Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

The costume is utter perfection.

My best friend Kat helped make it, finding pieces in thrift shops and boutiques around the city. The light-pink corseted bodysuit cost the most, but it’s what inspired the entire ensemble. When it arrived in the store a few weeks ago, the vision shimmered in my mind, and I couldn’t shake it. A thrifted white circle skirt keeps it cute and slightly more modest. Kat made the bunny ears on my head, the tail pinned to my ass was made by me, and I found these killer nude, sparkly pantyhose online.

The sky-high light-pink stilettos are from my closet, a pair I had pushed to the back years ago when I met Richard’s college friends. It was around that time when I decided it was time to retire my pink and sparkle college girl days.

“What do you think?” I ask my phone as I spin in a circle, the skirt, which hits my knees, twirling a bit. My dark hair is pulled into a sleek, pristine ponytail. It’s been nearly a year since I dyed it. Richard insisted it would be more becoming for my age, and I’m still not quite used to it.

“Hot!” Cami says.

“Let me see, let me see!” Kat says, then the screen goes wonky for a few moments before Kat’s face comes into view. “Gorgeous! Oh my god, he’s going to want to put a ring on you tonight! Screw Christmas!” I smile wide, spinning again to give her the full view before sitting back at my vanity, sitting just right so I don’t crush the fluffy tail. I take the long ponytail and comb my fingers through it before grabbing a pink lipstick and applying another coat.

“I miss the blonde,” Cami says, glaring at me. “I can’t believe you dyed it.”

“It’s been a year, Cam. And I was born a brunette, after all,” I say, rolling my eyes. I don’t dare tell her that I also kind of miss the blonde. With my hair dark, I look so much more like my sister, Hannah. Sometimes I still catch a glimpse in the mirror or my reflection in a window as I walk past and confuse myself.

“But you were born to be a blonde, babe,” she says, a thick eyebrow perfectly penciled on dark skin rising as she looks at me with indignation.

“Do you think I should do dots on my cheeks?” I ask, moving my face side to side and trying to change the subject. “Like whiskers?”

“Too much,” Kat says with a shake of her head. “The ears and the nose are enough.” The very tip of my nose has extra pink blush, giving the impression of a bunny nose.

“I wish you guys were coming,” I say, looking towards the tiny screen on my vanity. “We haven’t been apart for Halloween since we were in college!” Our freshman year, Cami, Kat, and I were Charlie’s Angels, and we never looked back. We’ve had group costumes ever since, and seeing Cam and Kat get ready to hit the bars as fire and ice without me feels . . . sacrilegious.

“But you’re going to meet his coworkers!” Kat says, hearts in her eyes at the mere thought of such a step. “This is huge, Abbie.”

She’s right; it so is. In the four years Richard and I have been dating, I’ve never gone to one of his super fancy work parties—not the summer boat cocktail party, not the Halloween party, and definitely not the Christmas party.

I’ve been absolutely dying to.

“Next stop, the Rainbow Room!” she says, joy and excitement ringing in her voice. “And a rock!”

This December will be the sixth holiday party Richard has attended as a lawyer with Schmidt and Martinez, the firm his mother’s father started. It’s also where Richard is expecting to be named as partner.

The party atop Rockefeller Center at the Rainbow Room is what legends are made of. It’s extravagance one can only dream about, the top lawyers in the country—much less New York City—gathering to celebrate another exceptional year. It’s where big moments happen—promotions are announced, and partnership is offered.

This will be the year I get invited to join, finally. I’ve waited four years for him to be sure enough about us to bring me to the event. And once he gets the good news, Richard will get down on one knee and ask me to marry him. To become the perfect wife I’ve been showing him I can be. Dutiful and loyal, able to pick up the slack and help him succeed.

Okay, that sounds absolutely insane, even to me—just randomly expecting a grand gesture. But I just know it’s coming. Two months ago, when I was at his place cleaning up and putting away his laundry, I found his grandmother’s ring in a box in his sock drawer, and ever since, I’ve been dropping hints. I’m pretty confident he’s been picking them up, mentioning how vital the Christmas party will be for his future and how it will change everything.

And this Halloween party is my first chance to meet the work-family I’ll be around until I’m old and gray. I can imagine one day taking the kids Richard so badly wants to that party, telling them this is where daddy made us a family. I could nearly squeal with the mental image.

