Page 41 of The Holiday Hate-Off
Apparently, when he delivered the photos this morning, Lucy looked him dead in the eye and told him she’d be keeping all of them since I’d volunteered them to be dart practice. Then she offered him one of the elf whoopie pies from last night.
He took it, too.
It’s sitting on his desk right now, mocking me with its stupid little piped-on smile.
I’m tempted to tell him not to eat it, in case she tampered with it in some way, but he’d think I was crazy for considering the possibility. Maybe I am crazy. Lucy’s outspoken, but she’s obviously a sweetheart to most people. I bring out a darker side of her, though—just like she does for me.
“You think you’ll feel it when she makes a bull’s-eye?” he asks, rocking back in his chair again. I push the chair right back down and give him a level look.
“What are you, twelve?”
He snorts. “Says the man who short-circuited the Sip’spower supply because he couldn’t convince a woman to give him the time of day.”
“That’s supposition,” I say. “Besides, I don’t want her to give me the time of day. I was just trying to look out for the new girl in town. She hasn’t been here nearly long enough to know what she’d be getting into with Brandon.”
His expression suggests he doesn’t buy my bullshit, and that I shouldn’t buy it either. “Sure, brother. That’s why you snuck into Santa Speed Dating and then used the basement to access their power supply.”
“I never said I did that.”
He lifts his eyebrows and taps the side of his nose. “Plausible deniability. I got you.”
I swear under my breath, then very deliberately change the subject. “Say, did you ever meet the woman who lives down the hall from Aria’s old apartment? In the unit to the right with the window facing the street?”
She left me another note last night, written into a Christmas card with a smiling snowman on the front.
Dear Lobster Scout?—
That is ADORABLE. But no, I will never do a polar bear plunge. Nothing could convince me. I might run hot, but I don’t run THAT hot.
I’m excited for the lobster trap tree you mentioned in your note! But I have to be honest, I can’t eat lobster. I’m not saying it doesn’t smell delicious, but the way they’re cooked makes my skin crawl.
Yes, I know. It’s not very HideawayHarbor of me. But I was the kid who couldn’t stand to swat flies.
If I had to choose my favorite part of Christmas in Hideaway Harbor, I’d say the town square. I LOVE the tree and the little huts they’ve set up for the Christmas market on one end. I’ve always wanted to go to one of those Christmas villages in Europe, where they have mulled wine and you can walk around getting drunk in a classy way while you soak in all the music and lights and happy vibes.
In case you can’t tell, I’m not a Hidie born and bred, but I want to make my home here.
After losing my mother, I feel like a plant that has plenty of water and sun but no soil. So I’m trying to put down some roots here, even if a few people have made me feel like that’s not possible.
—The Dancing Queen
P.S. Yes, let’s stay anonymous! I would NEVER be able to look a Hidie in the face after admitting I don’t like lobster.
It’s kind of fucked up, but Dancing Queen has become the one person I’ve genuinely confided in since returning home toHideaway Harbor.
Part of me likes that I don’t know who she is. Still, I can’t help but wonder.
“Wow, you must be truly desperate to change the subject,” my brother says, kicking back in his chair again.
“I’m curious about my neighbors. It’s natural for a person to be curious.”
He looks less than convinced, but he shrugs. “Sure, I ran into her once or twice. She looked like she was in her forties. I think she works in data entry or something else with computers, and she cooks a lot of cabbage. The only other thing I remember is that her favorite show isThe Golden Girls. Her hearing’s not too great, so she always pumped up the volume. It was loud enough that Aria could hear it down the hall.”
“Cabbage?” I’ve never smelled it in the building, and it’s a distinctive smell. I haven’t heardThe Golden Girlseither. Which isn’t to say none of that’s happening, I suppose. I don’t spend much time at home.
“It’s disgusting,” he says with a theatrical shudder.
I’m surprised by his description of Dancing Queen, and honestly a little disappointed. I wasn’t romantically interested in my neighbor—a person can’t be romantically interested in a shadow and a handful of letters—but it felt like we were making a personal connection, and my mental image of her wasn’t of a shut-in, data entry clerk with a thing for old sitcoms. It’s hard to imagine being friends with a person like that. But I still want to write her back. Partly because she opened up to me about something so personal—losing her mother.
