Page 3 of Better Not Pout
It’s been the most beloved tradition at Sweet Sullivan’s for years, and as I got older, Grams passed the responsibility down to me. Now, I get to respond—as Santa, of course—to all of the kids who put a letter into the mailbox with their Christmas lists. “Oh, and the fact that you know that Santaactuallyisn’t real?” I add because we’re almost thirty.
Her pale blue eyes roll. “Obviously, Rosalie. Please do not remind me how close to our thirties we are. But you know what is real?Manifestation. Which means when we write our letter to Santa and put it out into the universe about our dream man…he’s going to find his way right to us. It’s proven. When you put it out into the universe, it’syours.Manifestation 101.”
I’m fairly sure she’s had way too much wine, but she’s not wrong about manifestation. It’s something we’ve always done. I guess I just never thought about writing a letter toSantaas a form of manifestation?
Honestly, what do I know though.
“Why do you have that look on your face?” she says, breaking through my thoughts.
My brow pinches. “Uh, because you’re suggesting we write a wish list for a dream man to a fictional figure who doesn’t actually exist?”
“Okay, well, when you say it like that, it sounds weird, but it doesn’t feel like that in my head. Look, no matter which way you frame it, we’re simply manifesting our dream man. Who cares who it’s going to or, in this case, not going to? C’monnnn, do it for me? Please?” Her bottom lip pokes out as she pouts. “Please, pleaseeeee?”
Kennedy and I both know that there’s a very small list of things that I wouldn’t do for her, like pierce my eyebrow or get a tattoo on my forehead. Jail, hiding bodies, or… I guess writing letters to a fictional man are all on the list of what I would do when it comes to my best friend.
“Fine.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
I nod, tucking my hair behind my ears as I sigh dramatically. “If I must. You know I’d donate a kidney for you, so I guess writing a letter that will never see the light of day falls under the same umbrella too.”
I bite back a laugh as she quickly sets her empty glass onto the table and bounds up from the couch toward my kitchen, returning a minute later with a box of colorful gel pens and blank pieces of paper.
Ken drops to her knees in front of the coffee table as she spreads out the papers and pops the top of the pen box. “Okay. Let’s do this. Obviously, I’ve been thinking about this far too long because I’m ready.”
Slipping off the couch, I sink down onto the hardwood beside her. “Of course you have. You, my girl, are a dreamer. And I love you for it. Even if you somehow always seem to coerce me into your fairy-tale notions.”
I take the pen that she’s pushed toward me with a very proud smile on her face and stare blankly down at the paper.
Unlike my best friend, who spends her days dreaming up a man who likely only exists in fiction, I haven’t thought very hard about what my “dream guy” would be.
I feel like after Bradley, the bar is dangerously low.
Very low.
For a second, I let my mind wander before throwing together the thoughts that are bouncing around my brain.
Dear Santa,
I don’t believe in Christmas miracles.
But if you’re friends with Kennedy Belmont, you quickly learn that you’re just along for the ride. So that’s how I ended up here, writing a letter to a fictional fat man about what I want for Christmas in the form of my dream man.
Honestly, at this point, I’d be great with my grandparents no longer meddling in my nonexistent love life and trying to hook me up with the mailman.
Who cares that I’m 28, single, living in my adorable little apartment above Sweet Sullivan’s… all alone. No husband, no children, just me and my Penny girl.
I’m good with that. It’s everyone else that seems to think I shouldn’t be.
For the sake of placating my hopelessly romantic, albeit overly pushy, best friend, whom I do love so much, I’ll make my list. But it’s up toyouto check it twice.
Rosalie’s dream man:
- Tall. Like… really tall. At least 6’1”.
- Bearded, heavy lumbersexual vibe. (Flannel is a want, but not a need)
- Muscular, but not TOO muscular in the “I live and breathe the gym type of way.” More so just the kind of way that he could easily pick me up and toss me around. Just in case there’s a fire, ya know?
