Acting Merry

Chapter 1

one

Reese

My driveway.

As of five days ago, that concrete—with all its small cracks and divots—belongs to me and only me.

And not just the concrete.

My house comes into view: gray siding, gabled porch, a pine wreath on the door I swear I can smell from four houses away.

Flo Rida probably wrote his anthem about something splashier than my three-bedroom rambler, but there’s no way he loves his mansion more than I love my new digs.

I sigh happily, then belt the chorus as I pull in.

I dash inside, the December wind cutting through my scrubs as I open the door to pine and cinnamon.

Scrubs come off in favor of wool socks, leggings, and an oversized sweater.

It hasn’t even been a week since I closed on the house, but thanks to Hobby Lobby’s sale racks, the main rooms are fully Christmas’d: twinkle lights under my upper cabinets, pine boughs along the counters, a five-foot tree lit and trimmed in the living room.

But my favorite spot? The little bay window that looks onto the front yard.

I may not have made my bed, but the festive pillows and blankets in this spot are perfectly placed. I can cozy up with my chunky knit blanket and hot cocoa and watch the red-rimmed December sunset turn to blue-bathed dusk and my neighbors’ Christmas lights flick on one by one.

The mail truck squeaks to a stop, and I shrug on my pink peacoat and a pair of slippers.

Will it all be junk mail for the previous owners?

Absolutely. Do I care? Not even a little.

I like the ritual of walking to the mailbox.

My mailbox. Someday soon it’ll house credit card offers and Publishers Clearing House spam addressed to me. A truly thrilling prospect.

I flip down the mailbox door and pull out four pieces of mail: Home Depot coupon. Architect Magazine. Martha Stewart Living. One envelope with the weight of a debit or credit card. Possibly one of those fake ones companies send, but given the discreet nature of the envelope, I kind of doubt it.

“Time to forward your mail, Cole Bradley,” I mutter, setting it all atop the growing pile of his mail next to my favorite Christmas candle: cedarwood and vanilla.

I text my real estate agent to ask if she can ping Cole Bradley’s agent about his mail, then get started on dinner: leftover salmon. In my eagerness to ingest yesterfood, I slosh marinade on the counter, grab a rag from under the sink, and spot the little puddle beneath the pipes.

I stick an empty cottage cheese container beneath to catch future drips, making a mental note to call a plumber.

Maybe I should’ve cooled it on the Hobby Lobby decorations and put that money into an account for home repairs.

I’m used to being able to call the landlord, but we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

This place is my responsibility and mine alone.

My phone buzzes as I wait for the salmon to reheat in the air fryer. It’s our Christmas Cabin Getaway thread.

Every year, my three freshman dormmates and I go stay at a cabin in Snoqualmie for a couple nights.

We don’t see each other very often anymore, but this is a tradition we’ve kept for six years now.

It’s the thing that gets me through the gray, rainy months while I’m waiting for the divine but all-too-short Seattle summers.

But this particular text releases a buzz of nerves inside me. I’m anxious for this year’s getaway. I haven’t seen my friend Megan since she started dating Brady.

As in my ex, Brady.

Okay. Ex might be a dramatic way of putting it. But what do you call the guy you dated for two months, even if you never were official?

Whatever the word, this is the first time I’m not looking forward with unfettered anticipation to the Christmas cabin getaway. I just have this feeling it’s going to be…weird between Megan and me.

It’s not Megan’s fault. If anything, it’s mine. I was the one who asked her to return Brady’s things to him so I wouldn’t have to see him—apparently the spark that lit their texting.

She was so incredibly nervous to let me know he’d kept texting her afterward that all I’d cared about was making sure the tears in her eyes didn’t spill over.

And when she messaged me a couple weeks later, every bit as nervous as before to let me know Brady had asked her out but that she was totally planning to say no if I was even the slightest bit bothered by it?

I reassured her again. I believe my exact words were, “I insist you say yes.”

Why? Because I have problems, obviously.

I open the thread.

Hannah

Eight days and counting! Hot tub is warmed up. Christmas tree is decorated. Check-in is at 2. What time is everyone planning to arrive? The correct answer is 2.

Tess

We’ll be there at 1:58 sharp, ready to party!

We refers to Tess and her boyfriend, Dylan.

I suppress a little sigh.

It’s always been just the four of us, but this year, Hannah’s bringing her husband, Tyler, and Tess is bringing her boyfriend, which leaves Megan and me as our own awkward couple of sorts.

I set my phone aside. I miss the days when it was just the four of us at the cabin, blissfully single. Testosterone-free.

I still haven’t responded after eating my dinner, and neither has Megan, which makes me think she’s probably feeling just as weird as I am.

This doesn’t have to be weird, though, right? We’re friends and have been friends way longer than Brady has been part of our lives. I want Megan to know that her happiness matters to me so much more than some dumb girl code—especially when I specifically told her she wasn’t breaking that code.

Reese

I get off work at 2, so I’ll be there closer to 3. Can’t wait to see all of you!

I’m washing the dishes when my realtor sends me a text letting me know Cole Bradley will swing by for his mail by tomorrow afternoon.

I hadn’t really been planning on the guy coming here. I figured I’d write a forwarding address on the mail. But sure—saves me some trouble, I guess. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I don’t work. I was going to unpack boxes and check a few things off my growing list of projects anyway.

Megan still hasn’t texted her planned arrival time at the cabin when I wake in the morning. After a minute’s hesitation, I send her a personal text.

Reese

Hey, Meg! Wanna carpool to the cabin together?

There. That should let her know everything’s still totally cool between us, right? Even though 40% of me hopes she’ll turn me down so we don’t have to spend the hour drive in potential awkward conversation.

