Page 1 of Acting Merry
one
Reese
If there’sone thing any self-respecting, recently single woman in her late twenties needs, it’s a theme song. I turn onto my street with Flo Rida’s 2015 hitMy Housebumping in my decade-old Civic. This is my walk-on song—just...for when I pull into my driveway.
Mydriveway.
As of five days ago, that concrete—with all its small cracks and divots—belongs to me and only me.
And not just the concrete.
My house comes into view: gray siding, gabled porch, a pine wreath on the door I swear I can smell from four houses away. Flo Rida probably wrote his anthem about something splashier than my three-bedroom rambler, but there’s no way he loves his mansion more than I love my new digs. I sigh happily, then belt the chorus as I pull in.
I dash inside, the December wind cutting through myscrubs as I open the door to pine and cinnamon. Scrubs come off in favor of wool socks, leggings, and an oversized sweater. It hasn’t even been a week since I closed on the house, but thanks to Hobby Lobby’s sale racks, the main rooms are fully Christmas’d: twinkle lights under my upper cabinets, pine boughs along the counters, a five-foot tree lit and trimmed in the living room.
But my favorite spot? The little bay window that looks onto the front yard.
I may not have made my bed, but the festive pillows and blankets in this spot are perfectly placed. I can cozy up with my chunky knit blanket and hot cocoa and watch the red-rimmed December sunset turn to blue-bathed dusk and my neighbors’ Christmas lights flick on one by one.
The mail truck squeaks to a stop, and I shrug on my pink peacoat and a pair of slippers. Will it all be junk mail for the previous owners? Absolutely. Do I care? Not even a little. I like the ritual of walking to the mailbox.Mymailbox. Someday soon it’ll house credit card offers and Publishers Clearing House spam addressed tome.A truly thrilling prospect.
I flip down the mailbox door and pull out four pieces of mail: Home Depot coupon.Architect Magazine.Martha Stewart Living. One envelope with the weight of a debit or credit card. Possibly one of those fake ones companies send, but given the discreet nature of the envelope, I kind of doubt it.
“Time to forward your mail, Cole Bradley,” I mutter, setting it all atop the growing pile of his mail next to my favorite Christmas candle: cedarwood and vanilla.
I text my real estate agent to ask if she can ping Cole Bradley’s agent about his mail, then get started on dinner: leftover salmon. In my eagerness to ingest yesterfood, I slosh marinade on the counter, grab a rag from under the sink, and spot the little puddle beneath the pipes.
I stick an empty cottage cheese container beneath to catch future drips, making a mental note to call a plumber. Maybe I should’ve cooled it on the Hobby Lobby decorations and put that money into an account for home repairs. I’m used to being able to call the landlord, but we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. This place is my responsibility and mine alone.
My phone buzzes as I wait for the salmon to reheat in the air fryer. It’s ourChristmas Cabin Getawaythread.
Every year, my three freshman dormmates and I go stay at a cabin in Snoqualmie for a couple nights. We don’t see each other very often anymore, but this is a tradition we’ve kept for six years now. It’s the thing that gets me through the gray, rainy months while I’m waiting for the divine but all-too-short Seattle summers.
But this particular text releases a buzz of nerves inside me. I’m anxious for this year’s getaway. I haven’t seen my friend Megan since she started dating Brady.
As in my ex, Brady.
Okay.Exmight be a dramatic way of putting it. Butwhatdoyou call the guy you dated for two months, even if you never wereofficial?
Whatever the word, this is the first time I’m not looking forward with unfettered anticipation to the Christmas cabin getaway. I just have this feeling it’s going to be…weird between Megan and me.
It’s not Megan’s fault. If anything, it’s mine. I was the one who asked her to return Brady’s things to him so I wouldn’t have to see him—apparently the spark that lit their texting.
She wassoincredibly nervous to let me know he’d kept texting her afterward that all I’d cared about was making sure the tears in her eyes didn’t spill over. And when she messaged me a couple weeks later, every bit as nervous as before to let me know Brady had asked her out but that she was totally planning to say no if I was even the slightest bit bothered by it?
I reassured heragain. I believe my exact words were, “Iinsistyou say yes.”
Why? Because I have problems, obviously.
I open the thread.
Hannah
Eight days and counting! Hot tub is warmed up. Christmas tree is decorated. Check-in is at 2. What time is everyone planning to arrive? The correct answer is 2.
Tess
We’ll be there at 1:58 sharp, ready to party!