Of course, I crafted this costume with that first meeting in mind, working to find a balance between classy and approachable and hot future wife, making all of his coworkers think he found his perfect match.

Not to toot my horn, but I think I nailed it.

Before I can say anything else to my friends, my phone vibrates from my vanity, a text blinking at the top.

Richard<3: I’m here.

That means he’s outside my apartment building. Unfortunately, once I graduated with a degree in beauty and fragrance marketing, I quickly realized living in the city proper wasn’t feasible. So I moved to Long Island, got an apartment, and started working in the makeup department of Rollard’s in Green Acres Mall.

“Alright, babes, I gotta go. Richard is texting me—he’s downstairs,” I say to my friends, reaching for the bag I left on the bed. Since Richard lives in Manhattan, I usually take Ubers or the train to the city proper and make my way to his condo. With the cold and my costume, I was happy I could convince him to pick me up tonight.

With my words, though, there’s a glaring silence from my phone before Cami speaks.

“What?” she asks, and I know there is a good chance this will morph into a bigger issue. Shit.

“Richard’s downstairs. I have to go meet him down there.”

“Meet him down there?” Cami asks. “He’s not coming up?” Kat’s eyes are wide and pointed at Cami. I can’t tell if they are her shut the fuck up eyes or her are you hearing this shit? eyes.

“You know parking’s a pain here,” I say, explaining what isn’t necessarily true. So long as you’re on the list as a guest, the parking garage is simple. And Richard is, in fact, on the list, despite him never once parking in the garage.

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Brunch? Tomorrow? I’ll probably be in the city, staying at Richard’s,” I say, trying to end this conversation. Cami is staying at Kat’s place in Manhattan tonight.

Silence, and then Cami speaks in her calm, easy voice, hiding her frustration. It’s like someone talking to a toddler who painted all over their bedroom but is still holding the brush, able to do more damage.

“Honey, don’t you think—”

“Cam, not right now. I gotta get downstairs.”

“I just—”

“Cam, let it go. We can chat tomorrow over mimosas. I can’t wait to hear all about your night, babe,” Kat says, but she’s not looking at me through the phone. Instead, her words are through gritted teeth, and her face is directed at Cami.

I’ve been friends with them long enough to understand what they’re saying as they argue without words.

Neither of them is Richard’s biggest fan, though Kat is better at hiding it than Cami. But because they are good friends—the best friends—I know they trust me with my relationships, and if I tell them I’m happy, then they’re happy.

And I am.

I am happy.

Richard<3: Are you coming down?

“He just sent me another text.” Cami sighs an intentionally loud sigh.

“God forbid you keep him waiting,” she says under her breath, and although I ignore the barb, I don’t miss her body jolting with an elbow from Kat.

Good. At least one of them is on my side.

“Love you. Talk to you soon, yeah?” I ask, walking out my door and letting the lock catch behind me.

“Yeah. Love you, Abs.”

“Love you too,” I say and then end the call, skipping toward the elevator.

Richard’s cherry red Porche Cayenne, that he’s unreasonably in love with (I think it’s a hideous and unnecessarily expensive version of a minivan, but I love him so I love it), is idling in the fire lane right outside of my apartment, and I smile at the car and wave, speeding up with my excitement of seeing him here. He’s so sweet, making it so I don’t have to walk through the parking garage in the cold.

When I approach the door and peek in the tinted windows, he’s on the phone, the Bluetooth coming through the doors. Richard raises a finger giving me a “one second” look. I smile, watching my breath form clouds in the late October air. From where we are, I can see across the river at the lights of New York City and wonder, once Richard proposes, if he’ll ask me to end my lease early and move to his high-rise on the Upper West Side. Maybe we’ll be more traditional and not move in together until after the wedding.

Either way, I can’t wait for our next step.

The locks click, interrupting my daydream, and Richard leans over the passenger seat, pushing the door open enough for me to catch. I’ve never had a man open my car door for me until Richard, and it still makes me smile when he does. I duck my head, making sure not to catch my ears, and lean over to kiss my future husband.

Mrs. Richard Benson.

I feel giddy at the thought of the words alone.

Richard doesn’t lean in to kiss me, though.