I hope she says yes. That way, we can get through the first in-person encounter since she and Brady went out and put it behind us. Rip off the bandaid.

Expose the wound to the biting winter air. Sounds lovely.

I get after my to-do list with Christmas tunes blasting—one of the perks of owning a house rather than renting an apartment with paper-thin walls and neighbors on every side.

I keep an eye on the front yard for any sign of Cole Bradley’s arrival, but noon passes, then one, then two, then three.

By five o’clock, it’s getting dark outside, and I’ve given up on the guy.

It’s a shame, really. I was curious to see what kind of man subscribes to Martha Stewart Living.

I was also looking forward to reclaiming that little bit of counter space.

I’ve got a cute wood-block Christmas calendar that would fit perfectly in that spot.

At six-thirty, headlights flash through the living room, and a car pulls up to the curb. Not just up to it. Onto it, the passenger-side tires settling on the grass. Martha Stewart would not approve.

It’s a woman who gets out of the passenger side of the still-running car, though. His wife, maybe? Maybe she’s the one with the Martha subscription.

The street lamp by my mailbox illuminates her as she shuts her cardigan in the door, frees it, then walks across the grass in heels. She’s cradling something in her arms.

I squint. Is it a baby? A chihuahua covered in a blanket? The mystery of the lump has me transfixed as she reaches the porch.

She knocks five times, quick and hard.

I startle. In my efforts to analyze the mystery lump, I forgot she was coming to my door. I should’ve been getting the pile of mail, but her knock is so urgent, I head to the door first.

I open it to her fist cocked for round two. This woman really wants that Martha Stewart magazine. She’s young and beautiful, with long black hair that gleams under the porch light, full lashes that may or may not be fake, and a pair of full pink lips.

But it’s the change in her expression that keeps me in place. She stares at me like I just kicked the chihuahua in her arms—or whatever’s hiding under that fabric.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” She scoffs, shakes her head, and stares with what I can only describe as transfixed disgust. “Un. Believable.”

“Uh, hi,” I say, friendly but bracing. The dark lump in her arms suddenly feels less chihuahua, more grenade.

I search her face for some thread of familiarity. Could she be an unhappy patient? Maybe I flossed her teeth too harshly. Left her waiting too long? Gave her mint fluoride instead of apple?

To really recognize her, though, I’d need her to open her mouth Steven Tyler-wide, and as a rule, I don’t ask people to do that outside of the dentist’s office.

“Can I help you?” I ask, clutching my phone like it’s a brick I may need to use to protect myself.

The passenger window of the car rolls down, and another woman leans over from the driver’s seat. “Who’s that?” she yells.

Porch Woman turns her head. “Who do you think? His new girlfriend.” The last word drips with resentment as she aims her dagger eyes at me again.

“I’m sorry—what?” I haven’t been this confused since my realtor tried to explain reverse mortgages.

“Here.” She throws the lump at me, and I try to dodge it.

Too slow to dodge, the hunk of fabric hits me in the face, along with men’s cologne. It’s cedar, and…something I would trade out my beloved Christmas candle for in a second.

I pull the fabric off my head and find myself holding a gray sweatshirt.

“But just so you know,” the woman says, as though we’re picking up in the middle of a conversation. She takes a step toward me, and I get the slightest whiff of alcohol.

My body wants to retreat, but if this woman thinks she’s gonna backwalk me into my brand new house that I paid for with my very own money? She picked the wrong house. The wrong wrong house.

I hold my ground and meet her gaze.

“One day,” she says, “when he’s bored of you, he’ll toss you into his dumpster fire of hearts along with the rest of us.”

Do I laugh at the imagery or applaud it? I have a whole list of other things I want to say first. Things like “Get off my porch” or “Thank you for not throwing a grenade at me” or “What brand of celestial cologne is on this sweatshirt?” But first I need to know who we’re talking about.

“Come on, Bree,” the other woman calls out from the car. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

“He left his sweatshirt at my house, Nina!” Bree says. “Which means he wanted to see me again. Right?” She looks to me for corroboration.

I open my mouth wordlessly, but leaving a personal object behind is a classic move.

“Except that he ghosted you after,” Nina yells.

Those definitely feel like mixed messages. I can see how this woman would be confused.

“He doesn’t deserve you fighting for him,” Nina adds.

I glance down the street, wondering if we’ve attracted an audience of my neighbors yet. I was kind of hoping to start those relationships off with a plate of cookies rather than a shouted debate between strangers, but here we are.

“I get that you really liked him,” Nina says, “but it was just two dates.”

Whoa whoa whoa. I stare at the woman standing in front of me and try to add this piece to the puzzle of an increasingly bizarre interaction.

Two dates? Two dates?! I guess heartbreak doesn’t check the calendar.

“Yeah,” Bree shouts back at her friend, “I didn’t think he’d already have a girlfriend!” Her gaze shifts back to me, and she studies my face for a second. Her eyes narrow and her forehead wrinkles. “I can’t believe he picked you.”

I blink and rear back.

Hold on a second, now. Why shouldn’t he pick me? Whoever “he” is.

I may not know his name, but at least I wouldn’t rock up to the wrong house like an incompetent stalker after only going out twice. No wonder Bree got confused about where he lives. I know almost as much about this man as she does.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, unable to help myself. She’s known me all of three minutes. She’s known…whoever…for two dates.

She crosses her arms and gives a little laugh, looking away as though I’ve asked the world’s dumbest question, and she can’t bring herself to state the obvious. “Just…consider yourself warned: Cole Bradley is a heartbreaker. Through and through.”

Wait, what?