Chapter 1 #2
“Question,” Kennedy says, nearly bouncing from the couch and pulling me out of my head… which is probably a good thing after where it’s been. “You’re going to do the Santa mailbox again this year, right?”
My brow lifts as I stare over at her. “Yes? Duh. Aside from the chocolate trees and cinnamon candies, Letters to Santa is the most popular thing at the store. As long as Sweet Sullivan’s is open, the mailbox will be there. Gramps put it out this morning.”
Her eyes shine with something… something I can’t exactly place. “Perfect. Exactly what I needed to hear.”
She must read the confusion lining my face because her lips spread into a wide smile. “I’ve just decided that we’re going to write a letter to Santa asking for our dream man. Our wish list for the perfect man. And not the one who sent me a nude with his dick wearing a Santa hat.”
A beat of silence lingers in the air between us before I toss my head back and laugh, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, what? How much wine have you had?” I lean closer. “Are you drunk? Because you do realize that I’m the one who responds to the letters from the mailbox, right?”
It’s been the most beloved tradition at Sweet Sullivan’s for years, and as I got older, Grams passed the responsibility down to me.
Now, I get to respond—as Santa, of course—to all of the kids who put a letter into the mailbox with their Christmas lists.
“Oh, and the fact that you know that Santa actually isn’t real? ” I add because we’re almost thirty.
Her pale blue eyes roll. “Obviously, Rosalie. Please do not remind me how close to our thirties we are. But you know what is real? Manifestation. Which means when we write our letter to Santa and put it out into the universe about our dream man… he’s going to find his way right to us.
It’s proven. When you put it out into the universe, it’s yours. Manifestation 101.”
I’m fairly sure she’s had way too much wine, but she’s not wrong about manifestation. It’s something we’ve always done. I guess I just never thought about writing a letter to Santa as a form of manifestation?
Honestly, what do I know though.
“Why do you have that look on your face?” she says, breaking through my thoughts.
My brow pinches. “Uh, because you’re suggesting we write a wish list for a dream man to a fictional figure who doesn’t actually exist?”
“Okay, well, when you say it like that, it sounds weird, but it doesn’t feel like that in my head.
Look, no matter which way you frame it, we’re simply manifesting our dream man.
Who cares who it’s going to or, in this case, not going to?
C’monnnn, do it for me? Please?” Her bottom lip pokes out as she pouts. “Please, pleaseeeee?”
Kennedy and I both know that there’s a very small list of things that I wouldn’t do for her, like pierce my eyebrow or get a tattoo on my forehead. Jail, hiding bodies, or… I guess writing letters to a fictional man are all on the list of what I would do when it comes to my best friend.
“Fine.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
I nod, tucking my hair behind my ears as I sigh dramatically. “If I must. You know I’d donate a kidney for you, so I guess writing a letter that will never see the light of day falls under the same umbrella too.”
I bite back a laugh as she quickly sets her empty glass onto the table and bounds up from the couch toward my kitchen, returning a minute later with a box of colorful gel pens and blank pieces of paper.
Ken drops to her knees in front of the coffee table as she spreads out the papers and pops the top of the pen box. “Okay. Let’s do this. Obviously, I’ve been thinking about this far too long because I’m ready.”
Slipping off the couch, I sink down onto the hardwood beside her. “Of course you have. You, my girl, are a dreamer. And I love you for it. Even if you somehow always seem to coerce me into your fairy-tale notions.”
I take the pen that she’s pushed toward me with a very proud smile on her face and stare blankly down at the paper.
Unlike my best friend, who spends her days dreaming up a man who likely only exists in fiction, I haven’t thought very hard about what my “dream guy” would be.
I feel like after Bradley, the bar is dangerously low.
Very low.
For a second, I let my mind wander before throwing together the thoughts that are bouncing around my brain.
Dear Santa,
I don’t believe in Christmas miracles.
But if you’re friends with Kennedy Belmont, you quickly learn that you’re just along for the ride. So that’s how I ended up here, writing a letter to a fictional fat man about what I want for Christmas in the form of my dream man.
Honestly, at this point, I’d be great with my grandparents no longer meddling in my nonexistent love life and trying to hook me up with the mailman.
Who cares that I’m 28, single, living in my adorable little apartment above Sweet Sullivan’s… all alone. No husband, no children, just me and my Penny girl.
I’m good with that. It’s everyone else that seems to think I shouldn’t be.
For the sake of placating my hopelessly romantic, albeit overly pushy, best friend, whom I do love so much, I’ll make my list. But it’s up to you to check it twice.
Rosalie’s dream man:
- Tall. Like… really tall. At least 6’1”.
- Bearded, heavy lumbersexual vibe. (Flannel is a want, but not a need)
- Muscular, but not TOO muscular in the “I live and breathe the gym type of way.” More so just the kind of way that he could easily pick me up and toss me around. Just in case there’s a fire, ya know?
- Big di-… Actually, Ken just reminded me who this letter is to, so I should probably keep it PG so I don’t end up on the naughty list (unless that’s a good thing as an adult? I’ll let you decide). Anyway, you do the math on that one, big guy.
- He’ll have a big, close-knit family. A ridiculous number of siblings, or nieces and nephews. The more, the better.
- He has to love weenie dogs. This is non-negotiable. I would be the worst dog mom in the world if I didn’t add this one.
- He’ll need to have an insatiable… sweet tooth. After all, I’m a sweet kind of girl. Candy and cookies, obviously.
- He’s got to be a romantic. The kind of guy who’s willing to go the extra mile. Like… a carriage ride through the town while the snow falls on us, or having a picnic in a field of wildflowers.
“Okay, you know, that’s actually not that bad at all,” Kennedy says with a satisfied smile after I finish reading it out loud to her. “The intentions you set are now out there, and that’s all that matters. Now, c’mon, let’s go mail it.”
When she tries to pull me up from my spot on the floor, I hesitate. “It’s like ten degrees outside, are you crazy? We don’t actually have to put the letter in the mailbox. We wrote it, that’s all the manifestation we need.”
“Ugh, Rosalie, c’mon. We have to see it through.
Just humor me, okay? It’ll take all of like two seconds to walk downstairs and plop it in.
” She keeps tugging until I relent, snatching up the letter off the table.
I don’t even get a chance to grab my jacket or anything warm at all as we make our way downstairs and outside to the front of Sweet Sullivan’s, where the bright red mailbox sits between our shop and the empty store that’s been for sale for years beside us.
Kennedy holds her now folded letter up in the air between us. “Here’s to letting the universe hold the strings. To manifesting the men of our dreams, right here in this mailbox.”
My lips pull into a grin at the same time I roll my eyes, playing along with her silly plan. “Here’s to no more dating apps or unsolicited nudes from guys we met at Trader Joe’s.”
She slips her letter into the mailbox, and then it’s my turn. I push it through the small opening, watching it disappear from sight.
Even though it’s silly and adolescent, my heart still does a weird flutter. An uneven skip in my chest, one that I wasn’t expecting.
“Maybe it’ll be a Miracle on Main Street, Rosalie Sullivan,” Kennedy whispers beside me.
I guess crazier things have happened in Mistletoe Falls.