The Christmas Pact

by Keeland, Vi

  When I woke the next morning, Kennedy was already up. His hair was disheveled as he sat at the foot of the bed holding a cup of coffee.

  “Morning,” he said flatly when he noticed me rubbing my eyes.

  My voice was groggy. “Morning.”

  “I got you some coffee so you didn’t have to go out and talk to anyone, but now it’s cold.” He stood up. “I’ll go get you a fresh cup.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sat up and watched as he exited the room. As sad as I was, I couldn’t help but notice how good his ass looked in the jeans he’d changed into.

  He came back a few minutes later and handed me the steaming mug.

  His eyes travelled down to my breasts, and I realized I was practically popping out of my tank top. Well, at least he still had a pulse in that respect. Everything else was off kilter, though.

  “What time is your flight?” he asked.

  “It’s at 4PM. I’ll need to get on the road soon to head back to Albany. I want to stop in to say goodbye to my family before I head to the airport.”

  “That makes sense.” He tilted his head back to finish off the last of his coffee, then crossed the room to the door. “I’ll get out of your hair so you can get dressed.” Then he was gone.

  The old Kennedy would’ve stuck around, maybe tried to get a peek at me while I got into my clothes. This only confirmed my suspicion that something with Kennedy had changed.

  The disappointment I was feeling was certainly eye-opening. Wow. I really had been falling for him.

  After I slipped my clothes on and packed up, Kennedy knocked on the door. It was like we hadn’t ever kissed, hadn’t ever shared a bed together. It felt like we’d taken a major step back.

  “Come in.”

  “Can I make you breakfast before you go?”

  “No. I’m just gonna grab something at the gas station on the way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t argue with me.

  After I said goodbye to Kennedy’s mother in the kitchen, he walked me out to the car.

  He tucked my suitcase in the trunk and shut it with a firm push. He placed his hands in his pockets as he turned to face me. Neither one of us seemed to be making easy eye contact.

  “You know, my little act on Christmas Eve was a quick fix,” he said. “Have you thought about what you’re eventually gonna tell your mother about my being gone?”

  Well, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t be gone, but now I see that’s not where this is going.

  “No. But I won’t address it for a while. Hopefully by the time I have to deal with it, I’ll have a story in mind.”

  He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “Thank you again for last night…for being there for me. You’re an amazing woman. I hope you realize that.”

  Nothing like raking in the compliments while someone is basically telling you to take a hike. This just sucked.

  I stood up on my tippy toes and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek before I got in the car and drove away, unsure of whether I’d ever see Kennedy Riley again.

  Two days later I was back at work, and, from the outside, everything appeared back to normal. The last week seemed like a dream. A really crazy, impulsive, sexy dream. Actually, it probably would have been easier if the time I’d spent with Kennedy hadn’t been real. Because it was difficult to walk around each day now remembering what his mouth had felt like on mine, how soft his lips were, or how his hard body pressed to mine when we slow danced. Just knowing what a sweet guy he was beneath that gruff exterior made my heart ache.

  I took Liliana to lunch to say thank you for taking care of Sister Mary Alice while I was away. Over Chinese food, I confided in Liliana about my crazy Upstate adventure. After she picked her jaw up off the floor, she started goading me to reach out to Kennedy and ‘make the first move’.

  “Seriously, Riley, the man is drop dead gorgeous. Who cares about some archaic romantic notion that a man should make the first move? Fuck that.” She jabbed her straw in and out of the crushed ice in her cup. “Let me ask you this: do you like to be on top?”

  I blinked a few times. “On top? Meaning in bed?”

  “Yes, on top. You know, indulging your inner cowgirl.”

  It was kind of a personal question, but I trusted Liliana, so I just went with it. “I actually do. I have trouble having an orgasm in missionary position.”

  She sucked on her straw until the liquid was gone and she made a loud, gurgling sound. “This was a large cup of ice with a side of soda, not the other way around. But anyway…you need a man to get your cowgirl on, so pick up the damn phone and get yourself one.”

  I laughed. I’d thought she was going to impart some wisdom about it being the new millennium and how women have become empowered in the bedroom so we should also be inviting men on dates. But her logic was on point anyway. I gave her a serious look. “I’ve never asked a man out.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen? He says no. You’re already walking around like someone kicked your dog, so why not go for it? Obviously, you want to saddle up.”

  I smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  “We can even do it on speakerphone. If you get tongue tied, I’ll help you out.”

  That was definitely not happening. But I appreciated the thought. Sort of. “Thanks, Lily.”

  By the end of the week, I still hadn’t heard from Kennedy. I guess a part of me had held onto hope that maybe he’d miss me and call. He certainly knew how to reach me. I sat at my desk at nearly five o’clock on Friday, in no rush to go home. The rest of the office was already racing for the door, but I decided to dig through my inbox and find the emails that had started this whole mess. Reading the string of messages back, one thing really hit home. It was the advice from that columnist—or at least the woman who’d answered for Dear Ida. She’d written:

  Dear Boring,

  It sounds to me like your problem isn’t your mom’s Christmas letter—though I do find those to be obnoxious myself. I think if you dig a little deeper, your problem is actually with your own life—and the fact that you don’t actually have one. Sometimes difficult things need to be said and our friends and family are too polite to say them. That’s what I’m here for…so here’s my advice to you:

  Go out and live a little. Give your mother something to write about. Life is too short to be so dull.

