Second Impressions Series

“I changed my mind. I’m not going,” I said, counting my breaths and fidgeting uncomfortably while waiting for a reply.

The other side of the line remained silent.

Should I worry? Was my cheerful sister speechless for the first time in her life?

“What?!” Sarah’s voice rang in my ear like the bell of a boxing ring, sharp and jarring.

I had to pull the phone away as a stream of unintelligible babbling poured from the speaker.

I already knew I would need to lie my ass off to get out of this one, but, one, lying had been as easy as breathing for me since I was five, and two, well, there’s no chance in hell I was spending Christmas with Sarah’s new boyfriend’s family.

“My PTO request has been denied, I’m afraid.”

“I thought you negotiated that when you accepted the offer!” she fumed. “You are lying! You. Big. Fat. Liar.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I deflected her accusation.

“I really need this job to work out. I can’t lose another one. I am terribly sorry,” I said, trying to sound like I really cared about my fake job.

“I know you are lying, Olivia.”

Of course I was lying.

Lying was better than admitting that I’d been writing at coffee shops while applying for jobs.

To say that things have not been going in my favor was an understatement.

My life was a complete disaster.

So I made up this lie about my fantastic new gig as an Associate Editor at this new indie publisher.

“You already confirmed. You can’t bail on me at the last minute!”

Damn it! She knew I was lying, she just didn’t know why.

And like a dog with a bone, her mind would chase every possibility until she unearthed the truth.

“Oh, no. You’re back with him, aren’t you?” she threw that accusation, making my stomach lurch.

“No!” My fingers touched the place where my engagement ring used to be, like a phantom limb.

Silence.

I swear I could hear her mind thinking through the phone.

“You are so back with him,” she laughed to herself. “Why else would you not be coming?”

Why, why, why did she want to poke around my failed relationship slash business so much?

“Look, I know this is a tough time for you. You haven’t shared any details with me, but I am your sister. I just think it is best if we spend Christmas together,” she insisted.

Oh, for the love of baby Jesus! I just wanted to be alone eating ice cream and crying over Hallmark movies.

“Look, sis.” I sighed. “I understand, and believe me when I say that I really, really wish I could hang out with you and talk about this so much.”

Something that I knew well about Sarah was that if she knew what was happening, she would try to fix things with money.

Even worse, with money that was not hers! Not that her new billionaire-baby-trust-fund-empire heir boyfriend would mind giving a couple of thousand, I’m sure.

“I can talk to Alexander, he would be more than happy to help,” she added.

I sighed in despair.

Who did she think she was? Mother Teresa?

“Not everything is about money, Sarah. I’m serious about work. I can’t afford to lose another job,” I answered irritably.

When I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs that I was afraid, I was about to lose this apartment, and for the first time in years I was about to lose my shit—as in a mental breakdown—and to make it even scarier, I was processing all this stuff while lying still on my sofa.

“Why do you have to be like this? You never let me help you,” she pleaded.

Why did she care so much anyway?

My sweet little sister was perfect. A solid ten out of ten while I was…well, me—plain brown hair, ordinary dark eyes, and so skinny I could use a Cheerio as a belt.

My mom used to say, “If you swallow a meatball people could think you are pregnant.”

Back then, the mean kids from school used to call me Skeletollie or Skinniollie, which sounded more like an Italian dish than an insult.

And now? Well, a lot has changed since I became a woman.

My figure was more athletic and lean than Sarah’s curvy Marilyn Monroe body.

I was still skinny, but I liked to think I had my own thing going on.

And yes, for years I’d compared myself to perfect Sarah, but I mean, who wouldn’t?

She was beautiful, curvy, classy, blonde, and just the right amount of exotic.

What really got under my skin, so much that I couldn’t just let it go?

Fuck, did she love poking where it hurt.

At this point, keeping my sister at a safe distance felt like the only safe option for her survival.

So yeah, I openly judged her, though I knew that was wrong.

She was my little sister, the only thing stable in my life, the one who always had my back.

“Then if it is not money it is definitely about how he cheated,” she assumed, and I felt the air sucked out of my lungs.

Though I didn’t show it, it still hurt me.

If only she knew what really happened.

“Please, drop it.”

“Stop being so defensive? You know I am on your side, don’t you? I mean, I still can’t believe Roger would be capable of—”

“Can we not?” I cut her off, pronouncing each word slowly.

The last thing I wanted to do was extend this conversation to that topic.

“We’ll talk about this in person, in a couple of hours,” she added.

“I said I’m not going to the Hamptons, Sarah.” I spoke through my teeth, staring at my reflection in one of the mirrors of my crappy apartment.

“I already started unpacking.”

“But he is almost there to pick you up! This is Alexan—.”

I hung up, and the silence pushed away the guilt and yelling.

Especially the yelling.

My dreams of spending a peaceful holiday alone, looking for a job that paid real money, were just around the corner, and I was on a winning streak.

Heaven was near. I could feel it! I could almost hear the sound of checks being made out to my name, and finally, no one would disturb my peace.

Then an email from Santa’s naughty list popped up.

~

I reread the letter, word by word.~

This was happening. This was real. I was broke and had nothing to offer beyond a huge debt for a nonprofit career and a bloodsucking failure of a business.

I closed my eyes, torturing myself again with the truth: I was broke and single.

My rent was due soon, and my bank account was running out of money.

My stomach started making sounds, making it hard to concentrate.

I was checking to see whether I had any wine left when someone knocked on my door.

“Olivia Summer,” a deep man’s voice called from behind the door, “I’m here to pick you up.”

My eyes shifted from the door to Ben Attewell’s letter.

Was this a signal from the universe?

And then it was clear.

The mental drain I would experience being around that snobby family made me sick, but it couldn’t be worse than my crappy apartment or having to deal with my personal finance nightmare.

I, Olivia Summer, lost it.

My legs were already moving toward the door.

I opened the door, and my jaw dropped when I saw what was in front of me—a tall, well-dressed candy man standing at my door.

He was dressed better than a model on a magazine cover, and his sharp gray eyes and manly features were so captivating that my heart skipped a beat.

I think my heart stopped working altogether as my eyes roamed over this Greek god’s smooth olive skin and dark hair.

If this was the driver, I now identify as a four-wheel vehicle.