Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
In front of last year’s tree. Alone. But I was hopeful that would change. In the meantime, I had…Christmas to keep me happy!
“Are you really doing this to me?” I whined. “You’re taking away my Christmas?”
Her green eyes filled with rage. “You know what?” She grabbed the Santa and slammed it down inside my cart. “I give up.” She took her cart and started rolling away.
“You don’t see me telling you not to buy your stupid hair dye, do you?” Kay was a natural blonde, but loved coloring her hair the exact same shade every three weeks for uniformity purposes. She was a perfectionist when it came to her looks. Not an ounce of unneeded fat on her body or a flabby anything. I was pretty flexible when it came to all that, except for managing my frizz. I straightened my brown hair most days or wore it in a bun. “And you’re obsessed with your butt! That’s why it’s so tight. Tight ass!”
“Take me off your list!” she yelled after she turned the corner. “We are not best friends anymore.”
My mouth dropped. “Fine with me, you holiday hate…er…” My words faded with a sad little sigh. I knew she was right to be upset. She’d put up with me and my Christmas mania for far too long.
I just…I just couldn’t stand the thought of throwing anything but a spectacular holiday party or the idea of giving out presents that didn’t say, “I put a lot of time and effort into your gift.” It was an essential element to making everyone feel special.
But Kay never asked for anything. Well, except to borrow my red truck every once in a while when she moved. But aside from that, she only asked for friendship, and here I was shattering her dream of the two of us cruising around in the tropics.
I looked at the items in my cart. “Sorry, guys, but it’s you or Kay.”
CHAPTER TWO
That night, I texted Kay with a heartfelt apology and a photo of my final shopping cart containing only milk, yogurt, and some oranges.
She texted back saying that she would accept my apology if, and only if, I stuck to my promise of spending next to nothing on Christmas and saving my money for that cruise. I couldn’t blame her for doubting my resolve. I’d proven I couldn’t help myself when the holidays rolled around.
This year would be different.
I spent Sunday doing laundry and making a list of gifts under five dollars. Next weekend, I’d make a trip to my storage locker. With a little planning, I could make good use of my older decorations and salvage my party. I just hated throwing all my plans out the window and starting from scratch like this. I was slammed at work and had very little free time as it was.
Monday evening, after a long day at the office, I pulled up to the back alley of my apartment building to park my truck inside for the night. I generally didn’t like using the tiny, narrow garage underneath the building because it was a tight squeeze, but the forecast said we’d be getting snow tonight, and I hated cleaning my windshield in the morning. Took forever.
I pulled in, angling the nose of my red truck toward my garage door, which had to be opened by hand. Like I’d said, it was an old building, so the ceilings were too low for a garage door opener and a truck.
I was about to hop out but noticed a bright red tent next to the dumpster beside my garage door. There was a little light on inside.
Someone was camping there. What the…? Not only was it illegal to pitch a tent on private property, but I was a single woman who knew the dangers of living in the city. The rent here might be expensive, and the neighborhood might be filled with nice old homes, but that didn’t mean it was safe to just walk around by yourself at night in dark alleys. It certainly wasn’t safe to have strangers just living on your doorstep. Or garage door step. Whatever. The point was, clearly some crazy person was inside that tent because it was way too cold to live outside.
I backed up and headed out of the alley. I’d have to park out front on the street.
Twenty minutes later, I was knocking on my downstairs neighbor’s door, feeling beyond annoyed after walking four blocks in the freezing wind to get to our building because there were no spots nearby.
“Jason!” I knocked again, my teeth chattering in the hallway. Jason, a divorced dad in his forties with thinning brown hair and lots of tattoos, was basically the building’s manager, getting a steep discount on rent in exchange for doing repairs and keeping an eye on things. Next door to him was Mrs. Trudy, an unfriendly woman in her seventies, and upstairs, next to me, was Mrs. Larson, a retired teacher in her sixties. She was nice, but left her TV on too loud.