Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
ASHER
“ I ’m not here to crack the whip two weeks out from Christmas,” I tell my team of twelve employees while standing at the front of the conference room. “I know you’ve all probably got plans for the holidays, but I want to go in a new direction for the latest phone. We’ve been trying to make it smaller and thinner, but there have been complaints about usability. I’d like us to achieve the impossible—sleek but manageable. Something with the practicality of a video game controller while still appealing to the high-powered executive who wants to draw their competitors’ eyes when they put their phone on the desk during a meeting.”
They all nod, some of them taking notes.
After the meeting, a young man approaches me. He’s wearing a red Christmas sweater with the words The Most Wonderful Time of the Year printed on the front. It’s unfair of me to dislike him immediately for this. I’m such a miserable ass at this time of year.
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Derek Wells.”
“Good to meet you, Derek.”
“I just wanted to say we’re thrilled to have you here. What you did in California was impressive. You turned two companies around without touching the tech, just the exterior.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“Are you staying with Mr. Harper?”
He’s got a hungry look to him. That’s the only word that makes sense: sunken cheeks, manic eyes, too much coffee, too much cheer.
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw you arrive together … with Holly Harper, too.”
The way he says Holly’s name sets off my alarm bells. “My living situation isn’t any of your concern, Derek.”
“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry.” He hurries from the room.
It’s not exactly the best start. He was probably just trying to be friendly. I’ve only been in the office for around an hour, and already, I’m looking forward to the New Year when we can tear these decorations down. It’s like there’s a sick obsession with all this crap.
And him mentioning Holly?—
What else is there to say? She’s all grown up. I wouldn’t have even recognized her if I didn’t know Dan was living with his sister. Curvy build and green eyes like a goddamn wreath, looking sassy and capable in her business suit, black, tight-fitting, emphasizing the shape of her body.
She looked so proud of herself for hiding my clothes as if she were going to burst with excitement. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. It was cute. Cute, as in, whoa, my best friend’s sister is pretty cute. I don’t mean “cute,” as in, Wow, I’d like to take this chick on a date .
I’ve got more chance of putting on a Santa suit and running around the office with a sack of gifts than that happening.
For the next few hours, I sit in the main office, reviewing my predecessor’s notes, trying to work them into a logical arrangement. They’re a mess. I make lists. Not lists like he’s making a list, checking it twice —lists like a cold, calculating machine, methodically bringing the world into some semblance of order.
A knock comes at my door at two.
“Hello, sir,” a woman says. “Can I introduce myself?” She’s a little awkward. “My name’s Mia.”
I must look startled because she takes a step back. Mia is the name of the woman I dated last year until she broke up with me at Christmas. It’s a weird coincidence, but I quickly plaster what I hope is a professional smile on my face. The last thing I need is to bring my personal baggage into the office.
Plus, they’re nothing alike. This Mia has red hair in a ponytail, and she’s a few years younger than the woman I was dating. A callous way to think of an ex, maybe, but I can’t think of her as “my” Mia. I never could.
“Hi, Mia. Can I help you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that they’re announcing the Secret Santa in the cafeteria. Marketing wants us there. I think they’re going to be getting some footage.”
That means Holly will be darting around with her camera, just like when she was a kid. That hasn’t changed, then.
“I’ll be right down.”
I’m not sure there’s much use to me going. They certainly won’t use footage of me sitting around glaring. Who knows, though? Maybe Holly’s Christmas spirit will rub off on me.
I like the idea of her rubbing off, but not for that. Thoughts like this are going to get me put on Saint Nick’s fuck-you list. Or does he have another name for it?
Yet it’s true. She’s curvy, sexy, and tempting. This morning, when I was half-naked, and she was staring at me, I liked it. I wanted to tear off her oh-so-proper pantsuit and see what was underneath. It doesn’t mean I have to act on it.
I walk into the cafeteria. Predictably, there’s another giant, sparkling tree in here. Memories are funny things. One hits me now— hits me hard. It’s Mom, skeleton-thin, rushing around some bush she dug up from a neighbor’s yard. She’d tied some fast-food toy to it with dental floss, grinning at me, manic, high.
“Isn’t this going to be the most special Christmas ever?”
I push the memory away. I’m not a kid anymore. There’s no point in dwelling on the past.
Hundreds of people crowd into the large room. There’s a mic stand at the front and two speakers. In the corner, I spot Holly with a big camera in her hand. She’s got a focused expression on her face. It’s interesting and appealing. She looks passionate about her job. It’s good to see all my douchebag teasing didn’t discourage her from pursuing her passion.
Dan walks out and takes the mic like a rock star. “What’s up, my holiday heroes?”
Everybody cheers. I clap. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but hearing “holiday heroes” makes me cringe. There’s nothing heroic about putting on a silly outfit and wrapping consumer products in wastepaper.
“As you all know,” Dan continues, “we love ourselves some Secret Santa. Mystery, intrigue, surprise, but you know what ruins it? When you get a gift that sucks .” Everybody chuckles. “So, this year, we’ve devised an idea to make that less likely. Using phones from our recycling project, we’ve programmed them so that they can only text one number—your Secret Santa. You can use these to give hints about what gift you’d like or to lead them astray. The only rule is not to reveal who you are. Keep it secret. Keep it fun. So, who’s ready to get this party started?”
I almost roll my eyes like a petulant kid. Just because I think this is stupid doesn’t mean everybody else will. I line up with the others as people hand out phones.
“And remember,” Dan says into the mic, “if any of you mischievous elves …” More laughter. “… abuse this system, I’ll have HR on your ass quicker than Santa can jump on his sleigh.”
