who poke their heads out to say hello.
The people of Hideaway Harbor get very competitive about their Christmas lights, especially after one Hidie got featured in a national TV competition. He didn’t win, but Mayor Locke gave him a participation trophy shaped like Larry the Lobstah that he keeps on his lawn. People love to put accessories on him—hats, sunglasses, and the other day I walked by and saw him holding a blunt in his claw.
My friends give me hugs at the door of my building, and I watch them walk away together, hand in hand. Happiness swells inside of me, and then, as if my happiness balloon has a slow leak, it seeps away. It’s replaced by a darker feeling as I open the door and head upstairs.
Just what the heck am I doing, anyway?
Christmas with my mom was always so warm and fun. Even after I realized the truth about Santa, we kept leaving outproof of him for each other. A mislaid hat, cookies with bite marks in them. One year, I even wrote her a love letter from Santa that she adored so much she framed it. I haven’t unpacked it yet because it hurts too much to look at it, to remember that all the things I gave her are now once again mine.
Christmas was always about good feelings, not about pettiness or resentments. The whole month of December felt like a warm, cinnamon-scented hug.
