Page 2 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Sure, Trish, my oldest sister, just made a partner at her firm.Liz had baby number two with her trust-fund husband.Ken got engaged, and—what did Glenn do again?Buy a house?No, that was last year.A car?A boat?Something with four wheels or zero.Honestly, I don’t keep track.The point is that they’re all overachievers.I’m what we call in the family a barely-chiever.Yes, it’s a term at the Wolfcrafts’.It was created during one of our “friendly” game nights.
Not to worry, though, this year I might be on their overachiever list—or what Mom calls The Wolfcraft Howler, which is just the holiday letter that goes to all our family and friends.
“Who are you talking to now?”
I jump, nearly spilling my coffee.Soren Thorn, my not-so-charming, curmudgeonly, and highly irritable neighbor, glares at me from the side of his fence like he’s auditioning for the role of HOA President in a post-apocalyptic drama.
“If you must know,” I say, gesturing to the kennel beside me, “Skylar is right here.”
He lets out a groan that sounds like it’s aged in bourbon.“You’re back to pet-sitting?”
“You sound just like my mother.”
“No, I sound like a concerned neighbor who doesn’t want to lose another succulent.”
I glance at the other side of the fence.His deck doesn’t have any plants.There’s some xeriscaping on the front porch.I don’t think he knows what a succulent is, but he has to bitch about everything.
“You have, like, one plant.And it’s not a succulent.That’s a plastic aloe I got you from the grocery store.”
Please don’t ask me why I got him the plant because I don’t remember.I had to make up for something.Soren Thorn and I have a very complicated relationship.Too complicated.I should be thankful that, like me, he doesn’t get along with his family, or he’d be telling them everything that I do.Everything.
Or maybe we have this silent agreement where whatever happens in Colorado stays here and doesn’t go back to Winterberry Cove.
In a world where you can run away from your past, there’s always one person from that miserable small town who follows you because karma likes to screw with you.For me, that’d be Soren.
And the worst part is that we can’t get along.We’re like frenemies, neighbor edition.He likes order, and according to him, I’m some kind of punishment.I mean, he didn’t say that literally, but one time, he was like, ‘What did I do to deserve you as a neighbor?’So it’s the same thing, right?
“Even if it’s plastic, it’s still a plant in spirit,” he argues.
“You’re thirty-eight, and you complain like you’re pushing eighty.”I cross my arms.“And for the record, none of my clients have ever damaged your plant.”
“Lucy,” he fires back.“She demolished my lemon balm, chased the squirrels into oblivion, and knocked over the birdbath.”
Should I remind him that he hated the lemon balm and the birdbath was mine?No, I’ll let him sit on that one.Lucy?Lucy was a Great Dane with the personality of a wrecking ball.When I was puppy-sitting for her, she saw a squirrel and launched herself like a furry missile, and the rest is horticultural history.
If anyone asks, it’s totally the landlord’s fault.The fence between Soren’s townhouse and mine is a proud three-foot-tall—basically a knee-high encouragement for dra-maaa.But you won’t hear a peep from me because they haven’t raised my rent since I moved in.Either they’re benevolent angels sent to protect me ...or they’ve completely forgotten I exist.Honestly, I’m not taking any chances.I’m keeping my head down, my mouth shut, and my rent exactly where it is.One complaint and they might remember I’m here—and I’m not emotionally or financially prepared for yet another issue in my life story.
“And I learned my lesson,” I say, holding up a hand.“No dogs over fifty pounds.Or with revenge in their hearts.”
“She was a horse.”
I give him an unamused glare.“She was a dog.Do we need to pull out the classification book again, Soren?”
He narrows his eyes.“Do not distract me.Why do you have a cat in your house?”
“As I mentioned, her name is Skylar.She’s not just a cat.And if you keep glowering like that, I’m going to start calling youthat curmudgeonly guy who happens to live next door.”
He lets out a world-weary sigh that probably echoes into the next time zone.Look, I don’t try to get under his skin.I truly don’t.But on days like this, it feels practically therapeutic.It’s so easy to fluster him.
Also, distracting him is key before he calls the landlord and gets me evicted for harboring a cat.Skylar is my cousin Aiden’s pet—her emotional support gremlin.She had to visit her bestie in Birchwood Springs, and I was the only one not bound to a real adult schedule.So here I am, caretaker to the feline princess.
“Winnifred, I swear to?—”
“Watch the language,” I cut in, pointing at the cat.“She’s impressionable.If she starts swearing, Aiden’s gonna blame me, and we both know therapy for cats is not cheap.”
His arms cross like he’s about to stage an intervention.“Your cousin?”
“Yes, Aiden.You’ve met her.Remember?She brought those cupcakes you refused to eat because they had glitter on them?”
