“Heard you busted the Salem Street Boys.” I see that news has spread.
“They messed up my screws, so yeah, I did.” I pluck a flange-head screw from the dome-head pile and put it in the appropriate bin.
“The audacity,” Arden sarcastically says as he plops a blank gold envelope on the counter beside the cash register.
My eyes go to it and then back up to him. “What’s that?”
“That, my friend, is a letter.”
“Yeah, I figured that, but from who?”
He blows on his knuckles and then rubs them against his shoulder. “Oh, just someone who happened to read your crumpled-up letter from the other day.”
“What crumpled-up ...” My voice falls as I spin to look into the wastebasket. The empty wastebasket. “Where the hell is the letter I wrote?”
“Ah, you see, I thought it would be fun to deliver it to someone I knew was going through the same feelings as you. Misery loves company and all.”
“Jesus, Arden, that was private.” I grip my hair and blow out a large sigh of frustration. “That wasn’t for anyone.”
“Maybe not, but this person found it quite entertaining.” He taps the envelope. “You’ll thank me later.”
And just as quickly as he came in, he darts to the back of the store, toward the Christmas section.
Like ...Where do you find the nerve to read my trash?
And where exactly is there someone in this small town who despises Christmas as much as I do? Let me give you a hint ... nowhere.
Yet I’m intrigued.
Very unlike me.
Let’s chalk it up to hearing “Home for the Holidays” by Perry Como five times today on the town speakers while walking from my house to the hardware store. Just like Port Snow, Bright Harbor plays Christmas music on repeat. Like, right now, if I listen closely, I can hear it playing outside.
Yup, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”—how terrifyingly morbid, and yet it’s sung with such optimism.
Anyway, my eyes fall back to the letter, and because I’m sick of sorting screws, I pick it up and examine the gold envelope. Feels festive. I can’t imagine that someone who despises Christmas as much as I do would have gold stationery.
Let’s just see exactly who this person might be.
I flip open the flap, pull out the matching gold stationery, and read the letter.
Dear Resting Scrooge Face,
This might come as a bit of a shock to you, being that we live in a town where Christmas never sleeps, but I’d like to admittedly piggyback on your sentiments toward the holiday.
Here are my reasons:
Eggnog. Why this is a liquid we consume, I can’t quite be sure, but the fact that it’s thrust upon us like water is incomprehensible.
Gift giving. Isn’t this just a “Ring around the Rosie” of money? Especially now, as an adult. You give a gift card, you get a gift card back. Seems pointless—why don’t we all just keep our money and call it a day.
Laughing children. This might make me sound like an utter troll, but the sound of children laughing while Christmas music plays in the background really makes me want to pull out the Snowball Slinger Two Thousand—prototype, made up in my head—and start pelting them, one by one.
Mistletoe. The only people who like to hang this are the meddling aunts of the world who think it’s the world’s greatest treasure to make two people awkwardly dance around the pressures of having to smash mouths in public.
And last but certainly not least, parties where people expect you to bring a plus-one. And if you don’t, the dreaded question of why you’re single. It’s none of your freaking business, Robert, or Pam, or ... Jerry.
Sheesh, had to get that off my chest. Thanks for listening.
