Chapter 1 #2
By the time Jayda had slunk home to graduate housing and shut the door of her apartment behind her, twenty minutes had passed, and her phone had buzzed five times. Three missed calls and two texts.
All were from Michael Blair.
Michael Blair’s article was good.
Scratch that—it was more than good. It was sharp, thorough, and relevant, the in-depth political analysis The New York News was supposed to champion.
But his boss, Harold McKenna, was tearing it apart like it was a bad first draft from a freshman journalism student.
“I don’t care if it’s airtight, Michael,” Harold said, waving a hand at the computer screen where Michael’s article was pulled up. Harold acted as if the words offended him. “It’s about conflict in the Middle East. Conflict is depressing. We’re going into Christmas, and no one wants depressing.”
Michael, seated across from him, leaned forward. “It’s not depressing. It’s important. It’s about how fragile the peace talks—”
Harold held up a hand. “Our readers want Christmas cheer. Hope. Nostalgia. Something they can sip cocoa over while the tree lights twinkle. You’ve been here long enough to know the drill.”
Michael blinked. “You’re rejecting it? Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “So instead of covering one of the most important geopolitical stories of the year, you want me to…what? Write about sugar cookies?”
“Not cookies,” Harold said, leaning back in his chair. “Something big. Festive. Human interest.” He paused. “You married?”
Michael stared at him. Michael had worked for the man for a year. Did he even know him? “No.”
“But you have a family, right?”
“Yes, if you mean my parents…and their foster kids.”
Harold’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. A real Shirley Temple Christmas. I want you to lean on family. People love family Christmas stories.”
Michael opened his mouth to argue, but his phone vibrated in his pocket. He removed it to see his mother’s name flash on the screen. Again. He’d been dodging her calls all morning, knowing exactly what she wanted to talk about.
This silly train trip idea she’d conjured up.
He ignored the call. “What exactly do you have in mind, Harold?”
“I don’t know. Something that screams Christmas spirit.” Harold’s gaze sharpened. “What’s your family’s big holiday plan this year?”
Michael hesitated. He’d told absolutely no one about the absurdity Ginny had concocted that morning.
“It’s…crazy. Nothing you’d be interested in.
And neither am I, for that matter. My mom’s dragging everyone on some ridiculous cross-country train trip she’s calling ‘The Blair Polar Express.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “I have no intention of going.”
Harold sat up so fast his chair squealed against the floor. “A train trip?”
Michael immediately regretted opening his mouth. “Don’t get any ideas—”
“That’s perfect!” Harold slapped the desk. “Think about it: cross-country, family reunion, foster kids, Christmas décor, snow, strangers stuck together for days—it’s nostalgic gold. People eat that stuff up. And you’d be right there, documenting the magic.”
Michael stared. “Documenting the magic? Harold, it’s my family. There is no magic.”
Harold grinned like the devil himself. “Then fake it. Or better yet, write it in a way that makes readers believe in it. You’ve got less than two weeks until Christmas Eve. I want it on my desk by the twenty-third. We’ll run it Christmas morning.”
“I’m not going,” Michael said flatly.
“Yes, you are. Unless…” Harold’s tone shifted, casual but sharp. “…you think you’re above this job. I can hire another columnist who will jump at the idea.”
Michael stiffened.
Harold didn’t break eye contact. “You’re welcome to test the waters elsewhere. Lots of outlets are hiring this time of year.”
Michael swallowed the retort burning on his tongue. His father’s voice echoed in his head, deep and unyielding. A Blair doesn’t quit. A Blair earns respect through work.
The Honorable Judge Edward Blair would never respect his son walking out over a Christmas assignment.
Michael forced his jaw to unclench. “Fine.”
Harold’s grin widened. “Knew you’d see reason. Now go pack your snow boots and find the soul of Christmas.”
“Yes, sir.” Michael left Harold’s office deflated, resentment curling in his gut. He grabbed his coat from his desk, needing some fresh air. He couldn’t make small talk in the elevator, and when he stepped into the cold December air, Manhattan’s Christmas lights mocked him from every lamppost.
Two weeks trapped with his family. Two weeks stuck on a train while pretending to care about ornaments and gingerbread houses. And worst of all—Jayda Simone.
The phone in his pocket was still warm from calling her all morning and from her ignoring his every attempt.
He stopped walking, thumb hovering over her contact.
The last time they’d spoken was at least six months ago, and that was only because she’d needed something from his mother.
Jayda never called to catch up. Never showed up for holidays unless guilt-tripped.
Never expressed gratitude for what the Blairs had done for her.
Ungrateful.
That was the word that always came to mind.
She didn’t know the half of what his parents—what he—had done to make her life easier.
She believed she’d gotten into Yale Law purely on merit.
Never guessed about the quiet phone call his father, the judge, made to an old friend on the admissions board.
Never guessed that without the Blairs, she’d still be scraping by in some under-funded community college.
Michael hit Call to try again.
Three rings. Four. He was about to hang up. But this time, she answered.
“You have to get us out of this,” Jayda said. No hello. No preamble.
Michael blinked, caught off guard. “Out of what?”
“This train trip. Tell your mom you can’t go.”
A laugh escaped him—sharp, amused. “Why? Afraid you’ll have to spend time with us?”
“I just…” She hesitated, sounding distracted…nothing new there. “It’s complicated. Something’s come up.”
“It’s always complicated with you.” He leaned against a lamppost, letting the winter wind bite his cheeks. “You never wanted to be part of my family, Jayda. But my parents—my mother—bent over backwards for you. She still does. You could at least be thankful.”
Silence crackled across the line.
Michael pressed on, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You know what? I am looking forward to this train ride. Maybe you’ll remember how much the Blairs have done for you.”
“Michael—”
“I’ll see you at Penn Station tomorrow afternoon,” he cut in. “Be sure to bring your jingle bells.”
Before she could reply, he hung up.
The satisfaction was immediate and petty, exactly the fuel he needed to get through the next two weeks.
If Harold wanted a “Polar Express” story, Michael Blair would give him one. But not the sugar-coated version. No—he’d write the truth. And maybe, just maybe, the people who deserved coal would finally get it.