For my sanity, I forgo calling one more time and switch to text.
Me
You better not have left me here.
Delivered.
Me
Cute how "delivered" keeps popping up when I'm literally NOT delivered anywhere.
Delivered.
Me
Fair warning… Santa's not the only one making a list. And your balls just made the naughty one.
Delivered.
Me
Hope you're practicing your high notes, because I'm about to turn you into a Christmas castrato. Deck your halls with that
Delivered.
Me
Silent Night is about to get real literal for you, buddy.
When my phone finally buzzes… it’s not Nick’s face on the screen, but my mother’s. Probably calling to critique my travel outfit or remind me to pack my "gathering-appropriate" underthings.
Because God forbid the queen sees a panty line during family photos.
I let it go to voicemail and slump against the wall, watching the arrival board flicker like a horror movie jump scare. One by one, each incoming flight status transforms to CANCELED in festive, sadistic red.
At this point, my brother forgetting to pick me up would be the glitter-bombed middle finger of the night. Trust the golden boy to handle one simple task without?—
“Haaaavvvvve a holly jolly…”
The terminal's speaker system that had been playing sedate instrumental music kicks it up a notch, Frank Sinatra's festive croon suddenly blaring at full volume.
Well,Frank, Holly is not freaking jolly. Holly is so devoid of jolly,Fraaaaank, she might actually murder someone with a candy cane.
With the single most important moment of my life looming just days away, this is the single worst time for my luggage to flit off to Narnia.
Boston to Portland. One flight. Fifty minutes. How the hell did the airline screw this up?
My luggage probably found the first bar and sidled right up to all the other things missing in my life—my favorite fuzzy sock, the Tupperware lid I used exactly once, my pride after taking an unfortunate ride on my ex, and my newfound confidence after nailing my last proposal.
Confidence I desperately need to get through my upcoming presentation.
The one at the lodge during our annual Christmas McAllister/McAdams mashup.
Head-to-head against my father and the company he built from the ground up and still lords over to this day.
The one I want him to pass to me.
You know, if I can get him to stop seeing the bubbly daydreamer I used to be. The one who cranked her music too high, wore her quirky clothes too bright, and laughed too loud.
