Page 1 of War on Christmas

Prologue

Letmesetthescene.

A Chicago coffee shop. Monday morning. Not early morning, before the 9-to-5ers go to work. Regular morning, when the freelancers and tourists and trophy wives have peeled themselves out of bed and are propping open tired, sandpaper eyes with a solid hit of caffeine. It’s cold—becauseChicago—and windy—becauseChicago. Personal bubbles are jealously guarded by giant paper bags from Macy’s and Saks, filled to bursting with sweaters that won’t fit, perfumes that will cause hives, and toys that will break before Christmas lunch.

A red-and-green pestilence has hit the city. Storefront window displays, streetlights, benches. Nothing is safe from the bows or the holly. Giant gold horns erupt from historic department stores, hovering ominously over the sidewalks and passersby. Evergreen trees that once lived quiet, peaceful lives in snow-shrouded forests and rural tree farms have been sacrificed to the holiday fervor. Now, instead of sheltering bushy-tailed squirrels and wise, blinking owls, they’re encased in the menacing glow of tiny, twinkling lights made half a world away in sweat shops powered by poverty-stricken children.

Christmas is here.

The line shuffles forward, everyone—consciously or unconsciously—stepping in time to the jazzy beat of Pentatonix’ “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” even though what they’re all really thinking is:Please,pleasedon’t make me shovel again.

And that’s when it happens.

At the front of the line, a middle-age man with a long overcoat and slicked-back hair grabs his sixteen ounces of coffee, corn syrup, and artificial flavoring from the harried barista, his mouth twisting lecherously as he says, “Did you put some extra sugar in there for me, honey?”

“Ex—excuse me?” the barista squeaks. She’s young. Probably a college student struggling to make rent, and a pink flush of panic crawls up her neck. “You ordered a peppermint mocha, right? We don’t add extra—”

He chuckles as he leans forward onto the counter, the sound grating. “I didn’t meanliterally, sweetheart. I meant, did you make it extra sweet? Just for me.”

Her large, hazel eyes go round behind red, heart-shaped glasses, but before she can answer, a new voice, biting and aggressive, enters the fray.

“Take your coffee and go.”

Halfway down the line, a customer steps to the side and narrows dark eyes at the man. Between the black knit hat pulled low over her brow and the gray-and-black plaid scarf wrapped over her chin, only a five-inch slice of her face is visible. Pale skin, thick black eyeliner, and bright red lips.

He scoffs. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, sugar. I’m just getting her number then—”

“One,” the dark-eyed woman spits out, “I’m not wearing any panties. So joke’s on you. Two, she’s just trying to do her job. Stop harassing her. Sound good,sugar?”

Silence stretches as the man bristles. On a small end table next to the frosty window, the fake tree sheds a plastic needle, and everyone can hear it whisper to the wet, slushy floor. Finally, with a dirty look at the woman, he grabs his disposable cup and stomps out the door into the wind and blowing snow.

In the coffeehouse, a wave of relieved chuckles and “Oh my gods” circulates. Someone lets out a celebratory “Woot!” and the song changes to “Hard Candy Christmas” by Dolly Parton. Meanwhile, the dark-eyed woman steps back into line. Her eyes squeeze shut, her lips press together, and mentally, she’s counting down the days until this holiday-season nightmare is over.

That’s me. The angel of vengeance who circumvented the harassment of an innocent coffeehouse employee by announcing to everyone that I’m going commando.

I’m the heroine of this syrupy, sappy, bullshit Christmas romance.

One

FREYA

22 days until Christmas…

“AuntieFreya!”Abiscreechesas I pick up her video call.

Her eyeshadow flows seamlessly from neon purple to shimmery black, and I smile at her earnest, angsty face as I flop onto my green velvet couch, my “Witchy Woman” coffee cup in hand. I kick my bare feet onto my coffee table, and a stack of junk mail slides onto a pile of shimmery fabric, a costume I’m altering for Tuesday’s performance.

At The Sphere, the theater I manage, my job encompasses everything from handling the utility bills and payroll to playing the roles of impromptu seamstress, stagehand, nurse, and master of ceremonies, all depending on the day. What my job lacks in pay and health benefits, it makes up for with variety. I am, in short, a professional theater nerd.

Except for the first Tuesday of the month. The first Tuesday of the month, I’m so much more.

Not that I’m going to tell my fifteen-year-old niece about that.

“Your eyes look amazing,” I tell Abi, my gaze shifting to my bedroom door to make sure it’s still closed. “Have you reached out to D.G. about doing makeup for the musical yet?”

Abigail—or Abi to those who actually listen to her—is a dark, mysterious creature who holds my family in constant suspense, waiting for her next drama to unfold. Or, more accurately, explode. A shaved head? A hunger strike for endangered bats? They live in fear of the day she finds a tattoo artist who doesn’t check ID.

Obviously, I adore her, and, given her talent with a makeup brush, I’ve been encouraging her to connect with the high school drama teacher, Mrs. Davis-Green. (Affectionately known to the theater kids of Northview, Wisconsin, as D.G.)

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