Chapter 2
Sam
Christmas cheer is a plague
Christmas cheer is a plague, and Frankie Thompson is its most devoted carrier.
Her house twinkles like it’s trying to attract low-flying aircraft, every color flashing in rhythmic patterns that seep through the gaps in my curtains.
Her festive obsession is determined to invade even my blackout ones.
After our altercation earlier, she’s out there again, singing Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree off-key as she wrestles another strand of lights into place.
I’m surprised she has any left. Her laughter rises above the music as she stretches up toward her porch entryway and almost loses her balance on the stepladder she’s standing on.
I pace my living room, jaw tight, as her holiday madness leaks into my sanctuary.
The perfect, quiet retreat I moved to six months ago, ruined by one overly cheerful neighbor.
I’d chosen Holly Creek for its stillness, its picturesque streets, its promise of escape.
What I hadn’t factored in was the human Christmas megaphone across the street.
Unable to resist the pull of morbid fascination, I sink into my armchair, the one that gives me a perfect view without being seen. There she is, adjusting the reindeer on her lawn. Brushing a dusting of light snow off its stupid red nose, nodding at it like she’s talking to an old friend.
We’ve been neighbors for six months now, and she still manages to catch me off guard.
I tell myself it’s curiosity, but I know I’m lying.
Her own Santa hat slips, revealing dark curls spilling out, and for a moment, I catch myself staring.
Not because she’s beautiful (though she is), but because of her energy.
It’s infuriating how she throws herself into all this nonsense with such unshakable determination.
She doesn’t care about the cold, the mess, or the sheer absurdity of putting this much effort into something so fleeting. And something about her intrigues me.
I turn away, running a hand through my hair as frustration bubbles up again.
It’s not the lights, or the music, or even Frankie herself.
It’s what it all represents. The holiday I used to love.
The holiday I can’t bear to face. It just feels like a bruise someone keeps pressing.
Logically, I know it’s not her fault that I’m feeling this way, but I can’t seem to let it go.
I clench my fists, forcing the memory back into the box where it belongs. Years, and it still refuses to stay there. This is why I came here—to escape. To start over. To forget. And hopefully to find something that wasn’t a bad memory.
Another yelp from outside drags me back, and I find my gaze drawn to the window again, watching as Frankie wobbles down the steps of her foldaway ladder. She’s a goddamn catastrophe.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. Damn her.
Forcing myself to turn away, shaking my head, I stand, walking away from my armchair and instead sink onto the sofa on the other side of the room.
The laptop on the coffee table glares at me, the blank document daring me to try again.
I’ve migrated from my attic office in the hopes that I might find inspiration in different parts of this house…
Sadly, that hasn’t been the case at all.
It’s only served as more of a distraction down here because I’m closer to the kitchen, and I’ve drunk enough tea to sink a ship.
“Come on,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “You used to be able to do this in your sleep.”
The cursor blinks like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding, as I stare at the screen. A title would be a start. Or a first line. Or even a coherent thought. But my mind feels as blank as the page.
I reach for the mug on the table, only to find it empty. Figures. Setting it down with more force than necessary, I shift my focus back to the screen, willing the words to come.
My editor’s last email still rings in my ears: “We understand you need time, Sam, but it’s been years. People are starting to forget your name.”
Forget my name. Right. Because my name used to mean something. Because once, I wrote stories that mattered. Stories that people read and talked about.
I close my eyes, trying to summon that part of myself.
The part that knew how to turn feelings into words.
But all that comes is silence. At what point do I accept that I’m not a writer anymore?
That I haven’t written anything new for years.
Four years, to be exact. Four years almost to the day was the catastrophe that left me single, friendless, and unable to write a damned thing.