  God, that email had pissed me off so much when I’d received it. But now I realized that was because she’d hit the nail on the head. I have no life.

  I sighed. Someone more badass would have done something about it. But instead, I shut down my laptop and put on my coat.

  Four hours later at home, I still couldn’t stop thinking about those emails. I’d stuffed my face with pizza and downed a few glasses of wine when the bright idea to write to that columnist again popped into my head. If she was right once, maybe she could tell me how to handle the situation with Kennedy now. So I grabbed my laptop and decided to be safe this time and write her from my personal email. The last thing I needed was another mix up with my and Kennedy’s emails.

  Dear Soraya,

  I wrote to you a few weeks ago about my mother’s Christmas letter. Remember me? You called me boring and inadvertently sent your advice to a coworker who has the same first and last name, only in reverse. Well, I guess I should start out by apologizing. I was pretty upset when I got your letter. You basically told me to get a life and sent the response to an annoying coworker, who happily forwarded it to me…along with his own two cents. Anyway, I was upset and wrote you back a pretty harsh letter. And for that, I’m sorry.

  While your advice was tough to hear, over the last week I realized you were right. I guess perhaps it took a few days of actually having a life to make me realize that I hadn’t been living. Which brings me to why I’m writing today. The annoying guy you sent my letter to? Well, he wound up being not so annoying. In fact, it turns out he’s pretty incredible. We spent
a few amazing days together, and things were going great. Until they weren’t. And now I’m not sure how to handle it.

  I really like him and want to explore what we seemed to have. At times, I was sure he felt the same way. But then, just when things started to progress, he pulled away. You see, someone hurt him pretty badly. So my conundrum is, I’m not sure if he’s just afraid of getting his heart broken again, or if maybe he actually didn’t like me the way I thought he did.

  I’ll tell you a little secret, Soraya…I’m a little old-fashioned. I guess, deep down, I still expect Prince Charming to ride up on his white horse and whisk me away like some dumb damsel in distress. Which is probably why I’m a little afraid to go after the first man to make my heart go pitter patter in years. So I need you to tell me the truth here…should I take a chance and ask him out, or do I move on because he’s really just not that into me after all?

  Signed,

  Don’t want to be Boring Anymore

  Kennedy

  Trying to keep my focus on work lately was a bitch. This manuscript wasn’t going to edit itself. Yet as much as I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Riley—the way she whimpered into my mouth when we kissed, the way her skin felt when I was massaging her back. How happy she seemed when she looked up at me from that chair in the middle of the dance floor—the moment right before I freaked out. It was like the Happy Police came and hijacked my brain. Our time together had been amazing before that. And now, the more I tried to block thoughts of Riley from my mind, the more I thought about her. It was messed up.

  “Riley!”

  My stomach dropped because I thought someone was calling her name. But it was my co-worker, Alexander, approaching my office.

  Every time someone would refer to me by my last name, it was jarring. My head would turn toward the sound because I’d convince myself that she had walked into the room. It wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility, given that we worked for different arms of the same company.

  Swiveling my chair around, I said, “What’s up?” The adrenaline was still pumping through me from hearing that name.

  “We’re heading out to lunch. Wanna come with?”

  “Nah. I’m just gonna eat at my desk. Thanks.”

  Translation: I don’t feel like talking to anyone and would rather sit here and lament over the fact that I’d acted like a coward and driven away the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  “You alright? You seem a little out of it.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Catch you later, man.”

  When he walked away, I tapped my pen in frustration as I continued to ruminate over whether I’d done the right thing in pushing her away. I seriously felt like I’d done her a favor. That didn’t stop me from missing her. Or from wanting to contact her, which would’ve been a selfish decision considering how terrible I am at relationships. Riley was the kind of girl you didn’t just mess around with. Still, not one day went by when I didn’t have to stop myself from texting her to ask how she was doing. But each time I pulled up her contact info, I’d nix the idea, telling myself that keeping things the way they were was for the best.

  Later that afternoon, I was just about to shut down for the day when I saw an email pop up into my inbox. I recognized the name. It was that advice person that Riley used to email. Crap. What the heck? She was still writing in to that column? That had to mean she was upset or sad about something. But more than that, why the hell were they still sending the responses to the wrong address? Great. I’d be forced to have to interact with her in order to forward the message. Or maybe this time I’d just tell them—not so nicely—that they sent it to the wrong person again and let them do it.

  So I ignored it for a while, through two cups of coffee, a conference call, and three chapters of a manuscript I’d been editing.

  Finally, I pushed back from my desk and tugged at my hair with both hands. Fuck this. Curiosity got the best of me and, yeah, I clicked on the email. I soon learned that the intended recipient wasn’t Riley at all—it was me.

