Page 27 of My Rival for Christmas

Me in a pair of non-athletic, fleece-lined leggings, knee-high boots, and a black sweater under my winter coat. And Kylie, the far more stylish of the two of us, is wearing a bright red sweater dress with a black belt cinched around the waist. Tights and thigh-high boots that fold over at the top cover her legs, and she completes the outfit with a matching red Santa hat.

She looks like a sultry Mrs. Claus, and I’m her unstylish, sleep-deprived friend. But don’t worry, Kylie made sure to slip apurpleSanta hat onto my head before we left the resort to match her holiday spirit. Stating that the color is to make my coal-heavy heart less offended.

“Ooo, pose here.” She directs me to a free-standing mailbox that is decorated to look like a gingerbread house. “Drape your body over it and give me your biggest smile.”

I barely feel my lips move, but Kylie doesn’t comment on it, and I’m forever thankful to have her as a friend. I know I haven’t been the most enthusiastic person to have on this trip, but she hasn’t complained about my more reserved attitude.

“Oh, it’s so cute.” She’s probably lying, but I love her for it. Her thumbs fly over the screen, sending the picture off to my brother, before she locks it, shoving the phone back into her oversized coat. “Okay, we’re almost there. Come on.”

By some miracle, we’ve almost completed every item on Kylie’s itinerary for the day. A feat not for the weak, and one I would definitely celebrate, if not for the fact the only thing left is the very thing I’ve been trying to ignore.

A trip to Dirty Dick’s.Whatever that is.

Kylie leads us down the street, past the cute little shops with their windows all decorated for Christmas. I even spot two done up for Hanukkah and one for Kwanzaa.

We don’t stop in any of them, and instead she leads us further down, to a place where the red and white tinsel-wrapped street lights end and a dingy, worn-down building remains.

We’re not in the Christmas village anymore.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring me to a murder den because of my slightly depressing mood.”

“Don’t be silly,” Kylie laughs. “I’ve had so much fun with you today. You’re not as sullen as you think.”

Again, I love her.

Maybe.

I might revoke that as she pulls me through the warped door. And into…

Oh my god.

Turns out, Dirty Dick’s is not a weird Canadian delicacy or holiday-themed swingers’ party. It’s something else entirely.

“Isn’t this place amazing?” My best friend is beaming like she just found a golden ticket stuffed inside a chocolate bar.

I’m not sure I’m doing a good job keeping the disgust off my face. The muscles feel scrunched, and it’s deep frowning, at best.

But it’s hard to even fake excitement with this smell.

One thing I wish everyone knew about Kylie isn’t that she has almost four million followers, or that she has a fondness for really expensive handbags and vintage shoes, or that her boyfriend is the definition of a green flag.

No, all of that is boring.

This is something Kylie would never show on any of her social media, but it’s probably the thing she loves to do the most, and I can’t believe I actually forgot until this moment.

Kylie loves a dive bar.

But I’m not even sure she brought us to that. This place looks several rungsbelowa dive bar.

Kylie’s mom used to joke about dropping her as a baby and it’s only now that I’m realizing we probably should’ve gotten her head checked.

Because there are a lot of ways for me to describe this place and none of them are amazing.

“It’s…um.” How do I put this nicely? “I hope you’re updated on all your shots.”

If there is ever a place to catch some kind of venereal disease…it’s here.

Maybe that’s why the place is called Dirty Dick’s.

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