Instead, he does the opposite, leaning back and taking in my outfit. I mirror his action, leaning back to show off my outfit better in the close confines of the car and smiling at him.

I replayed this moment in my mind over and over for weeks, anticipating the look of adoration and lust taking over his face. Would he kiss me? Would he force me upstairs and have his way with me before we head to the party? Would he think about leaving the party all night, wanting to get me alone?

Instead, a strange look I did not plan for crosses his face, his eyebrows coming together.

Clearly, he needs a better look because his hand reaches up, turning on the interior lights. His eyes roam my body, burning a path across my skin.

I feel good.

I feel sexy.

I feel . . . confused.

Richard is in a white button-down and a pair of slacks, a more casual version of his everyday work uniform.

“What are you wearing?”

“A . . . costume?” My voice is slightly confused. “I’m a bunny,” I say, pointing to the ears on my head and smiling.

“Jesus . . . Abbie.” He runs his hand through his hair. No one but me knows, but it’s thinning. He goes to bi-monthly appointments to get treatments, but his father and his grandfather are both bald. I don’t see the point in trying—I think he’s handsome no matter what—but I support whatever it takes to make him feel better about himself. I even went so far as to research and drive to Pennsylvania with Kat to get him a regimen of holistic vitamins and oils that have seemed to help.

I move to brush the hair that’s fallen out of his perfectly done style away, but he bats at me, stopping me in my tracks.

My hand hangs in the space between us like an omen.

My gut drops.

Something is not right.

“Goddammit, Abbie,” he says, muttering under his breath, shaking his head. He looks at his watch and then out the windshield.

A coolness prickles over my skin, and it’s not because I decided against wearing a coat for fear of ruining my outfit.

“Richard, honey—”

“Fuck. This isn’t working for me anymore,” he says, cutting me off and looking at me again. In his eyes isn’t softness or kindness or love. It’s . . . hard. Frustrated.

“What?” I ask, my voice a mere breath.

“This. It’s not working. Us. It’s not . . . working for me.” He’s back to staring straight ahead, not looking at anything in the black of night. The look isn’t like he’s hurting or lost or even questioning his words.

No, he’s staring off like he has something better to do, someone more interesting to talk to. Which, I mean, of course. He has a big company party to attend, fully catered in downtown Manhattan with the crème de la crème of New York law in attendance.

He’s staring off like I’m in the way of him going to have a good time. Like I’m a minor blip in his evening that’s a mere minor inconvenience.

But me?

I’m having a fully blown mental crisis.

Instead of tonight being a significant next step for us as a couple, I think Richard might be breaking up with me.

No, no, no. This is impossible. This does not fit into my magical life plan.

My breath stops in my lungs, frozen and weighing me down into the leather seats.

His breaths, however, are coming out in an easy, inconvenienced sigh.

He’s annoyed with me, sighing like he has better things to do, and my understanding of my life and future is crumbling around me.

Richard is annoyed with me for not making him dumping me easy?

Where is the justice in that?

It feels like an eternity of me staring at him, trying to make words work in my mouth.

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand. We’re supposed to go to your company costume party tonight—the Halloween party. I’m supposed . . . I’m supposed to meet everyone tonight.” But, maybe . . . Maybe there’s something else. Something more. Something I don’t understand.

That’s it. This is all a silly misunderstanding. Something that, in an hour, I’ll be laughing at with Damien Martinez, the partner Richard secretly can’t stand but he kisses his ass, anyway.

“Exactly. And this is what you chose to wear?” Then, finally, his head turns from the road back to me and in his eyes is . . . disdain. Disgust, even.

“I . . . I wanted to look good for you. It’s a costume party.”

“We’re not children, Abbie. This is a party for lawyers. This is a gathering for people who I am trying to convince I am good enough to become partner.” His eyes graze over my body but not hungrily, as I had expected. “Do you think this—” He waves his hand up and down in the space between us, indicating me and everything I am. “—is going to do that? Do you think if I show up with you, that will make everyone think I’m to be taken seriously?”

Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink, trying to ignore them.

My sister taught me many things, but the most important was one she showed me rather than told me: never to let the assholes see you fall apart.

