CHAPTER 3—MADDIE
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@ChaseRocksAndMaddieSucks: And that's why Chase dumped you! @MadsSmithGazette #DearSantaWithLove
@MadsmithGazette: And Happy Holidays to you, too...
I'VE BEEN FIELDING messages since 5 a.m. Some sweets. Some not-so-merry. Now, what I need is a sugar fix. Stepping into Aisling's bakery, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon envelops me. For a moment, I'm simply another local, not the town's latest viral sensation and it feels... right. Well, before my phone beeps with my appointment reminders for the day: one with my past and one with my future.
"There you go," Aisling says, sliding my usual across the counter - a steaming latte and one of those sinfully delicious vanilla-glazed scones. Her smile is understanding. "From one meme to another: it sucks."
I snort, the sound more bitter than I intend. "Pretty sure there's a difference between your love story and my... whatever this is." I sip my coffee, letting the rich flavor ground me. "Your viral moment was Alessandro declaring his love on TV. Mine? Well, wait, I have two. One was Desperate and Valentine's Day obsessed and the second? Desperate and Christmas-obsessed. I sense a theme."
Aisling winces, her freckled nose scrunching up in that way it does when she's genuinely concerned and she slides her glasses back up her nose. "Fair point. But being in the spotlight? It's not all candy canes." She leans in closer, her tone soft. "It was a whirlwind, but not all of it was pleasant. People can be... relentless." Her voice trails off, as more customers slide up to the counter and I move to the side to let Mrs. Johnson order her usual apple turnover. The Christmas-decked counter sparkles in my peripheral vision, a glittery reminder of the season I'm rapidly growing to dread.
"I don't know how you do it," Aisling says, her voice low as she rearranges the pastries behind the glass. "Those reels every week, the podcast, all the #DearSantaWithLove stuff. It's... a lot."
I shrug, picking at my scone. Crumbs scatter, and I brush them into a napkin, tidying the small mess while my life feels out of control. "It's the job, you know? Gotta stay relevant." The words taste as stale as day-old pastry in my mouth.
"Well, you're kind of a superstar," Aisling insists, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. If she only knew how far from super I feel right now.
Instead, I deflect. "Says the woman running an award-winning bakery while raising an adorable kid and planning a wedding to Mr. Perfect." The words come out more wistful than I intend, and I stuff a bite of scone in my mouth to stop myself from saying more.
Aisling's cheeks pink up. "Alessandro's not perfect," she protests, but her smile could light up the whole town.
"Right," I drawl. "Because every guy would start a 'Find a Friend for My Fiancée's contest."
"Don't remind me," Aisling groans, but she's laughing now.
"Hey, I won that contest," I point out, feeling a genuine smile tug at my lips for the second time today. The first time? When I went to the laundry room to pick a shirt up I had "forgotten" and saw a Post-it with a messy scrawl: "Scream 3 is clearly better than Scream 2." I replied that, for once, I agreed.
I lean against the counter, letting the warmth of the coffee mug seep into my palms. For a moment, I close my eyes, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and just-baked pastries. It's almost enough to make me forget about the dumpster fire that is my life right now.
Almost.
"Did you see that letter in the online Gazette before they deleted it?"
The hushed whisper slices through my bubble of calm like a knife through one of Aisling's cream puffs. My eyes snap open, zeroing in on two women huddled over their lattes at a nearby table: Swans Cove's real estate agent and her latest client who moved in two weeks ago on Main Street.
"Oh yes!"
"I can't believe Maddie Smith wrote that. Do you think it's about Damian Mack?"
My stomach twists, nausea rising at their words. My knuckles whiten around the mug, every muscle tensing.
"It has to be!" the first woman insists. "Who else could make hating Christmas look good?"
Well, great, Damian is already known as the Hot Grinch by newcomers. And I'm known as... I'm not sure what.
Heat creeps up my neck, flooding my cheeks. I duck my head, suddenly fascinated by the swirling pattern in my latte foam.
"I should go," I mutter to Aisling, already inching towards the door. "Got some, uh, damage control to do."
As I step out into the crisp morning air, the bell above the door chimes cheerfully, mocking my hasty retreat. Great. Just great. My little literary faux pas is the talk of the town.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. This feels like Groundhog Day of Viral Messes and it's exhausting, constantly feeling like I have to prove myself, like one wrong move will send me crashing back into obscurity or worse, into being a joke again.
And now, with the Not-So-Crabby-News contest, I have a real chance to do something meaningful—to show everyone, including myself, that I'm more than a walking hashtag. Writing an article about the shelter is a good idea. I need to make it the best. But why does it feel like the weight of the world is resting on this one story? Maybe because it is. If I screw this up, there's no coming back.
