Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

What the fuck kind of name is Bartholomew, anyway? I think to myself, the plan unfolding in my mind.

My friends are silent as I sit back down and swipe right, praying this plan works.

I met Richard when I was twenty-four and instantly thought he was it for me.

But before I met him, I had a petty streak.

When someone wrongs me or the people I love, I get them back.

There was the time Jennie Sutton told Kelsey McCormick that my sister Hannah was a loser for dropping out of college.

I swapped the purple conditioner that she used as a mask to tone her pretty blonde with a purple color depositing version in the locker room after cheer practice.

It washed out, but not in time for her to lose the homecoming crown.

And then there was the time that frat guy tricked Cam and broke her heart, becoming the reason she refuses to trust men ever again. We snuck into his apartment and put cut lemons into all the vents where he wouldn’t find them. A human won’t notice the smell of a rotting lemon, but damn, do fruit flies love those things.

But when I met who I thought would be my life partner, I put that pettiness aside. It was time to be a grown-up, to be an adult. Adults don’t slip fine glitter into the vents of her ex’s car so when he turns on the heat, it blows out everywhere.

Petty, vengeful women?

We plan to do that kind of shit when we know his car will be at the shop next week, and we do it with a smile.

“I’m sorry, did you just say you’re going to fuck his boss?” Kat asks, looking at me like I’ve jumped off the cliff of sanity.

Again, she’s the level-headed of us three.

“Ooh, tell me more,” Cami says, rubbing her hands together.

Cam is not level-headed. Cami never got rid of her petty streak, but she also remembers my own well, and she’s spent four years trying to convince me to let it out.

“This—” I say, turning the phone to my Google search result of Damien Martinez, founding partner at Schmidt and Martinez and the ass Richard has been kissing for years. I can feel the smile stretching my face, and shit, it feels good after a night of crying. “—is Richard’s boss. He’s single. According to Richard, he likes young, blonde things.” Cami smiles, knowing where this is going. Kat looks even more lost.

My phone dings, and I turn my phone back to me, already sobering up now that I have a rational plan. “And I just matched with him,” I say, a devious smile spreading across my face.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cami says, her own smile reflecting mine.

“I don’t get it. You’re going to fuck his boss?” Kat asks, confused. I shake my head, the plan forming in my mind with surety.

“No. Well, yeah, that would be a bonus. I’m going to date his boss. I’m going to make his boss fall for me, and I’m going to go to that stupid fucking Christmas party Richard never wanted to take me to, and I’m going to show him what a mistake he made by playing Abigail Keller.”

“So you’re going to . . . .make Richard jealous? To get him back?”

“Fuck no,” I say, tossing my phone onto my bed and walking to my closet. I’m motivated in a way I haven’t been in years, invigorated with rage and a need for revenge.

I throw things to the floor, classy dresses and black slacks and high necklines that I bought intending to fit in better with Richard’s Hamptons crowd, to fit the Stepford wife model I thought he was looking for before he would commit.

I was wrong, of course.

He was never going to fucking commit.

I see it now, clear as day. The number of times I’d mention the future only to be ignored. Never meeting his family—-the biggest red flag of all. God, what an idiot I’ve been.

Always opting out of going with me to parties I was invited to because he wanted to focus on work. Never moving in together, letting me live alone in an entirely different town. Never being the one to make the plans, the dates. The ungodly amount of “boys’ nights.”

I need to get an STI test done, the tiny sober part of my brain thinks, and I hate that I agree.

I reach to the back of my tiny closet and pull out the pieces I love. The things I bought and felt great in, only for Richard to turn his nose up at. The things I saved for girls’ nights, which were few and far between. Maybe I had subconsciously saved them for when I stopped caring about what Richard thought.

Well, that time is now.

“I need to go shopping,” I say mostly to myself as I comb through the rejects and organize what I love. “I’m not going to make Richard jealous. I mean, he might feel that, but that’s not my goal. I’m going to make Richard regret the day he decided I wasn’t good enough.” I grab a black blazer and toss it into the donate pile. “Who the fuck decides if someone is good enough, anyway? Sure, there are people who just don’t fit with you, but you don’t drag it out for four fucking years. No, you’re right, Cam.” I spin to look at her, and even she has wide, almost scared eyes.

“I am?”

“Yeah. You were right that he knew what he was doing—he was using me. Convincing me to prove myself to him with the carrot of him one day committing.” I crinkle my nose and try to fight a sudden rush of tears. “He was never going to commit.”

“Abbie, I don’t understand what you’re doing. What’s with the pile? What is the plan with the boss?” Kat asks, walking over to where I’m tearing apart my closet, her hands held up like I’m a feral dog who might attack at any moment.