“Are you . . . Are you breaking up with me?” I ask, knowing the answer but not believing it. Needing confirmation.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for a while.” The way he says it is like he’s exhausted by this. Like he’s exhausted by the fact our four-year relationship is taking longer than five minutes to dismantle, and he’s wondering when the hell I’ll get out of his car and let him go.

“A while,” I say under my breath.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why we never moved in together?” he asks like I’m an idiot. Like he assumes I never questioned it because I’m too stupid to know.

Of course, I questioned it. What woman wouldn’t?

I just never wanted to push it.

You’ll get nowhere with a powerful man by being a pushy woman. I remember reading that in a women’s magazine once. I assumed there was a master plan and let him take the wheel.

I was letting him be a powerful man!

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I avoided taking you to work events?” He knows I did—I’ve been asking for years. A slow, sickening smile spreads on his lips. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I never proposed?” My stomach churns, and it’s then I see it—a sick joy he’s getting out of this, out of making me feel this way.

He’s having fun.

“So you choose tonight!?” I ask, my voice rising. There’s disbelief, but somewhere deep beneath that is rage. It’s bubbling, and I hope it’s masking the sound of utter hurt he’s dishing me.

He doesn’t deserve that.

“Do you think I planned this, Abbie? Why the fuck would I willingly drive all the way to fucking Long Island if I wasn’t planning to at least get laid tonight?”

My stomach drops to the floor, splattering alongside my heart and sense of self.

His words are ugly.

I can’t tell if it’s on purpose, staged to cause pain and hit hard, or if that’s just who he is and I’m just now taking off those rose-colored glasses. How long has he been full of ugly words and shitty intentions, and how was I so lost in love and the idea of him to see it before?

“What?” I ask, and my words are light. Quiet. Barely there.

Maybe it’s a mistake. Perhaps he didn’t mean it. Maybe—

“Come on, Abbie. You’re dumb, but you’re not that dumb.” A brick is returned to the wall I didn’t realize he had knocked down. Sitting before the wall is a pile of rubble, the remains of dozens of bricks. Each one was a piece of me I had let him take a sledgehammer to.

“I’m not du—”

“You do makeup at Rollard’s.”

“I change lives. I help wom—”

“Jesus, this shit again.” He huffs and throws a hand out. “Look. It was cute initially, you having this hobby while looking for a real job. But you stopped looking. You started going on about how you were helping people and changing lives. I had that contact at the country club, and you blew him off.” I remember that day. I dressed in my most boring, conservative outfit and was forced to sit in the stupid golf cart for the whole afternoon, handing out nine irons and dropping pins. And when that “makeup industry executive” talked to me, his eyes never left my boobs. Any career help he pretended to offer started with, “We should, you know, go to dinner and then . . .”

No, thank you.

“He hit on me, Richard. He made me uncomforta—”

“That’s life, Abigail. That’s how you play the fucking game. It’s why you’ll never get anywhere in life, doing fucking shitty makeup like some high school dropout.” He turns to me now fully, rage and anger in his eyes.

I have never been afraid of a man.

Right now, I think there’s a chance I could be.

“Ridiculous. You do fucking makeup, Abbie. Me? I change lives. I take men facing twenty to life, losing their fortunes, and I save them.” His finger juts into his chest, making a point. “I make a difference. You? You play fucking dressup for minimum wage in Long fucking Island.”

A tear falls from my lashes, dropping onto the corset and creating a dark spot which spreads into the silken fabric.

“I can’t do this, Abbie. I need to be more serious about my future. You were fun, but I can’t settle for fun.”

Settle.

That word should be harmless, but the malicious intent turns it into something that cuts through skin, muscle, and bone—straight to my heart.

That word changes something in me.

It snaps the last tether holding the dreams I had built up of being the perfect wife to this man.

And because he’s a man, apparently a shit one at that, he can’t see my world crumbling around me. He can’t see my self-worth and future dreams turning to dust.

“I’m being named partner at the end of the year. You know that’s what I’ve been working toward. I need to let Martinez and my grandfather see how serious I am about it. This?” His eyes roam over me. “Doesn’t fit that image.”

And although the logical side of me knows what’s happening, the side that is just my emotions does not.

“But . . . we’ve been together for four years,” I say. He sighs, and it’s the sigh you give a five-year-old when they ask for ice cream at seven in the morning.

