Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Maybe I still have a job at Moth to the Flame . . . at least for a bit longer.
“Seriously, Chloe. The way you explained how to layer necklaces without them getting tangled up. How have I lived this long and not known all you have to do is link them together and then treat them as one big necklace? Pure gold.”
I smile at the praise and greedily want to hear more. “Really?”
“Really. The higher-ups are buzzing about the reach. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a call from Jasmine herself today.”
Jasmine. The CEO of Moth to the Flame. My palms start to sweat at the mere thought of it.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling,” she says. “I’m heading to Montauk for Christmas. My family is getting together, and I need a wingman. I need someone by my side to help me navigate the chaos. You in?”
I hesitate. Christmas in Montauk sounds amazing, but spending it with Sloane’s family? That’s a whole different story. I’ve heard tales of their wild holiday gatherings—the competitive gift exchanges, the heated political debates, the infamous eggnog incident of 2018.
“I don’t know, Sloane,” I say, biting my lip.
“Oh, come on!” she pleads. “It’ll be fun. Plus, you can use it as material for your next post. ‘How to Survive a Family Christmas Without Losing Your Mind.’ Or ‘What Necklace to Wear to Hang Yourself.’ It’ll be a hit!”
She’s not wrong—it would make for great content.
But I’m not ready to be cheery and in the spirit. Not yet. I wasn’t kidding when I told Jack that I’m a Scrooge. I just can’t . . .
“Sloane, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I’m up for it this year,” I say, trying to let her down gently. “Christmas isn’t really my thing, you know? Not since—”
“I know. But you can’t grieve them forever.”
A lump forms in my throat. Sloane’s words hit me hard, even though I know she means well.
“I’m not grieving forever,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just . . . need more time.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I can almost see Sloane’s face softening, her usual bravado giving way to concern.
“I didn’t mean to push,” she says gently. “But maybe . . . maybe this is exactly what you need. A change of scenery, some chaos to distract you. My family may be nuts, but they’re also warm and welcoming. You won’t have to be alone with your thoughts.”
I close my eyes, picturing the empty family home that awaits me for the holidays. The thought of spending another Christmas surrounded by memories and ghosts of Christmases past makes my chest tighten. I’m starting to question staying in this house. Taking on a lease that is far too expensive for me. But I can’t say goodbye. It still smells like them. I can still hear their voices. This house is still them.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. Sloane’s offer is tempting, a lifeline thrown into the sea of my grief. But can I really face a bustling family Christmas when my own family is so painfully absent?
“Ask me again next year. I promise I’ll stop acting like a lump of coal. But I need this year to figure out my shit. Face my shit,” I finally say, my voice cracking slightly. “I need to face the memories head-on, you know? Maybe it’s time I stop running from them.”
Sloane sighs, but I can hear the understanding in her voice. “I get it. But promise me you won’t spend the whole time moping around in your pajamas, eating old Chinese food and watching terrible crime docs.”
I laugh. “I make no such promises.” My thoughts go to Jack and how I may have a partner in crime with my acts.
“At least mix in some action movies or something. Die Hard is technically a Christmas movie, you know.”
“I’ll consider it,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“Fine. I’ll accept this answer for now. But then you owe me. Let’s get drinks tonight. We haven’t had our traditional ugly sweater cocktail hour yet this year. It’s time,” she suggests.
I glance at my calendar, already knowing it’s empty. “Sure, I’m free. Where should we meet?”
“The usual spot. Tonic at eight. Don’t forget your ugliest sweater!”
I laugh, picturing the gaudy reindeer-covered monstrosity I’d picked up at a thrift store last year. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing.”
We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up. I don’t have long to get ready if I want to catch the ferry to Manhattan and considering that I’ve been working on admin all day wearing nothing but sweats and a messy bun, I have some work to do if I’m going to have a chance of measuring up to Sloane’s effortless beauty.