Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Dread is curling in my gut, heating my veins, and clouding my mind as the elevator dings. Damien’s laughter is filling the tiny space and spilling out into the room I once wanted more than anything to be in.

Right now, I want nothing more than to run from it.

I fucked up.

I fucked up so badly.

I think about all of the times I tried to tell Damien, all the times we got interrupted . . . and I know now that there is no way I couldn’t have found an opportunity to tell the truth.

To tell him the real reason I accepted his date, why this all began.

To tell him that regardless of why this started, my intentions changed. Really, they changed that first night, if I’m being honest with myself. And they changed again when he brought Sharon to my store. Further, when he took me to the concert, and when he recognized my taking care of him and appreciated it. And finally, when he took me to see the damn fucking Rockettes with my sister, fulfilling a silly childhood dream because I told him about it once on our first date.

There is no way, if I had truly wanted to risk it, to open myself up and tell the truth, that I couldn’t have just stood there and said, No, Damien, I need to tell you something very important right this moment.

Because I know down to my very core that if I ever told Damien something was important to me, he’d stop and listen instantly.

Because what’s important to me is important to him.

It’s part of what’s so fucking beautiful about him.

And so incredibly tragic.

To know what both sides of that coin look like, feel like.

My eyes scan the room as Damien walks through, smiling and waving, his arm wrapped around my waist proudly. Eyes follow us, but they aren’t shocked eyes like Richard always made it seem like the prestige of this event would attract.

I’m not a hidden embarrassment with Damien.

I’m a shining gem he’s showing off.

A trophy.

Something he won.

Goddammit, I fucked up. I fucked up.

Every part of me wants to rewind, to redo all of this, to accept that first date and at the restaurant tell him that one of his employees is my ex, but I was looking forward to getting to know him. That I thought we were a good fit.

It could have been so fucking simple.

I could have walked into this room with the same effect, but without the stress and betrayal. Shit, Damien probably would have gotten a kick out of it, leaned into it even. I would have shone. Instead, Damien shines with pride and joy on his face, and he moves me around the room while I stand with a tight, fake smile pulling at my lips.

And then the room stops moving.

The world stops.

Because Richard’s eyes meet mine, and fuck, if the look of shock and confusion in his eyes isn’t everything I thought it would be and more.

The look morphs again when he moves to look at the man on my arm. It morphs to pure anger and disbelief and then . . . panic. Panic is in his eyes.

And fuck, it feels good to see that. The look I had daydreamed of, the look I thought he would give me upon realizing the woman he betrayed, used, and threw away was on the arm of the man he most wanted to impress.

Locking eyes with him, I push my hair over my shoulder, messy from Damien’s hands in the elevator, smile wide, and move just a fraction to get closer to Damien. He looks down at me with a small, soft smile, and I return it.

He’s oblivious to what’s happening.

I’ve gotten my revenge, cold as the snow forecast tonight.

The only problem is, that the revenge feels sourer than I thought it would, tainted by panic and shame. I can only hope my own punishment doesn’t hurt as badly as it should.

It only takes ten minutes after our arrival to get to Richard’s corner of the room.

It took about thirty seconds of those ten minutes to realize the blonde woman at his side was the paralegal that worked with him, who he told me was flighty and annoying.

Blonde and flighty and annoying, but apparently not too much to be disqualified as arm candy at this prestigious event.

I guess it was the lack of curves and the addition of a conservative outfit that made her win, making her a very blonde Jackie to my outlandish Marilyn.

Whatever. I’d rather be a Marilyn over a Jackie any day.

When we’re standing in front of Richard and . . . Misty—her name is fucking Misty, for Christ’s sake—I put on my favorite fake face.

It’s the one I use when asshole men come into the store, boss everyone around, and then try and come over to me to get a discount and my number.

Soft, sultry eyes, a pouty smile, a relaxed face.

I’m at ease.

I’m a pleasure to talk to.

I’m going to force you somehow to double my commission by the time you leave my store.

I’m going to make this revenge sweet as fucking candy.

If I’m already going down, I may as well enjoy it.

“Oh, Dick,” Damien says like he forgot Richard was here, his hand on my waist. It takes absolutely every fiber of my being not to laugh, both at the nickname that Richard despises and the subtle jab of not noticing him. “Almost missed you. Nice to see you were able to make it. Merry Christmas.” His voice is firm and friendly, but underneath that, it’s irritated, and I remember that he doesn’t like Richard. Turns out, Richard wasn’t so far off all those times he told me Damien didn’t like him.

I mean, who could blame him?

“Martinez. Happy holidays,” he says, putting a hand out and shaking my date’s hand in the most awkward way I’ve possibly ever seen. His eyes move to me, back to his boss, and then to me, confusion and frustration still burning in their depths.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t expose me for who I am to him.

He doesn’t do . . . anything.

“Oh, my manners. Dick, this is my beautiful girlfriend, Abigail,” he says, tipping his head towards me.

Girlfriend.

Fuck. That’s new.

I like it a lot.

Too fucking much.

And here, at this party I hoped Richard would bring me to, to prove I meant something to him, at this party I thought would be the beginning of forever, Damien is starting something of our own.

Will it make it past this doomed night?

Richard’s eyes widen, but barely.

It’s the kind of subtle widening you learned to take note of because you spent four years with a man, reading his every emotion and trying to balance how to best combat it.

So many days were spent trying to counteract his terrible mood swings, to fix what I hadn’t broken.

“Oh, I’ve met Abbie before,” he says, and I think that’s it. I’m done. “I like the hair, Abbie. It suits you,” he says about the blonde.