“Just think about it. Think about the look on Richard’s face when he’s sitting in the Rainbow Room at the party he’s gone to for six years straight—longer, since I think he went before, with his grandfather. At the party he always told me I wouldn’t want to go to because it was too boring. The party where he’s hoping they’ll finally announce him as partner this year.” I smile to myself because as the vision grows in my mind, I like it more and more. It’s brilliant, really. “And when his boss walks in, the woman he strung around for years is on his arm. The woman who he told she was just fun. The woman he said wasn’t serious enough to be around such almighty important people. And as his date, I won’t leave his side. When he wants to talk to Mr. Martinez, to kiss his ass like always, he’ll have to come over to me, look me in the eye, and know he fucked up. That I’m not just a good time, not just a space-filler—”

“I’m sorry, he called you what?”

I don’t have time to fill Cam in on the ugly words Richard shouted at me in the car. I’m on a roll.

“I’m exactly what he needs, and he could have had it. Instead, he threw me away. Us away. And you know what? Fuck that. Fuck him. I don’t want him and his small dick, anyway.” Kat gasps, her eyes wide, but I continue, “It’s true. And he’s going bald. No shade to Vin Diesel because Richard is not Vin Diesel. Some men can pull it off. Not him.” Cam gives a solemn nod. “So that’s it. I’m gonna fuck his boss.” My phone dings again, a message from the man himself. “And he’s asking when I’m free.”

“We love a man who doesn’t beat around the bush,” Cam says. With my mind made up, she goes into work mode, grabbing my laptop and tapping in the password needed for access.

“Okay, full name?” she asks, putting on her blue light-blocking glasses she keeps in her bag that she wears because she secretly thinks it makes her look smart. They only come out when she needs to impress someone or if she’s in super sleuthing mode.

“Damien Martinez,” I respond, knowing how this works. Last month we determined that the man Kat was about to go on a date with was married with three kids, and it only took like, ten minutes for Cam to figure it out.

She’s a savant.

“Okay, and place of employment?” Her long nails are clacking on the keyboard of my old, shitty, needs-to-be-replaced-about-five-years-ago laptop. It feels nostalgic, like we’re sitting in our dorm and Cam is typing away, trying to find out the dirt on the boyfriend of some rude girl we met in Econ 101.

“Schmidt and Martinez,” I say, repeating the name of the company that took away any chance of my becoming Mrs. Richard Benson.

That’s not fair. The company didn’t do that. It was never going to happen.

You were being used, Abbie, I solemnly remind myself.

Though, sitting here, a bottle of wine in, I can’t help but think that the prospect of becoming Mrs. Richard Bartholomew Benson is . . . bleak, at best.

A sad existence of parties I wasn’t invited to and working too hard for not nearly enough respect.

Cam’s head pops up at the name.

“His name’s on the letterhead?” she asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I told you he was Richard’s boss and that he’s a partner.”

“Jane is our boss. She sure as fuck doesn’t own the building.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay, let’s try this . . .” More clicking, a few ‘hmms, and then . . .

Her face drops.

Her eyes move from the screen to me, then back to the screen, then back to me.

“What?” I ask. Her eyes move again, back and forth, to me, to the screen. “Cami, what?” Kat moves over to where she’s sitting, looking over her shoulder, and follows the same path—computer screen to me and back.

“Holy shit,” Kat says, and now I’m feeling anxious.

“What!?” I say, nearly shouting. “Oh, god, is he married? Fuck, that’s all I need. To be dumped by my boyfriend because I’m not serious enough, and he wants serious and boring, only to jump right into a married fucking man.” I tip my head to the ceiling. “Why? Why, God? Why do you hate me? I just want one damn revenge plan to work. Okay, so sure, revenge isn’t really cool in your little book, but just this once. I think we can agree that Richard deserves it!” I’m shouting now, as if the ceiling or the all-knowing God above is actually to blame for this.

“He’s not married, Abs,” Cami says, and now she’s smiling, the look growing with . . . satisfaction?

“What is it then?” I ask because now I’m feeling anxious. That look means trouble.

“He has a type,” Cam says with that same smile, devious and near alarming.

“A very clear one,” Kat agrees, but her smile is more of a laugh, a giggle. “And you fit it.” The computer is then turned toward me. The screen has a Google image search for “Damien Martinez lawyer date picture” and below are a handful of photos of Richard’s boss with women on his arm at events for the firm.

Two things hit me like a freight train.

One, Damien brought guests to these work events that I know Richard also went to and told me he wasn’t allowed to bring a date to.

The Christmas party.

The 4th of July dinner cruise.

I’m nauseous.

He’s even more of a scumbag than I could have thought.

The second thing is that Damien Martinez does, in fact, have a type.

That type is short, blonde, and curvy.

And fuck if I don’t fit that goddamn type.

