Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

The judge bangs her gavel to silence the audience, but Sharon is already turning towards me with watery eyes. The man on the other side of the aisle, Sharon’s absolute monster of a soon-to-be ex, has been shouting for two minutes and continues to do so as a bailiff detains him.

Things are not looking good for Todd Sparks.

Sharon was just granted full custody in all legal ways of the kids, and Todd will be forced to pay hefty child support.

We won.

The battle of the formal divorce and alimony is still ahead of us, but Sharon has the kids and the help she needs to get on her feet.

“Oh my god,” she says, a whisper, and I pull her into my arms to hug her. “You did it.”

“We did it.” I pull back to stare at her, eyes watering. “We did it. You loved those kids, and you stood up for them and for yourself. You wanted more for them. You risked everything for them. You were strong, and you did this. You worked until you found someone who could represent you. You were the one who found a way.” A tear drops, spreading on the pink shirt she’s wearing. “Nope, no. You don’t cry over that piece of shit. You go to your beautiful kids, and you make them feel loved and wanted. You take that fucking money and give them a good, easy life.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you. Truly. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank me by giving those kids a great Christmas. Celebrate with them. We’ll get started on the divorce next year,” I say.

“You changed my life, Damien. Changed the lives of my girls. And Abbie. Please, please—thank Abbie for me.”

“Abbie?”

“Yeah. She had this sent over to me.” Her hand moves down her outfit, a pretty pale pink top and well-fitting black slacks. “Told me to use it today and for interviews next week. Even sent over stuff for the kids and makeup and . . . gosh. Tips for my hair!” She smiles at me, but my mind is elsewhere.

On Abigail asking when Sharon’s court date was, where she was staying. Her apartment address.

I want to send the girls cookies! she’d said.

“She’s a keeper, that one. You make sure you don’t mess that up, yeah?” Sharon says, pinching my cheek as if she’s not a few years younger than I am, but ten or twenty years my senior and giving me valuable advice.

Advice I don’t need, but I’ll take anyway.

“I don’t plan to,” I say with a smile, and then she’s swept off to sign paperwork.

By the time I leave the courthouse, I’m already putting my phone to my ear, briefcase in hand, as I walk toward the parking garage. It’s cold, a few flurries flying around.

Flurries now always remind me of one person, of a kiss at Rockefeller Plaza with a gorgeous woman. A kiss that, sometimes, I think changed the entire direction of my life.

Normally after a win, I grab a drink and a meal then head home to prepare for the next case. There’s always someone else who needs representing, a divorce that needs filing, alimony that needs setting up.

Today, I have a voice that sounds like sunshine and rainbows in my ear.

“Hey, how’re you—”

“We won,” I say, cutting off Abigail before she can finish her hello.

“What?” she asks, her voice soft but excited.

“We won. Sharon has full custody, and her ex has to pay child support. We won.”

It’s strange, I think as I beep the key fob to unlock my car, thinking that I’ve never felt the need to call someone to update them on my cases before. Of course, I’ve had women in my life—great ones, kind ones—but none like Abbie.

None I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, would react the way I needed them to.

“Oh. Oh. Oh! Oh my god! Damien! That’s amazing! Holy shit!” she says, and I can almost picture her jumping around in her excited chaos. I can surely hear her feet hitting the ground rhythmically as she jumps.

I smile, a true smile I find creeping onto my face more and more when I’m in Abigail’s presence, and then there’s a tumble through the phone and an, “Oh, shit.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, stopping in my tracks despite the fact I’m in the middle of a crowded parking garage. A car honks at me, and I flip them off before walking out of the way.

“Shit. Yeah, sorry. I was painting my toes because the shoes I’m wearing to your fancy party are open and I don’t have time for a pedi, but I forgot they were drying and then I looked down and thought I smudged them, but I was still kind of jumping so I fell.” There’s a soft giggle in her voice when she talks, and fuck, it’s sweet.

“What color?” I ask, reaching my car and opening the door.

“What?”

“What color were you painting your toes?” A pause.

“Pink,” she says, and I smile.

“Good,” I say. “I know you have to be up early tomorrow, working before the party,” I say, getting in, closing the door, and waiting for the Bluetooth to catch up with my call. “But can I see you?”

“See me?”

“Yeah, naranja. Can I see you tonight? Come over to your place to celebrate?”

“Don’t you . . . have people to celebrate with?” she asks, and there’s that strangeness in her voice, like she’s lived this before and knows the answer. Even more, she knows that she doesn’t like the answer.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, but while a part of me is dying to know where that lived experience is, another just wants to live in this bubble.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Oh.” The word is a breath, almost disappointed and sad.

“You, Abigail. You’re the people I have to celebrate with.” I crank the heat, rubbing my hands together while I wait for her to respond.

“You don’t have like . . . friends? Or . . . coworkers?”

“I have both. I’ll say, my coworkers don’t necessarily champion my pro bono wins the same way they do the wins that bring money into the firm. But still, I have friends.” There’s a beat of silence. “But I want to celebrate with you, Abbie.” I don’t call her that often, but when I do, she always smiles. And sometimes when she smiles at me like that, she’s just an… Abbie.

“Damien, honey, I would . . . I’d love to. But I gotta be up early. I don’t—”

“I’m not looking to go out and get drunk. I’m looking to bring my girl pizza and wine and relax. I’m looking to fuck her until we’re both exhausted, drive her to work in the morning, and then pick her up tomorrow night for a fucking phenomenal night.”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if she will say no. If she’s going to say I should head home or go out with friends. It’s strange how I’ve always done that—won a case then headed home alone—but now it sounds . . . hollow.

“Yeah, Damien. That sounds perfect. But I’m paying for dinner,” she says with that obnoxious but sweet layer of iron will in her voice.

“The fuck you are,” I say with a laugh, pulling out and heading toward Long Island. “I’ll see you in a bit, rubia.” And then I hang up, ignoring all of her subsequent calls and texts, which start by telling me I better not pay for my own celebration dinner and end in her telling me to get garlic knots and cannoli.

So I brought wine and pizza and garlic knots and cannoli to my girl’s place and we celebrated in style.

It was the best win of my entire career.