Then he nods once more before he’s pulled to another corner by Misty, her eyes shooting daggers at me over her shoulder.

Seems she knows who I am.

I can’t help the urge to wiggle my fingers at her in the most passive-aggressive wave known to womankind.

“Well, that was weird. You know him?” Damien asks, confused.

“Uh, yeah. Kind of. I . . . That’s what I wanted to tell you about. We’ll talk tonight?” I ask, hope in my voice. The way things are positioned, it seems that I may have gotten my sweet revenge and possibly the guy. But there is no universe where I can just brush this off and never tell Damien.

No matter what happens, before I go to sleep, I’ll have to tell him the full story.

And if he decides to forgive me, I’ll spend a lifetime proving to him that he made the right choice.

The Rainbow Room is as magical as I always thought it would be. The drinks are flowing, the food delicious, but the true glory of the whole evening is spending the night with Damien.

Just as he has been every other time we’ve been together, he’s attentive, pulling me into conversations with a natural ease so I don’t feel left out, introducing me to absolutely everyone as his beautiful girlfriend, Abigail, and whispering in my ear funny information about the people around us, giving me all the dirt on his coworkers.

The night is perfection.

And when a spoon is tapped against a champagne flute, servers walking around the room with trays of the bubbly beverage to make sure everyone has a glass to toast with, we all stop what we’re doing and look up at Simon Schmidt.

Richard’s grandfather.

Damien’s partner with whom he started this firm over ten years ago.

He smiles, looking around the room with genuine joy on his face, then starts to speak.

“Thank you all for coming! Each year this event grows, families growing, our firm growing, and each year it’s the highlight of my year to see it happen. To have you all—the family that helped Damien and me build our dream—spend this busy holiday season with us.” Damien tips his glass up to Simon. “We all know Damien isn’t much of a talker outside the courtroom, so as usual, you’re going to have to hear this old man ramble on for a bit as I go through the extensive list of company accomplishments and milestones that you all have achieved over the year.” Everyone laughs, and Damien rolls his eyes, putting an arm around my shoulders. “At least he seems to have a good one on his arm this year! Don’t mess this up, Martinez—I want to be able to look at that one again next year, yes?” he says, and I blush a burning, deep red.

But instead of shaking his head or waving off Schmidt, he nods, speaking over the crowd of laughter with another tip of his flute to his partner. “Don’t plan on it, man. Keeping this one around for a while.”

If you had told me two months ago this exchange would have happened and had me predict my next move, how I’d react and respond, I would have told you there is no way my eyes wouldn’t have drifted across the room to where Richard is sitting with Misty and cataloged his every facial expression.

I don’t do that.

I smile.

I tip my head up, my shoulder pinned between Damien’s arm and chest, and smile at him.

A full, true, down-to-my-soul smile, forgetting the pit I dug myself into, forgetting that tonight I have to confess, forgetting that my ex is watching my every move.

And while I’m smiling and soaking in the sun that is Damien, Richard’s anger starts to boil.

But I’m too caught up in the shine of this new relationship even to notice.

Simon Schmidt spends a good thirty minutes recognizing employees for their accomplishments in the workplace, congratulating them for milestones outside of work, and even mentioning some big moments for their guests—it seems Joanie’s son in attendance won MVP of his little league team, and Henry’s daughter got into NYU.

This place is a family, just like Damien told me. It’s what keeps him here, even when he doesn’t always agree with the cases.

It’s also something Richard never shared with me about this place—how close the office is.

And when Simon winds down his speech with promotions and accolades, there’s an awkward silence.

An expectant silence.

One promotion is missing.

One very important promotion, one announcement, is missing.

Richard as partner.

The silence lingers, so thick in the air you can almost taste it, before Simon tips his head to the DJ in the back of the room. “Want to get some songs playing, my friend?” he says with a forced smile, not looking around the room with warmth the way he had been all during his speech. “I’m ready to boogie!” There is a general sigh of relief that it’s over as music starts.

But I watch Simon as he steps from where he was speaking, from the mini podium they put together from him, and watch Richard stand, his face a deep, angry red I can see even from here.

Even more, something I didn’t notice before—he looks like shit.

His clothes are ill-fitting. His pants are too tight, the buttons on his shirt pulling. His hair is greasy, but if I’m not mistaken, it looks thinner.

He’s falling apart without me.

A strange feeling of pity runs through me.

Unexpected.

Not the kind of pity that makes you want to change something, not the kind of pity that makes you want to help pick up the pieces, but the kind that makes you sad to have the person breathing the same air as you.

Quiet shouting starts, and it takes everything in me to avert my eyes, to stop watching what is going down. I lean into Damien, asking a question I know the answer to.

“What’s going on there?” I ask, looking up at him. Damien’s eyes are dark and fixated on the argument. Before he can answer, Richard is ushered into another room with Simon, the door slamming behind him.

Damien sighs, a hand running through his hair. “Richard thought he was going to be promoted to partner today. He’s Simon’s grandson, but he’s not performing up to the standard, and I won’t entertain nepotism.”

Richard has assumed for months this would be his day. Today would be the day he achieved partner.

But Richard also thought he was a good lawyer.

Richard blamed any and all losses on everyone but himself: the jury, the judge, the plaintiff’s sob story, an incompetent client. It was never his own shortcoming.

“Should you go check on things?” I ask, looking from Damien to the door and back. He sighs and shakes his head.

“No. They’ll handle it and will call me in if needed. Let’s enjoy our night while we can,” he says and then stands, putting a hand out to me. “Dance?” he asks.

“I’d love to,” I say, grabbing his hand and standing, letting him lead me onto the dance floor and away from my terrible choices.

For now, at least.