Page 2 of An Unexpected Christmas
“Look,” I say, taking a step closer to my porch. “I get that you’re not into Christmas, but it’s only for a few weeks. Surely you can put up with it for that long?”
“I wouldn’t mind if it were a few twinkling lights,” he says. “But your house looks like the Vegas strip.”
I snort a laugh, which my mom always says is the most unattractive thing I do, but it’s warranted. I can’t help it. The image of my little house competing with neon casinos is too much. Sam, however, does not seem to find it amusing. Shocker.
“Sorry,” I say, still chuckling. “But I love it. It’s festive.”
He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Festive isn’t the word I’d use.”
“What word would you use?” I challenge, folding my arms across my chest.
He hesitates, then says, “Obnoxious.”
My jaw drops, but only for a second. “It’s Christmas, Sam! You’re supposed to embrace the joy, the spirit, the—”
“The blinding lights and blaring music at all hours?” he interrupts.
I narrowmy eyes. “You know, for someone who looks like he stepped out of a Hallmark movie, you’re surprisingly Grinchy.”
He frowns, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I wave a hand at him. “The scarf, the coat, the brooding stare. You’ve got ‘handsome holiday hero’ written all over you. Too bad you’re such a grouch.”
His expression remains unreadable. Then, without another word, he turns and disappears inside his house across the street, slamming the door behind him.
Well, okay, then. “And Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Grinch,” I shout, knowing he will have heard me. It would do him the world of good to either find someone—not me—to fuck that misery right out of him. Or just, you know, he could put up a damn tree like everyone else.
I stomp up my wooden porch steps. Who does he think he is, anyway? It’s not like I’ve asked him to pay my extortionate electric bill. All he has to do is endure my display for a few weeks. Is that really so hard?
I hesitate, looking at the lawn, doubt sneaking into my subconscious. Is it too much? Nope. It’s perfect.
I unlock the door and flip the switch to my hall lights as I walk inside, the warmth of the house thawing my frozen cheeks. As soon as I enter the kitchen, I say, “Alexa, play Christmas Essentials playlist,” and the music blares from my stereo as the familiar strains ofAll I Want for Christmas Is Youfill the room. As I singalong, I catch a glimpse of Sam’s house through the window. It’s dark; the curtains drawn tight. Such a grump. But not me. I love Christmas, and I love annoying grumpy neighbors just as much.
“Alexa, turn the music up.”
Sam
Christmas cheer is a plague
Christmas cheer is a plague, and Frankie Thompson is its most devoted carrier. Her house twinkles like it’s trying to attract low-flying aircraft, every color flashing in rhythmic patterns that seep through the gaps in my curtains. Her festive obsession is determined to invade even my blackout ones.
After our altercation earlier, she’s out there again, singing Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree off-key as she wrestles another strand of lights into place. I’m surprised she has any left. Her laughter rises above the music as she stretches up toward her porch entryway and almost loses her balance on the stepladder she’s standing on.
I pace my living room, jaw tight, as her holiday madness leaks into my sanctuary. The perfect, quiet retreat I moved to six months ago, ruined by one overly cheerful neighbor. I’d chosen Holly Creek for its stillness, its picturesque streets, its promise of escape. What I hadn’t factored in was the human Christmas megaphone across the street.
Unable to resist the pull of morbid fascination, I sink into my armchair, the one that gives me a perfect view without being seen. There she is, adjusting the reindeer on her lawn. Brushing a dusting of light snow off its stupid red nose, nodding at it like she’s talking to an old friend.
We’ve been neighbors for six months now, and she still manages to catch me off guard. I tell myself it’s curiosity, but I know I’m lying. Her own Santa hat slips, revealing dark curls spilling out, and for a moment, I catch myself staring. Not because she’s beautiful (though she is), but because of her energy. It’s infuriating how she throws herself into all this nonsense with such unshakable determination. She doesn’t care about the cold, the mess, or the sheer absurdity of putting this much effort into something so fleeting. And something about her intrigues me.
I turn away, running a hand through my hair as frustration bubbles up again. It’s not the lights, or the music, or even Frankie herself. It’s what it all represents. The holiday I used to love. The holiday I can’t bear to face. It just feels like a bruise someone keeps pressing. Logically, I know it’s not her fault that I’m feeling this way, but I can’t seem to let it go.
I clench my fists, forcing the memory back into the box where it belongs. Years, and it still refuses to stay there. This is why I came here—to escape. To start over. To forget. And hopefully to find something that wasn’t a bad memory.
Another yelp from outside drags me back, and I find my gaze drawn to the window again, watching as Frankie wobbles down the steps of her foldaway ladder. She’s a goddamn catastrophe.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. Damn her.
Forcing myself to turn away, shaking my head, I stand, walking away from my armchair and instead sink onto the sofa on the other side of the room. The laptop on the coffee table glares at me, the blank document daring me to try again. I’ve migrated from my attic office in the hopes that I might find inspiration in different parts of this house… Sadly, that hasn’t been the case at all. It’s only served as more of a distraction down here because I’m closer to the kitchen, and I’ve drunk enough tea to sink a ship.