Did he seriously use Santa and his sleigh as an HR threat? I must be losing my mind. The Harpers were always a Christmassy bunch, but this is next level—almost unbelievable.
The closer I get to the front, the closer I get to Holly. She walks around with her camera. I like how she tosses her head to get her thick brown locks out of the way. Then she pauses, grabs a scrunchie, and ties it up into a messy ponytail that’s somehow more attractive.
She sees me looking and aims the camera at me. Doing a quick witness check, I flip her the bird. She lowers the camera. She looks like she’s trying to hold back the smile that spreads inevitably across her face. When she loses the battle, she goes for a pout instead.
Dan hands me one of their older cell phones. “Don’t look too excited.”
“Ha ha,” I mutter sarcastically.
“It’s just a bit of fun.”
“I’m having fun—the time of my life. I can’t wait,” I say dryly but with a hint of a smile.
Back in my office, I call my real estate guy. I’ve got a penthouse waiting for me, but there’s an issue with the bedroom. That means I’ll be with Dan until at least after the holidays.
I could get a hotel. I have the money, but I’ve missed Dan. We were inseparable as kids. He didn’t care that I was from the wrong side of the tracks or had holes in my sneakers. I helped him by kicking the asses of any jerks who thought they could bully him, and he helped me with books and computer time. We were a good team.
Back then, it was easier. Back then, I never dreamed I’d one day find his little sister attractive.
I grab my phone when I hear the alert noise. There are no notifications.
Oh, that’s right. It’ll be my other phone.
I check that one; it’s a blockier older model. All the phones handed out differ, depending on what our customers recycled. After this Secret Santa stuff, they’ll presumably become recycled.
My Secret Santa: Do you want to give me any hints about what gift you’d like so I can ? —
Me: I’m okay with telling each other what we’d like. Or, honestly, you can save your cash, and I’ll just get you something.
My Secret Santa: Talk about ruining the fun. Why don’t you want to do the Secret Santa?
Me: Call it a philosophical viewpoint if you’d like. I don’t mind. Let me know when you’ve chosen your gift.
My Secret Santa: That isn’t how this works.
I put the phone into the top drawer and finish my work. The stranger texting me can’t have any idea how sick I am of people trying to force me to get into the holiday spirit. A knock at my door—Mia again. She’s holding a little tree in a plant pot, complete with lights.
“I thought you might like this, sir,” she says, biting her lip while looking down. Please don’t say she’s attracted to me. I’m not in the mood for any office romance, none, but especially one-sided.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“It’s a little cold in here,” she says.
“The rest of the office is cheery enough. Honestly, thanks for the thought, but it’s fine.”
When she turns away, she mutters, “No fun …”
Is Mia my Secret Santa? After the text exchange I just had, it’d make sense. What are the chances of it? Hundreds of phones were handed out. It doesn’t matter. Soon, they’ll break, tell me what gift they want, and I can just buy it and go on with my life.
“Want to join us for a late dinner?” Dan asks.
I’ve got him on speakerphone as I drive through the city. “Sure. I’ve just got to handle that thing first.”
“Good luck. You’ll be fine. Remember, she isn’t the same person anymore.”
“I know. We’ve written letters. Even talked on the phone a few times.”
Seeing her is going to be different, though. Mom was just beginning to get clean when I moved away. She was determined to make me proud. She stuck to her word, too. I am proud, but I don’t need a mom now. I needed one when I was a kid.
When I came home, she practically begged me to visit her. It was heartbreaking. I’d feel like a douche if I left her in the lurch. It doesn’t mean it will be the touchy-feely reunion she might be waiting for.
I pull into her driveway. The house she lives in now is far more presentable than the one we lived in when I was a kid: a well-kept lawn, freshly painted door, a practical car in the driveway, not sitting on cinderblocks. It has wheels and everything.
There are decorations, too, predictably.
Mom throws the door open. She’s healthier than when I last saw her, with some meat on her bones. She runs out to the car and jumps at me, wrapping her arms around me. I hold her, aware I’m not as enthusiastic as she is. It’s tough. She disentangles herself, laughing uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry, Asher. That was a bit much.”
“It’s good to see you, Mom.”
“Do you want some tea? Coffee?”
“Sure, but I can’t stay long. I told Dan I’d have dinner with him.”
She swallows. “That’s fair. I can’t expect too much.”
“The place looks good,” I tell her, avoiding her words.
“I have you to thank for that, my go-getter son. I’ll never stop being grateful.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t take care of my mother. What else am I going to spend my money on?”
She takes my hand. “You’re so big now. So strong. So different.”
I shrug. I can feel how badly she wants to make this emotional. All I can think about is that bush dug up from a neighbor’s yard, dental floss holding the pitiful ornaments in place. The look of manic, disconnected glee on her face made me feel like she was living a completely different reality from me.
I’ve built callouses over my soul—scars over any goodwill I ever had.
“You look different, too. Better. Healthy,” I acknowledge.
“Let me make you that tea.”
She leads me inside. I don’t stay long. We don’t talk about anything that has any meaning. She asks about the weather “out west,” as she calls it, and I tell her about my workout routine. Then, I can’t take anymore. I have to leave.
She doesn’t make me stay, but she can’t hide her sadness.
On the drive home, I berate myself for it. What sort of son am I? Why couldn’t I give the old lady what she wanted?
I can’t just flip a switch. It’s like with this Christmas stuff. I can’t suddenly become a glittering mess of red and green lights, a “ho ho ho” smiling holiday-obsessed lunatic. I can’t become the son she wants just because she’s turned into the mother I always wanted—far too late.