Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

On the drive back to my place, she’s still smiling and giggling, bringing up moments she thought were funny or cool or impressive during the concert and replaying them to me like I wasn’t by her side the whole time.

I love it.

“Why aren’t you like that all the time?” I ask with a smile when she stops talking. Her face turns to me. Headlights of cars in oncoming traffic flicker across her smile, and her eyes are soft.

Uncaring.

It’s beautiful.

“Like what?” she asks, confused.

“Free. Happy,” I say, clarifying.

“You mean loud and obnoxious?” she asks with a self-deprecating laugh. We’re at a well-timed red light, and I turn to her, confused.

“No. Happy. Like you’re enjoying life.” She sighs and turns her head, looking out the window and away from me.

“Tonight was a blast, Damien. Really. I haven’t had this much fun in . . . god. I don’t know.” She’s changing the subject, embarrassed or hiding something. I don’t like it. I reach over, grabbing her chin to make her look over at me.

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Change the subject. Why aren’t you like that all the time?”

“I’m always me,” she lies, and I can see it in her eyes.

“Well, why isn’t the normal you that happy, carefree version?” She doesn’t respond. “The version of you being goofy with your friends is not the version that was at a fancy restaurant with me just hours ago. Why?” Her nose scrunches at my words.

“It’s not . . . ladylike,” she says with a sigh.

“What?”

“Guys. They don’t . . . People . . . don’t . . .” The light turns green and I drive, giving her the space she needs to feel comfortable answering without my eyes on her. “That version isn’t serious enough. It’s isn’t . . . proper. I’m almost thirty. People stop thinking bubblegum pink and sparkles and smiles are cute once you’re past 21.”

“Are you bubblegum pink?” I ask with a smile. I’ve seen hints of it, but not genuine evidence. Another sigh. The light turns green, and I move my hand back to the wheel.

“I used to be.” Her face moves back to the window, avoiding my eye.

“Used to be?” This is about the ex. I know it without asking. This is what Cam was talking about.

“God, are you a therapist tonight?” she asks with a laugh, but it’s not the irritated noise I half expected. Another sigh, and then she answers. “I used to be, but a few years ago, I started to . . . change. I have an ex, and I did not fit his idea of the perfect woman. He wanted me more . . . conservative. Mellow. I’ve been pink and sparkles and smiles since I was a kid. It was a coping mechanism, to an extent. My childhood . . . It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but my sister liked pink, and I loved my sister, so I made life pink and sunshine and rainbows. I figured pushing that part of me aside was part of growing up.” Her eyes are still looking out the window like she’s traveling back to a different time, different conversations. My hand moves to her thigh, and her hand instinctively covers it, linking her tiny fingers with mine. “But I think I was wrong. It’s not normal to change that way.” I want to say something.

Every molecule of my body is begging me to. But I don’t. I wait for her response, giving her the space to speak.

“I changed. I started dressing differently and doing different things and . . . God, this is so embarrassing,” she says with a laugh. “I even dyed my hair brown to try to fit in.” I quickly glance over at her, and she’s staring back at me with a small smile. “It was dumb.”

“What happened?”

“I . . . Things didn’t work out.”

“He broke up with you?”

“You can say that. I was told that even after dating for years, even though he was it in my mind, I was basically just . . . a placeholder for him. I was a fun time.” Irrational anger runs through me. “It’s fine. I . . . got mine,” she says with a small smile that I am pretty sure means more than with words or by moving on.

“Good. I hope it hurt,” I say, and I mean it. Anyone who made this gorgeous woman question herself deserves to burn.

“Anyway. I know the silliness is . . . childish. But I’m getting really tired of hiding it. I don’t think I’ll grow out of it anytime soon, so . . .” There’s a slight shrug of her shoulders. “It’s just a part of me I’m learning to love again.”

“I like it a fuck of a lot,” I say, turning into the parking garage of my apartment. Her face swings to mine, confused.

“You don’t have to say that, I promise.”

“I don’t just say things to make people feel good about themselves, Abigail. There’s no need for me to. I’m saying it because it’s true. I like the bubblegum pink happiness. I hope you show me more of it.”

She’s staring at me still as I navigate the car to my spot, backing in with precision based on months of doing the same thing daily. After I put the car into park and hit the ignition, the car goes silent. I turn to her before I press the button on her seatbelt and put a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her into me. Her lips press to mine and at first, she’s shocked, confused even. But it doesn’t take longer than a second for her body to melt, for her arm to move and rest on my cheek.

“Come on. We’re here. Let me go show you just how much I fucking love that side of you.” My voice is already husky from the one small kiss. It’s been too long since we were alone in my apartment together.

She smiles a small smile, but her eyes are glazed, in another universe.

“Okay,” she says in a whisper, and I can only smile as she sits back in her chair.