  Dear Fool,

  First off, let me preface this by saying that my ass would be on the line if Ida knew about this breach of confidentiality. But seeing as you’re the entire reason for my having to write this email response in the first place, you already know what this is about—what you did. Or what you didn’t do. Take your pick. My point is, none of this will be news to you.

  It’s a shame. This actually could have been a damn cute story. Two people meet because their emails got crossed, they fall in love—yada yada. Things were going great with her until you screwed up. Seriously? Why do men always have to go and ruin a good thing with their asinine behavior?

  Thankfully, she’s smart enough to suspect that maybe the fact that you ghosted her has to do with your own fear of getting hurt. I’m proud of that insecure little wench for actually not rushing to blame herself. She’s growing. Which is more than I can say for you.

  And if what she suspects is true—that you’re afraid of getting hurt—to you, I say: “Grow some balls!”

  She’s expecting a response from me. I want you to know that my answer will be: “Move on.” That’s right. She wrote to me again and asked me if she should contact you, and I’m fully prepared to tell her: “Hell no.” She shouldn’t have to chase after your ass when YOU screwed up.

  So, here’s the deal, Kennedy Riley or whatever your name is, I’ll be pressing send on that reply to her in one week. You have that long to find yourself a white horse, make your entrance, and get the girl. Oh, and send me a photo. I’m not kidding, either. Otherwise, I’m telling her to forget about your sorry ass. Then I’m suggesting she bone the next man with a pulse who makes eye contact with her. What’s it going to be?

  Man up, Kennedy. You know what to do.

  Giddy-up!

  Soraya Morgan

  (Remember, pictures or it didn’t happen. I’ve got that finger on the send button, ready to go.)

  What the fresh hell? My mind was racing. So much to process here. But my first question was: Horse? What is she talking about?

  Even though I felt badly about looking at Riley’s email to Dear Ida, seeing as though it apparently had to do with me, I needed to read it. My eyes scrolled down farther on the page to check out the forwarded message from Riley that Soraya had so kindly included.

  I’d gone over Riley’s words too many times to count. I’d known I’d screwed up, but hearing it from someone else made it impossible to deny. Riley was walking around believing I wasn’t really into her when she was all I could think about.

  I made her heart go pitter patter? Well, shit. I didn’t know whether to pat myself on the back or kick myself in my own ass for ruining a good thing.

  And on top of my confusion and, yeah, guilt, now I was being threatened by a faceless advice columnist who was determined to lead Riley in a questionable direction if I did nothing. Riley actually listened to what this nutjob had to say. What if Riley did something rash, put herself out there in a way that wasn’t responsible, gave herself to a guy who would never truly appreciate the woman she was…just to spite me?

  Now I was not only conflicted—I was jealous as hell.

  I moped around all weekend, unsure of how to fix what I’d so royally messed up. I hadn’t answered my phone, or taken a shower, or left the house.

  Sunday afternoon, my mom texted to let me know she’d sent me an email she thought I might like. Though I seriously doubted anything could make me feel better, I grabbed my laptop and signed on to my Gmail. Underneath a half-dozen spammy advertisements, there was the message from Mom, with an attachment. I clicked. Her message read:

  Before your father and I got married, he told me he knew I loved him long before I ever said the words aloud. He said I had ‘the look of love’. I always thought he was crazy. Until I watched this footage the videographer captured at the wedding reception. Your father was right after all. Sometimes the person
in love is the last to know he’s already fallen.

  Clicking on the attachment, I sank into the couch as a scene from my brother and Felicity’s wedding reception began to play on my screen. The camera panned around the room and then focused in on Mom and Riley egging each other on out on the dance floor. Riley put her hands on her hips and gyrated in a little circular motion that had me leaning in to get a closer look. My mom watched and attempted to replicate the move, only Mom’s hips didn’t move like Riley’s—thank God for that. The two of them started laughing and held onto each other as they bent over in a fit of giggles, while simultaneously trying to keep up with the others line dancing. They crashed into a few people, and that only made them laugh more. It was funny stuff, and showed a lot of Riley’s true personality. I had a smile on my face while watching it—the first one in days. But I wasn’t exactly sure how footage of the two of them dancing pertained to Mom’s cryptic message.

  Then the camera turned. It scanned the room and stopped when it landed on me. I’d had no idea anyone was paying attention to me—much less recording the moment.

  The camera zoomed in, and I watched myself watching Riley. Apparently, I was as enraptured with her as the cameraman was with me. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, I stared off at the dance floor. My lips were parted, and every few seconds a little smile would tug at the corners. I followed her every move like she was the only person in the room. Hell, it looked like I had no idea anyone else in the universe existed. Eventually the song ended, and the video clip Mom sent did, too.

  I sighed and thought about the last sentence of her message.

  Sometimes the person in love is the last to know he’s already fallen.

  I didn’t love Riley…did I?

  I hadn’t even known her that long. And I was pretty sure that she hadn’t been able to stand me for at least half the time we had spent together.