It’s a sign from that God I was just begging to let my revenge plan work.

A slow smile creeps across my face as I enlarge the images, noting that over a five-year period, there has been little consistency with the dates—different for nearly every event.

But the type is there.

I look up at my friends and smile.

“Game on, ladies,” I say.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

We’re two bottles of wine in, and we’ve turned the page on our petty forms of payback and moved to the grand finale.

Our game plan.

The first page says “How to Win Over Damien Martinez” and is covered in pink hearts I doodled all over it, and each page after it is a specific thing that Richard at some point bitched about or mentioned about his boss over the last three years.

There are three things I remember him talking about when it came to Martinez.

1. Whiskey.

“Grab that bottle I told you my boss likes when you’re at the liquor store, yeah?” Richard had demanded about a bottle of brown liquid that cost nearly $300. It was Damien’s birthday or something coming up, and he wanted a gift to kiss his boss’s ass with.

And right now, I’m realizing he never even paid me back for that.

What a dick.

2. Country music.

“What kind of man listens to this redneck shit?” Richard had bemoaned while listening to a “today’s country” station. “Can’t he listen to classical music like a normal, cultured person?

Don’t even get me started on Richard’s strange obsession with forcing everyone within a one-mile radius to listen to classical music while he worked. He thought it made him better than others, like a person who reads non-fiction not because they enjoy it, but because they like to brag about it.

Personally, I love pop music. Boy bands and mega stars and anything with a good beat I can vibe to.

And while country isn’t my thing necessarily, I’ll be listening to it nonstop for the next month or two. I even order a cheap, oversized tee for one of the newer country music stars so that if and when he spends the night, he can catch me sleeping in.

What a fun little way to show him we’re similar.

And 3. Women.

“Martinez is always dating some young blonde bimbo. Would it hurt him to date someone respectable for once?”

That was the final catalyst to my box-dye mental breakdown a year ago when I turned my long blond locks this muddy brown.

There’s nothing wrong with brown hair by any means—Kat pulls it off like a damn goddess, and it looks fab on my sister, Hannah. But it has never fit me.

I can’t wait to change it back and feel like me again.

“What happens if he’s actually nice?” Kat, the sweet, kind, romantic of us asks as I’m researching the neighborhood where Damien grew up in the Bronx. He mentioned it in a law magazine interview two years ago that I found in my research.

Cami and I look at each other, unsure of how to answer.

“Richard says he’s an uptight asshole,” I say to the two versions of Kat that are sitting in front of me, occasionally meshing together before floating apart.

Shit, I’m drunk.

“But Richard also somehow convinces people he’s a good guy,” Kat counters.

Valid.

“That’s valid,” I say aloud, remembering that they can’t actually hear my thoughts, and then I burp, cringing at the taste. Tequila and French fries are okay going down, but the other way? Ugh. “I’m sure he’s not much different from Richard, driven in a way that makes him stop caring about those around him. All the high-profile friends of Richard were like that, assholes who were always measuring who was better.”

“We need to make sure you stick to the plan,” Cam says, her eyes stoney and cold. In the morning, I might wonder, without the haze of liquor, if she’s compensating, if she’s using my situation to act out her own dreams of revenge.

I shake my head.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“You need a reminder. You’re too nice. You might end up liking him and wanting to bail on the plan,” Cami says, and again, her tone is hard, unmoving.

Maybe this is a bad plan.

Or, at least, a dangerous plan for Cami to be involved in.

“And if that happens, it will be fine, Cami,” Kat says, her tone motherly and stern. “Abbie can make decisions for herself.”

“I’m just saying, if we put this much effort into it, it should pan out.”

“Cami—”

“Let’s just make you a jar to help you stay on track.” She tears slips of paper into long strips. “We’ll write shit that Richard did that was shitty on them, so when you need it, you’ll have an extra oomph in your step.” We both stare at her while she keeps tearing. “But if you decide you like him or whatever, for some crazy reason, I won’t give you shit. This will just be . . . a reminder.”

“I don’t know—”

“It will probably be cathartic,” I say, my voice low. “Writing it all down.” All night the thoughts have been swirling in my mind, each word and action of Richard’s having new meaning in the new light. Writing them down, putting them somewhere safe . . . it might feel good.

“See? Abbie thinks it’s a good idea.”

“We all know that when Abbie gets drunk, she gets introspective and sad.”

“Perfect,” Cam says, handing me paper and a pen. “Start writing, babes.”

Although Kat looks on with watchful eyes, the task begins, and it doesn’t take long before I’m crying over slips of paper, four years of my life making sense in a way I never thought it would.

And when I finally crawl into bed, face puffy and tears drained from my exhausted body, my two best friends crawl beside me, making sure that I never have to feel alone.