Page 10 of Scrooge

She huffs from the other end of the phone.

“What?” I ask, intrigued by her take on me. I know I can be a little gruff. But all my life, I have strived to be perfect for my father, and now I need to ensure things are perfect in his legacy.

“What are you doing now?” she asks, and I look around my home office.

“It’s Saturday. I'm working. Why?” I ask, affronted.

“Ask me what I am doing.”

I huff. I hate playing games.

“What are you doing?” I relent.

“I am at my kids’ soccer game,” she says, and my eyebrows rise.

“You have a kid?” I ask, surprised.

“Two of them. I asked you to sponsor their team, remember? You promised to think about it and maybe come to their finals to bestow a gift to the club and present the trophies, or did you forget?”

I rub my eyes as I try to remember. I have no idea what she is talking about.

“I don’t recall that conversation,” I murmur, wondering how much that is going to cost.

“That’s my point. You don’t know your people. They need to see your face. Your father was—”

“Leave him out of it,” I snap, the sudden onslaught of responsibility he left me with, mixed with grief I have yet to process even almost a year later, feels like a tsunami about to crash over me.

“Fine. Just approve the holiday party so you seem like a nice person, even if we all know you are just a Scrooge,” she says before ending the call, and I am left looking blankly at the screen. My watch beeps.

It’s already ten, and my morning has turned to shit. Fucking perfect.

6

HAYLEE

Igiggle as I dodge the kids who are chasing each other in the boys’ section. The shop is busy, and I love it, but it is not as busy as previous years, which gives me pause. I look around, giggles and smiles aplenty, but it is not full and shoulder to shoulder like it was years ago. Sure, we have moved things around to create better flow for customers, but it feels like this year is kind of slow.

Kids are too busy with their heads stuck in video games and phones to even consider the latest board game or doll. I wonder what is happening to our children these days. I, for one, am just as connected to my cell as kids are, but a bit more balance would be good for the young ones.

I hear a crash and see one of my displays has fallen a little, pushed accidentally by a child running past. I pick up the stand quickly, righting it and pushing it back out of the way some more, not wanting a repeat. Turning, I walk toward the back of the shop to the register and round the corner, colliding straight into something hard.

“Ouch!” I say immediately, my hand coming to rest on my nose that slammed into a man’s chest. His hands grab my upper arms to steady me. My face is now throbbing, my eyes slightly watering, my vision fuzzy as frustration nips at my shoulders. Looking up, my eyes settle on a pair of familiar ones.

“You!” I gasp, but annoyance sets in right away.

“You!” he says back, just as surprised.

“What areyoudoing in here?” I ask, bewildered, all good manners and customer service completely out the window. Now that I know who he is I should be nicer. He is going to ruin us, but I try to bite back my anger. Maybe Jillian is right. Maybe I should apologize.

“Just looking.” His warm hands still hold on to my upper arms, keeping me steady and right in front of him. Our bodies move closer as kids rush around us, playing games. I take a deep breath and try to settle myself, blinking away the sting and breathing through my nose to ensure it is okay.

“You’re not having another seizure, are you?” he asks, looking at me seriously, and my brow crumples.

“I am not epileptic, you moron,” I say without thought. I am clearly not above name-calling today either.

“Moron. Well, I guess that is a little better than dickwad.”

I huff a laugh at his small attempt at humor, even though he isn’t smiling. What is it with this guy and his permanent scowl?

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