Time to face the notifications, the whispers, the rumors—and my past. I glance at the time, then dial the number from yesterday's DM. My ex, Chase Parker. What could he possibly want?
ALMOST TEN HOURS LATER , I slam my laptop shut with a satisfying snap that echoes through the almost empty office. The weight of the day is pressing down on me. Chase forgave me and said he's happy now, which is great, but I'm not sure I forgive myself. I still see his face when I proposed in February—disappointed, sad. Today, at least, he sounded happy, even offering to help. But his question still haunts me: "What would you have done if I'd said yes? We liked each other, but we weren't in love." He's right. Would I have lived a life of quiet desperation to present success to the world?
As my phone rings yet again, Diane's pretending to check pictures, but her worried glances give her away. And James is staring at me like I'm a reality TV meltdown waiting to happen.
"You okay?" he mouths.
I lift a shoulder in what I hope is a casual shrug but probably looks more like a half-hearted flail. "Great," I mutter. But even I can hear how hollow it sounds. The truth is, I'm about as far from okay as the last survivor in a holiday slasher flick, and I'm pretty sure everyone can see the cracks in my fa?ade.
I pick up the phone when it doesn't stop. Deep inhale. Forced smile. And there we go again.
"Yes, yes, I am Madison Smith. Yes. That one. Yes. That letter was a mistake. Meant for my therapist."
At least, HollywoodBuzz is doing some fact-checking.
"I'm ready for that meeting."
Right. My afternoon meeting. I look up to see my boss - my probably-about-to-fire-me boss - standing by my desk. He's using that tone, the one that could mean anything from "Clean out your desk" to "Want a Christmas cookie?'
I nod, pushing back from my desk. The wheels of my chair squeak against the linoleum.
Diane gives me a thumbs up: my colleagues have been more supportive than I thought. I've been here less than three months and I was expecting them to relish in my fall from the top. They're not.
As I follow Ed to his office, I feel their eyes on my back. The familiar stale coffee scent hits me, mingling with the festive aroma of the Christmas market in full swing outside his open window. Ed likes to air for about ten minutes a day.
"I'm really sorry about the letter," I say as soon as I sit down. My back is straight, hands clasped tightly to keep them from shaking. "I wrote an apology for the site. And I'm planning a podcast episode about it—mistakes, recovery, kindness. Something holiday-themed, mentioning therapy too."
"That sounds good," Ed agrees, leaning back in his chair. His British accent makes everything sound more severe, like I'm being scolded by a disapproving uncle.
I perch on the edge of my seat. Come on, Ed, get it over with. I've got a date with Ben & Jerry and Ghostface waiting for me at home.
"I'm really sorry this happened to you."
Wait, what? I blink, sure I've misheard. My fingers grip the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white.
"What do you mean you're sorry?" I glance around, half-expecting hidden cameras. But it's just Ed, looking at me with what seems like sympathy.
"You've made a mistake, but I've seen the comments. It must not be easy," Ed says.
I narrow my eyes. "Are you setting me up for something?"
Ed sighs. "The letter was only online for five minutes before Diane caught it."
"But it lives forever in articles and videos," I mutter.
"True," Ed agrees. "But we should have had safeguards in place. This isn't entirely on you."
I stare at him, confused. "Is this your British way of firing me?"
"Definitely not. I've been impressed with your work," Ed leans forward. "We'd like to extend your contract, give you more responsibilities. Maybe even at the editorial level."
I blink, waiting for the punchline. "Oh? Are we talking clicks? Because I've got a backlog of embarrassing moments we could monetize."
Ed's face softens, and oh god, is that pity? Kill me now. "It's not about the clicks, Maddie. The #DearSanta column, that portrait of Damian, your podcast, those articles about menopause – you're bringing in readers because you connect with people. Your words matter to them."
"You know I'm entering the Not-So-Crabby News contest, right?" I blurt out, clinging to my exit strategy—even as they haven't followed me back on social media. Yet.
Ed nods. "I'm aware. But I wanted you to know you have options here, too. You're part of this team." He glances at his watch. "Speaking of teams, don't forget the 'team building' at the Christmas market tonight. And by team building, I mean hot chocolate or spiced mulled wine."
"Right, the market," I say. At least he doesn't want us to skate.
Every night this week, I've found myself "accidentally" passing by the park, watching kids zoom around while their parents sip hot cocoa. Part of me is dying to try, to feel that rush of gliding across the ice. The other part remembers my last skating adventure back in college, which ended with me sprawled on the ice like a starfish in jeans, my pride more bruised than my butt.
"Hope to see you there," Ed says, snapping me back to reality.
I recognize the dismissal in his tone and nod, gathering my things. "Why don't you head home now? Take some time. We're publishing bi-weekly for the next two weeks, not daily. You're good."