“It’s been fun. You didn’t think this was it, did you? God, Abbie. Grow up. It was never going to be you.” His face has that mean smile to it again, and it makes me shiver. “It was never going to be you.”

It’s then the second tear drops. And now I’m staring at Richard, eyes watering to where nearly everything has a blurry underwater look to it and wondering when he’s going to crack a smile and tell me he’s joking.

When he’ll say this was some kind of prank—a cruel one, but a prank nonetheless.

He was never very good at being funny. I let him think he was, of course. All those years of laughing at his shitty jokes to make him feel better about himself . . .

But he continues to stare, looking at me with a strange mix of pity and irritation. Irritation, as if my being upset and blindsided by him breaking up with me after four years and zero warning is inconvenient to him.

Then there’s a knock at my window. I turn my head to look and see a police officer standing there, hunched over. I didn’t even notice the red and blue lights bouncing off the dash as he parked behind us. Richard sighs, rolling down my window, and the cold air snaps into my lungs like an electrical shock.

“You two alright in here?” he asks, a flashlight dipping into the car. His face softens when he sees what I’m sure is a pale face, watery eyes, and a few tear tracks.

“All good, officer,” Richard says with his good ol’ boys smile in place. “She was just getting out.”

She was just getting out.

She was just getting out.

She was just getting out.

It takes a few seconds for me to understand what Richard is saying.

He wants me to get out of his car.

Because he just broke up with me.

And he has a company party to go to, after all.

We’ve been together for four years, and the man couldn’t even do me the decency of breaking up with me with time to talk things through, to give me closure. So instead, he does it like this—on the side of the road while I’m wearing a fucking bunny costume.

This is humiliating.

“You’re parked in a fire lane,” the officer says, and I think he’s also giving Richard an annoyed and possibly disgusted look.

“Sorry about that, sir. I didn’t intend to be here that long.” His head moves to me, the easy-going smile dropping instantly and moving into one of frustration. “Abbie, go.”

His words no longer hold any patience, kindness, or caring.

His words are full of frustration and irritation.

He’s done with me.

Fuck this.

I grab my little bag Kat and I found at a thrift shop on Main Street in the shape of a carrot and contemplate slapping him for good measure. I’m sure it would feel good, but there’s also a police officer standing outside this car watching our every move, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Richard would press charges.

He’s the type.

He’s kind of a Chad. You know, a male Karen?

Shit. I’ve been dating a fucking Chad for four years.

And I was planning to marry this asshole?!

Instead of hitting him, I reach for the door and tug. But, of fucking course, it’s locked. Richard sighs a, “God, this woman couldn’t help herself out of a paper bag,” sigh I’m just now realizing he does a lot before hitting the unlock button.

I step out.

I close the door.

And then I’m standing outside my apartment watching the flashy red car drive off without hesitation through watery eyes.

The officer turns to me.

“Ma’am, are you okay? Did he . . . do anything to you?”

I don’t even look back at him when I answer.

“He broke my heart.”

The officer just stares at me, blinking awkwardly.

Like many people who talk to me, I can tell he regrets asking questions.

“I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. Sorry we were parked in the fire zone,” I say, my voice deadened. I give the man a tight smile and then walk back into my apartment building, high heels clicking on concrete as I go.

I didn’t feel the cold on my nearly bare legs when I left the building before, filled with hope and excitement. Now it’s biting, cutting through the sheer nylon.

In the lobby, I tap the screen of my phone a few times, feeling like I’m in some kind of fugue state and unable to process the world around me. Swiping, I find Cami’s number and hit the FaceTime button, holding the phone in front of me as I plop my ass onto the bench in the lobby.

The elevator sounds like too much work right now.

My apartment sounds like too much work.

If I go up there, I’ll see the mess of makeup and clothes and remember the hopeful joy I had when getting ready just minutes ago.

The screen goes dark as the ringing stops, and then a party with laughter and cheers and kitschy Halloween music fills the line.

“Hey, Abs, what’s up?” Cami shouts, the screen still not showing her face as she juggles the phone in a crowd.

But when it does, her smile drops.

I look at the small version in the corner to see my own face—I don’t know when I started to really cry, but black tear tracks are running down my cheeks.

Great.

And because I have the best friends in the universe, without skipping a beat, she says, “Fuck. We’ll be there in twenty with tequila.”