Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Thursday night, my phone rings, and I smile when Damien’s name pops up on the screen.

We’ve been calling and texting for the past few days, and each one feels bright and happy. An internal squeal of giggliness I can’t avoid. Excitement. That flush of happiness that comes when you first start dating someone.

That can’t be a good sign, the giddiness.

My dumbass ignores the warnings, as seems to be my way.

“Hey,” I say, a smile clear in my voice.

“Hey,” he replies, and panic runs through me.

The problem with guilt is that at any moment, you start to create scenarios in your mind of being caught, your number being up, and of when the lies become too much and overtake your life.

Did Richard talk to Damien?

Did Damien search me, somehow find proof of who I am—or who I once was? Of who I thought I could be?

“What’s wrong?” I ask in response to his dull tone.

“I hate to do this.” There’s a sigh on the other end, and I can almost picture him running his hand through his hair. “I really, really fucking hate to do this.”

My stomach sinks to the ground.

I don’t respond.

“I have to cancel tomorrow.”

Strangely, the panic eases.

This isn’t a case of him finding out the truth. It’s a reschedule. Or a cancellation.

“At two, I have to be in court for a last-minute case, and then I need to spend the weekend prepping to file a bunch of shit on Monday.”

“Oh, god, of course. That’s no problem,” I say.

This, at least, feels familiar.

Work coming first.

Cases coming first.

Really, everything coming first.

A part of my stomach that sank when I feared he might have figured me out stays there because what I thought were my keen instincts were once again proven wrong. He’s not a good guy. He’s not the perfect man, not some kind of dream.

He’s fallible, and he’s flaky, and he’s just like all of them.

Just like Richard.

Just like my dad.

“If this were a normal case, I’d be fine, but this is a pro bono case.” I pause, intrigued. “Domestic violence and custody.”

“Oh, god,” I say, a light gasp in my words.

“She finally got the guts to leave him and made a plan, but when she did, he beat her within an inch of her life. She just got out of the hospital, and he has the kids. Who the fuck knows why he has them, but she’s gotta fight for the kids. Tomorrow we’re filing for an emergency order of protection, and I need to file custody and divorce papers for Monday, get this ball rolling.”

“Of course. God, Damien . . . that’s horrible.” I pause, unsure. “I feel silly even saying it, but if there’s anything I can do . . .” He laughs.

Again, it’s not that making fun of me laugh. It’s . . . different. An at-ease, genuinely happy laugh.

“I should have known a soul as sweet as yours would offer.” He sighs again. “I actually have a favor I could ask of you.”

“Yeah, anything,” I say, and I mean it. The cause is good, the man better. So if there’s something I can do, I’m more than willing.

“Sharon—that’s my client—she’s anxious to go in tomorrow. She’s still beat up pretty badly and hasn’t seen her ex since that night.”

“Okay . . .”

“I’ve gotten her an outfit to make her feel better about herself, to feel confident and safe at court.”

God, he’s sweet.

So fucking sweet.

“But I know nothing about makeup.” He pauses; I think I know where he’s going with this. “Could I bring her to you tomorrow? You’re working in the morning, right?”

“Bring her to me?”

“At work. I’d pay, of course. But could I bring her to you, have you do her makeup and make her feel a bit more confident before she has to face that monster?”

God.

God, god, god.

This man is not to be believed with his thoughtfulness.

“You want me to—”

“Look, if it’s not possible or you’re uncomfortable, it’s fine. She’s got some bruising that she’s embarrassed by and—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off.

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll—”

“No, I mean, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’d love to. But no, you won’t pay.” He laughs, the sound filling my veins like warm, thick maple syrup.

“I absolutely will.”

“No, seriously,” I say with a laugh. “Makeup consultations are free.”

“You deserve to be paid.”

“I get paid hourly. If you really want to pay money, when I do her makeup, I can make her a bag, and you can buy it for her, so next time you go to court, you don’t have to drag her all the way to Long Island.”

“But what if I want an excuse to see you?” he asks, his voice now low and gravelly.

God, this man has a good fucking voice.

“Set the time and we can make it happen, Mister Martinez.” My voice is lower now.

“Wish I could be there now. Send me your schedule. I want to know when you’re free.” His voice mimics mine, the same sense of impatience there.

“You’re the one with the hectic, important lawyer schedule. You tell me when you’re free, and I’ll make it work,” I say, leaning back and sinking into my couch. “I’m just a makeup artist at a department store.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m not talking about myself in any kind of way that isn’t true.” My words are flippant and uncaring, but beneath that is a truth I bury.

“What you do is important. We talked about this.” Strange. Part of me thought that was just a sweet conversation, something you say when you’re sleepy and a warm woman is naked in your bed.

“It’s just makeup.”

“Tomorrow, you’re going to give a woman the confidence to face a man who terrorized her and her children. That man is now using his power and wealth to make her scared. Giving her a small boost? That’s important.” I don’t reply.

The truth is, I love makeup. I love playing with color and finding the perfect combination of products to make someone feel their best. I know makeup can change a person, can give them confidence, or bring back a spark. It can hide insecurities or amplify differences. Makeup is an art in and of itself, and I am an artist.

But the general population sees what I do as some kind of cutesy thing. Something unimportant, something anyone could do. People get ragged on daily for wearing makeup in any series of circumstances—from working out to going to work to dropping kids off at school. People—mostly women—get shit on for doing something to make themselves feel good.

And most of the time, I’m fine with that. I understand not everyone sees the value. Not everyone understands that it’s more than makeup and ego. More than just looking good for the general public. It’s about feeling confident in your own skin, about expressing yourself. It’s more about the person wearing it than who they’re wearing it for.

“Hmm,” is all I can say in response. A phone rings in the background, and Damien curses. “Is that you? Do you have to go?” I ask, already bummed to have to hang up.

“No. I’m at the office. One of the lawyers here pissed off some chick and she gave his office number out, said it was some boy band’s secret number.” My blood runs cold, as I know precisely what’s going on. Damien laughs, though. “Honestly, pretty funny to watch him struggle through calls all day.”

“Sounds . . . irritating.”

“It is, but he’s a dick, so he deserves it. It’s not my number they’re calling.” Interesting that he thinks Richard’s a dick.

A second, closer phone rings.

“Shit, that one is me,” he says.

“Got it. Go be a fancy lawyer man, balance the scales of justice,” I say with a smile, and he laughs that deep laugh, and I wish I could see his face.

“Got it, rubia. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“I’ll be here,” I say, and when we hang up, I squeal an excited girly squeal before calling my best friends.