The holiday schedule's definitely a perk here. But I open my mouth to protest - there's work to do, damage to control - but Ed cuts me off.
"Remember what I told you before," he says, his voice firm. "You need to live life. You've already worked over ten hours today. Plus this weekend. I'll see you tonight."
As I leave the office, my head spins. Extended contract, more responsibilities—but not the big-city byline I came for. How do I prove I'm climbing the ladder in small-town obscurity?
Lost in thought, I push through the heavy glass doors of the Gazette office. The crisp December air hits me like a wake-up call—literally.
I need to think about my next story. Because that's what I do. I take messy, real-life moments and turn them into neat paragraphs. If only my own life were that easy to edit—hmmm, what would I change? Me?
I inhale deeply, letting it clear my head. That's when it happens.
WHAM!
I collide with a warm, woodsy-scented brick wall that can only be one person.
"Whoa there, Princess," Damian rumbles. "Trying to take me out?"
I look up, pulse racing. His hands steady my shoulders, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact.
"Sorry," I mutter, stepping back quickly. "I was... distracted." By thoughts of you, among other things. But he doesn't need to know that.
His eyes, green as the Christmas wreaths dotting Main Street, search my face. "Rough day?"
I swallow hard, willing my cheeks not to flush. They don't listen. Traitors. "Nothing I can't handle," I manage, sounding frazzled.
He nods, his expression softening slightly. "You know, if you need a—"
"Maddie! It's so nice to see you!"
Damian and I both startle at the interruption. I turn to see Lady Grey approaching, her smile warm and knowing.
"Mom?" Damian's voice is a mix of surprise and suspicion. "I thought you were sending me my Christmas Package this year." He pauses, narrowing his eyes. "What I meant to say is, it's nice seeing you, but aren't you supposed to be in Colorado for a writers' retreat right now? Like they're actually paying you to talk, right?"
"That's New Year's Eve. I decided to come surprise you and spend Christmas in Swans Cove. I know you're busy and I'm staying at the Bed and Breakfast." She pauses, glancing between us. "I don't want to interrupt, of course."
And the way she asks? Oh, Lady Grey, my favorite romance author, read the letter I wrote. About her son. Great. Wonderful.
"Oh, you're not interrupting." My smile is bright. Too bright. And now I'm scowling. Like Damian.
She gives me and her son a meaningful look before opening her arms to me. "Come give me a hug. I'm still not over that portrait you wrote. And thank you for the delivery of Smith Island cake."
Damian raises an eyebrow.
And his mom continues, "For my birthday, Maddie here sent me my favorite flavor of Smith Island cake. So very thoughtful. She reminds me of you."
"Okay."
"You both don't seem to realize what's right in front of your noses." Lady Grey's eyes dance from me to her son. "You know. I just read about this vampire-themed café in Annapolis. 'Blood' smoothies, garlic bread—the works." She winks at me. "Maybe you two should check it out. I hear it's quite the place for a bite."
Oh, going viral was mortifying. This... this is a whole new level of embarrassment.
"Mom," Damian grumbles, "we're not—"
"I know, I know," Lady Grey waves dismissively. "Just a thought. Plus, Damian, you could use some sunlight. You're looking a bit... pale."
"I have to go," I mutter. "Work. Lots of work."
"I'll see you around, Dear." Lady Grey's hand finds mine, and why does such a simple gesture make my heart bubble? "In all seriousness, I'm sorry your words reached the wrong people. Remember who you are—don't let others define you."
"Thank you." Without thinking, I give Lady Grey another hug before walking away—wishing my parents and I had more those easy-moments. The ones where you don't feel like you have to perform to be loved.
Lady Grey's right. I can't let others define me. But how do I shift the narrative? A podcast takes days, and my shelter idea is still half-baked. My gaze lands on a poster outside the bookstore: "Ice Skating. Where Christmas Wishes Come True." I did want to try ice skating again: I might as well film myself. And if I fall? Well, this time it will be on my terms. It's on-brand for the holidays. Falling and getting back up.
I type a quick story: " Dear Santa, this columnist's challenge: conquer the ice rink without recreating my college starfish impression. Mission: Land a spin, stay vertical, spark some holiday magic. #SwansCoveOnIce #DearSantaWithLove."
It's not Pulitzer-worthy, but it's a start. As I head home to prepare, determination warms me more than any cocoa. This time, if I go viral, it'll be on my terms. I'll set the bar high, nail it—or at least own my wipeouts—and remind Swans Cove why they love my column.
But as I walk, unease flickers. Like there's more riding on this than the contest. It's the pressure. And I can brush off pressure. One wobbly skate at a time. Show them what I got.
The thought pushes me forward, but the unease lingers. Like there's more at stake than just my pride.