Page 52 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“But when Monica and I discussed the volunteer option?—”
Volunteer. There was that word again. “What volunteer option?”
Phoebe’s smile widened. “Well, since Alec is so well-loved, especially by Monica’s friend Arthur and his sports connections, I decided to see whether anyone would be interested in attending as a volunteer. Doing so would give them free access to the Ball, therefore lifting the couples-only restriction that’s a requirement of admission, and in return, as volunteers, they’d have the opportunity to meet Alec, and everyone else, in person before the official start of the event, as well as sample any of the wares at no cost.”
Marisa’s eardrums nearly ruptured at the explosion of bullshit the woman in front of her just spewed, because surely she didn’t just say— “At no cost? But it all costs! That’s the entire point of this thing. To drum up business and sales.”
Those red lips pursed tighter, and Phoebe picked off another bite of thickly iced cinnamon bun to savor. “Of course there’s a cost. That’s why I suggested the donation stipulation for all volunteers.”
“Donation stipulation?” She was not hearing this. Nope. She was not hearing any of this.
“Any volunteer I recruit would be given donation cards containing exclusive details of all the future programs Monica will be running in the New Year. They’ll be granted advanced access and opportunities to sign up to attend and donate their support before anyone else, but only if they fill out the cards and turn in their pledges and payments before the Ball is over, like a stroke-of-midnight kind of thing. I thought it was fitting, given the theme.”
“And doing that would allow your volunteers to claim their charitable donation as a tax credit before the year is out, and Monica’s organization gets a convenient influx of cash before the fiscal year ends,” Marisa breathed, piecing it all together behind the haze of the angry red nightmare swimming before her.
“Exactly. See?” Phoebe shrugged. “That’s why you’ll definitely have me beat in the ticket sales department. Now, as for treats, I’ve got quite a popular assortment planned.”
Marisa wasn’t hearing this. She wasn’t hearing any of this, not between the blood pounding in her ears and Hugh barking his disapproval at whatever squirrel likely had the gall to encroach on his sweet treat. She searched for Alec, but all she could see were Phoebe’s perfectly tailored shoulders, stuffed into one of those premium parkas that would cost Marisa three months’ rent plus some good kidney payout.
But Hugh’s barking didn’t relent, and when he began to tug more insistently on the leash, she saw what had intrigued him, and a new horror struck.
Phoebe brought the final mouthful of icing-smothered cinnamon bun to her lips, but not before a dollop of icing dripped free. Like a fly to shit, Hugh lunged for it, leaping and planting his front paws high on her coat, dead center on her breasts. The look of indignant shock on Phoebe’s face was all but wiped clean as Hugh’s big tongue whipped out and captured the icing mid-air in one drool-laden lick.
The ripping came next, and it was the most horrendous sound Marisa had ever heard.
One of the metallic buttons on Phoebe’s coat caught the edge of the very full and flimsy poop bag loosely tied to the back of Hugh’s harness. Marisa stared, frozen. One by one, turds tumbled out like well-trained soldiers and followed the arc of the air before landing expertly, painting Phoebe’s fine coat in shades of dog shit.
Phoebe and Marisa screamed at the same time. Hugh barked and jumped with excitement. Somewhere nearby, a gaggle of teenagers wheezed through intermittent laughing fits, all while Bing Crosby provided the White Christmas soundtrack to Marisa’s own personal hell.
“Oh God, it’s in my ring!” Phoebe hollered, flapping her hands over the soiled fabric while inadvertently swiping her fingers through Hugh’s morning finest. “Fuck, I think it just got in my cuticle!”
Marisa yanked out the roll of clean poop bags, at a complete loss for what to do except, well, clean up poop. Quickly, she ripped out two bags, shoved her hands in them, clicked her plastic-encased fingertips together like lobster claws—as one does when they’re about to get to work—and rushed toward Phoebe.
“I’m so sorry! Let me clean up what I can.” Marisa ran her hands down the front of Phoebe’s coat in large oven-mitt-sized swaths, hoping to clear as much as she could, but instead, she only aided in turning the woman’s coat into a monstrous shit-filled finger painting.
“Get off me!” Phoebe whirled away from Marisa just as Alec came running out of the coffee shop, pocketing his phone in the process.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” All it took was for Alec to look at Hugh—who now sat upright, proud as he pleased, and had just let out a lip-fluttering burp—then back to Phoebe for understanding to dawn on his features. “Jesus fucking Christ. Phoebe, are you?—”
“Don’t say another goddamn word,” she seethed, finally undoing the coat buttons so she could rip the thing off and toss it into the nearest garbage can. “I’m noticing a pattern, Alec. You’re always more than happy to fall in line with messy fantasies than real life, which explains so fucking much about this ridiculous setup you two have going on.” Then she glared at Marisa with enough fire in her eyes to incinerate every marshmallow west of the Hudson. “And might I suggest you rethink any industry that has you looking after customer welfare. Or interacting with people entirely, for that matter.”
Her words slapped Marisa in a way that no amount of family disapproval ever had. And it stung ten times worse because Alec was there to witness it.
God, what must he think of her?
Marisa’s throat tightened as Alec took the leash from her, and she desperately tried to sink back into her coat and hibernate inside it until spring.
“Phoebe, enough of this,” he said, tossing the woman his jacket out of courtesy. “I’m sure it was all an accident. If you’ve a quarrel with anyone, let it be me you fight. Hugh’s my brother’s dog. Marisa had nothing to do with it. She was only trying to?—”
“Help?” Phoebe asked. “Like when she spilled food all over me at the cocktail party? Was that another accident, too?”
Alec’s face reddened, and his brows sank low in warning. “You bloody well know it was.”
“Do I? I don’t know anything, apparently. For example, I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d choose a game, one that damn near tried to kill you at every turn, over me. I was there for you, Alec. I was waiting for you, quietly loving you, ready for you to choose me, and instead, you choose this? Her?” Phoebe pointed a finger at Marisa, and God, she hated how Phoebe was wearing Alec’s coat when she did it, how his presence was somehow wrapped around the woman in support as she doled out her jealous fury. “And you’re still playing all these games? When are you going to grow up, for god’s sake? You’re almost, what, thirty-five now? Isn’t it time for you to start taking things seriously?”
It was hard to imagine what dejection would look like on such stony, handsome features, but Marisa got her answer, and it gutted her for so many reasons, not the least of which was because she knew what it felt like to wear that sort of perpetual disappointment.
“I’ve told you before, and this’ll be the final time I say it. You and I didn’t fit.”
