The Christmas Pact
Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward
Riley
Ugh. Not again.
A sense of dread washed over me as soon as Is saw his name pop up in my inbox. Well, actually, it was my name, only reversed—Kennedy Riley. The guy was a total jerk. He worked at our sister company across town. Every so often someone mixed up our email addresses and we’d get each other’s messages. [email protected] was pretty easy to mess up with [email protected]. Whenever I received an email that was obviously intended for him, I politely forwarded it along. No peeking. Backwards me, however, wasn’t quite so nice. The nosey son of a bitch had the nerve to not only read my emails, but dissect them and offer his unsolicited thoughts. Hopefully, whatever he had received of mine this time around was innocuous.
I clicked.
No.
No! No! No!
I closed my eyes, barely stifling a groan. Of all the emails for that man to receive, it had to be this one? I sank down into my chair and seriously considered hiding under my desk for the foreseeable future. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d have to say about my writing to Dear Ida. Dan Markel over in advertising kept a bottle of scotch in his bottom drawer, one he thought no one knew about, but we all did. Right about now, I really needed to go borrow it. I sighed and started to read Kennedy’s forwarding note:
Riley, Riley, Riley.
What am I going to do with you?
First off, your mother…she sounds like a real peach. Why do you even give a shit what she thinks? Clearly, she’s a materialistic, self-absorbed narcissist. If you ask me, people who write those cheesy, bragging Christmas letters are usually lonely.
My blood began to boil. I hadn’t asked him. And he had some nerve talking about my mother. What the hell did he know about her? Of course, my email had told a thing or two—but that was supposed to be private—definitely not for his reading or analysis. Plus, you know how things are with family…I could complain all I wanted about my mother or siblings, but no one else freaking could.
I clenched my teeth so hard that I began to feel the early rumblings of a tension headache. Yet instead of deleting the email like any sane person would have, I continued reading.
But let’s get to the heart of the problem, shall we? Why are you twenty-seven, single, and haven’t had a date in ten months? Tell me, Riley…there must be a reason? I asked around about you—rumor has it, you’re not too shabby looking, which makes this situation all the more baffling. Personally, I think you should skip writing to Ida from now on and tell me your problems. I’ll get to the bottom of things real fast.
X
Kennedy
P.S. Is Olivia single? ;)
I couldn’t even understand how this particular message had gotten to him. Who would reply to an email and retype the address of the person they’re responding to? Doesn’t everyone just hit reply? Then I remembered…I hadn’t emailed Dear Ida. I’d filled out a form on the advice columnist’s website. It was the first time I’d ever done such a crazy, impulsive thing. But it had been the day after Thanksgiving, the unofficial start of the holiday season, and I’d had a little bit of wine that night. Like clockwork, my mother had called that morning to make sure I knew that her annual Christmas Eve open house would start promptly at six. She’d also rattled off a list of neighbors and people from church she had invited who had sons that were fine husband material. And so…I celebrated the unofficial start to the time of year I hated most by drinking a bottle of wine by myself and pouring my lonely, tipsy heart out to a sixty-year-old advice columnist. Stupid…I know.
I sighed and slumped deeper into my chair.
Distracted by Kennedy’s rude email, I’d almost forgotten that he’d been forwarding an actual response from the columnist. I straightened and scrolled down and started to read from the bottom up. First, there was a copy of the submission form that I’d filled out on the Dear Ida website. Considering I’d had a little too much wine, I figured I should start with that and refresh my memory on what I’d actually said. Really, how bad could it have been?
Dear Ida,
My mother sends out one of those long-winded Christmas letters each year. It’s usually two to three pages long, mostly about my three siblings and me. Well, that’s not necessarily true—it’s mostly about my three siblings. Because I didn’t go on a volunteer medical mission trip to Uganda to fix cleft palates like my doctor brother Kyle did last year. Nor did I give birth to a set of perfectly adorable identical twins—without any pain medication whatsoever, of course—like my sister Abby, a member of the esteemed New York Philharmonic. And I definitely didn’t place third in the New York State Gymnastics Regionals like my youngest sibling, Olivia—not entirely surprising, considering the fact that a few months ago I twisted my ankle falling off my own high heel.
I think you get my point. My life just isn’t as exceptional as my sisters’ and brother’s. In fact, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I haven’t had a date in ten months. My morkapoo, Sister Mary Alice, gets more action at the dog park than me. Last year, this was the entirety of my section in Mom’s three-page annual brag letter:
Riley is still a junior editor at one of the largest publishing houses in the country. She’s edited two books that made the New York Times bestseller list. We’re thinking she’ll be promoted out of the romance division soon.