1
Melody
Mariah Carey is telling me what she wants for Christmas for the third time since I left the city four hours ago, and I’m belting it right back at her.
My voice cracks on the high note, but there’s no one here to judge me except the dashboard Santa I picked up at a gas station, whose plastic head bobs in approval.
Freedom feels heavenly, two weeks away from my boss’s incessant demands and the soul-crushing life of corporate hell. I intentionally left my work cell at home.
Not even Ashcroft Media can reach me in Snowflake Valley, unless someone from IT has been secretly implanting microchips in my molars.
Unlikely, but not impossible.
“Testing. Hello, Henry?”
Nothing.
Of course, I did bring my laptop. My guilty conscience wouldn’t let me leave without it. But I fully plan to use it zero times.
Just me, my family, and a picture-perfect holiday in a town renowned for its Christmas celebrations.
“Two. Whole. Weeks.” I shout with delight, drumming my palms against the steering wheel.
I can hardly believe it.
The words taste like the first bite of chocolate after a diet: forbidden, sinful, and delicious. “Two weeks of no emails, no calls, no ‘Melody, where’s my coffee?’” I say in my best grumpy Marcus voice.
The last three months at Ashcroft Media have been a special kind of torture. Marcus decided to acquire two smaller firms before year-end, and I’ve been working fourteen-hour days coordinating meetings that could have been emails, apologizing to people Marcus has offended, and surviving on vending-machine granola bars and overheated coffee.
My stomach growls at the memory of those stale granola bars. I reach blindly into my snack bag and pull out a chocolate-covered pretzel, popping it into my mouth. The sweet-salty combination melts on my tongue, infinitely better than anything from the office vending machine.
“This is living,” I mumble through my mouthful of chocolate.
My aunt Karen, who pulled strings I never asked her to pull, got me this “amazing opportunity.”
She keeps reminding me how lucky I am.
My mother keeps telling me how lucky I am.
My dad keeps telling me how lucky I am.
Yep. Very lucky.
Lucky to be chronically sleep-deprived, to have my personality slowly eroded by corporate politics, and to have my omega status constantly undermined by my alpha boss becausehis own omega fled the city and turned him into a laughingstock, which I admit, brings me a tiny spark of joy. It’s too bad he took it out on every other omega in the office, especially me.
But not today. Today I’m free.
My little red beetle is packed so tightly it’s a miracle I can see out the rearview mirror. I had to Tetris everything just right, and even then, I’m pretty sure I’ve violated several vehicle safety recommendations.
Three suitcases of clothes because I couldn’t decide what to bring (Will we go sledding? Ice skating? Formal dinner? Casual brunch? Better pack for everything), six bags of gifts because I’m the aunt, sister, and daughter who loves to spoil those I love with presents, and enough Christmas decorations to make Santa’s workshop look minimalist.
Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the pearl-gray sky just as I pass the “Welcome to Snowflake Valley” sign. They land on my windshield and melt into tiny rivers that my wipers sweep away.
My heart skips a little as I slow down, drinking in the sights before me.
I turn onto Main Street and see quaint little shops sporting names like “Mistletoe Bakery” and “Frostbite Brews,” every lamppost wrapped in garlands with massive red bows. Shop windows display miniature winter wonderlands with trains circling tiny villages. A group of carolers in Victorian-style clothing stand on one corner, their breath visible as they sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
I crack my window to better hear their merry voices, and the scent of gingerbread wafts into my car. My mouth waters instantly, reminding me that chocolate pretzels aren’t a proper meal.