Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
I haven’t bought a single gift yet, and I’ve been unemployed for days, so imagine the to-do list of people who work sixty-plus hours a week.
My eyes bulge when I realize the seriousness of that last thought.
I haven’t bought a single gift, and Christmas is only eight days away.
Shit!
My parents are easy. I could give them socks, and they’d be as happy as pigs in mud, but I’ve been scrolling online stores for over an hour and haven’t found a single suitable present for Zane.
What do you buy a man you know intimately but have only recently become associated with?
I can’t get him nothing, that’s just scroogie, but I don’t want to go overboard either. I did that for Peter every single celebration, and all I ever got were broken promises.
To keep with the theme of our… whatever the hell this is… I need to make sure Zane’s gift is funny but functional. Reasonably priced but shows I put some effort into picking it out.
It also needs to be…
My thought process trails off when a faint “Ho, ho, ho” trickles through my open bedroom window.
“Yes!” I shout to myself when I come up with the perfect gift. “Then he can eat as many candy canes and drink as much hot chocolate as his heart desires.” No one bats an eyelid when Santa downs a million calories in one night. He has an entire year to burn off the kilojoules, so we let him prepare for hibernation with a heap of naughty foods.
It takes an hour to find a replica of the suit from the Santa Zane swears is stalking him. It’s from a specialist dressmaker in Canada, but by selecting express shipping, it should be here in time for Christmas. I just need to input my credit card details.
I practically skip into the kitchen to fetch my purse from the drawer. I’m so excited that the glitzy sparkle of my engagement ring compliments to the overhead lighting above my kitchen cabinets doesn’t hurt as much as it once did.
It helps that I’m learning what my parents have been endeavoring to teach me since the day I was born.
Sentimental value far exceeds dollar value.
Only last week, my apartment was filled with designer furniture and pricy antiques, but I wasn’t game to sit on a single armchair while wearing a skirt with a zipper in the back because I was afraid of the damage it could cause.
This morning, I stomped across the floorboards with no concern that trinkets on the shelves could topple over.
Zane was down to a final tablespoon of crushed candy canes, and I was determined to sample it off his body as he had mine.
I won the battle. I can’t say the same for the vase I picked up at a thrift shop years ago. It wobbled to the ground when Zane’s hand shot out to secure a hold of anything he could when I took him to the very back of my throat.
Its cracks are blatantly obvious. However, I will never accept Zane’s offer to replace it.
It’s perfect the way it is.
Damaged but more beautiful than ever since it survived the trauma.
As my eyes shift from the vase Zane glued together at six in the morning to the ring I once thought was priceless, I realize it doesn’t add an ounce of value to my life—neither sentimental nor monetary.
It is as worthless as the man who once made me believe I wasn’t enough.
The heaviness on my shoulders clears when I remove Peter’s number from my block list before sending him a quick message.
Me: You have until midday tomorrow to pick up the ring. I’ll be busy until Christmas Eve after that.
Zane asked Emma to block out his planner indefinitely, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Some of his decision could center around wanting to spend time with his family at Christmas.
As my message is marked as read, I receive a notification. It isn’t from Peter. It is a text announcing I missed a call from a local number while searching for a Christmas present for Zane.
I flick away Peter’s reply before calling my voicemail to listen to the message.
I can barely hear the number the caller requests I call back on. My heart is thudding too fast in excitement about the first half of her message.
“Ms. Stranger, it’s Maryann from Marigold Investment Brokers. To say I was pleased to hear about your recent dismissal from Black Industries is an understatement. We’ve been trying to poach you to our firm for years…”
“Seattle? You want to offer me a partnership at your Seattle firm?”
“Yes,” Maryann replies, her tone not as low as mine, her personality still chipper. “Is that a concern?”
“No. Ah…” I run my sweaty palm down the skirt I put on to represent the business take-no-shit-from-anyone woman I portrayed while pretending I wasn’t engaged to my boss.