Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
When my ex-best-friend uninvited me to her wedding our senior year of college because her future husband had decided I didn’t “match the aesthetic”—aka was too pudgy to look good in a lineup with the other tall, scrawny bridesmaids from our sorority—the Fruit and Nut bar was there.
When my boyfriend dumped me via WhatsApp two days before the biggest wedding of my life last summer, Cadbury held me together.
And when our contact at Titan Media wrote to deliver the devastating news that they were cancelling their six-figure contract with Darling Events, my remaining UK chocolate stash gave me the strength to keep going against all odds.
All things considered, I’m actually holding up pretty well.
Still, when we reach altitude and the flight attendant crackles over the intercom, thanking us for flying Brit Air and wishing us a “Happy Christmas season,” my soul doesn’t soar the way it usually would.
That familiar flutter in my chest just isn’t there.
Even at twenty-eight, the word “Christmas” is usually enough to make me feel like a kid again. Growing up, the Darling family did the holidays right. Even when we were traveling for one of my little sister, Isabelle’s, figure skating competitions, my parents made the season magical. December was a time for binging our favorite holiday movies, eating an obscene number of cookies, and dancing around the living room to Mariah Carey while we decorated the tree.
Once Isabelle and I were grown, the celebration had to be scaled down to a long weekend, but we still have an amazing time celebrating as a family.
This is actually our first Christmas apart…
Once I realized the Fletchers’ meeting would have me in London through the holidays, Isabelle made plans to celebrate with her fiancé’s family in Switzerland, skiing some large, scary mountains. (Much to the dismay of her Olympic coach, who has threatened to throw himself off a bridge if she breaks one of her perfect figure-skater legs swishing down the slopes.)
Wondering how the “not breaking a leg” is going so far, I connect to the plane’s WIFI, smiling as I see the montage from @IsabelleTheIceQueen at the top of my social media feed.
My baby sister is the furthest thing from an “Ice Queen,” but it’s a great user name for a professional figure skater.
And if you don’t know her personally…
Well, she certainly looks ice queenly enough online. At five nine, with naturally white-blonde hair, dazzling blue eyes, and bone structure a ballet dancer would kill for, she looks like she was born at a pricey European ski lodge. In reality, we were both born at the same hospital in suburban New Jersey. She just happened to inherit my maternal grandmother’s Swedish supermodel genes, while I got the “hardy stock who survived the potato famine” DNA from my father’s side.
I am the short, chubby, red-haired foil to her Nordic perfection, a fact that might have left psychological scars if Isabelle and I weren’t thick as thieves. But since the day Mom laid my baby sister in my three-year-old arms, I’ve been her fiercest protector, and she’s been my biggest fan.
It’s a fact she’s proven yet again by being the first to heart my “heading to London” post from earlier this morning.
I heart her post, too, even though her fiancé, Olin Nilsson the Third, is a rich, snobby dweeb who’s unworthy of my adorable baby sister. Still, she seems happy with her speed skating main squeeze, and the internet worships them.
Her post is only a few hours old, but the likes have already hit the high four figures, with my mother weighing in at the top of the comments—Have an amazing time, baby! Daddy and I miss you so much! Sending all our love and hoping we’ll be together for the holidays next year.
I blink faster, fighting a wave of guilt.
It’s my fault the Darlings aren’t together this year. Mom promised she understood, and that she and Dad were looking forward to their Caribbean Christmas cruise, but…
Well, I can’t help but notice that she hasn’t liked my airport post yet, let alone commented. The thought that I might have caused my favorite people pain—even teensy, tiny “first world problem” levels of pain—makes my stomach hurt.
Am I the Heartless Career Girl who Ruined Christmas, in addition to The Grinch who Wrecked 12B’s flight?
Should I write my parents a conciliatory email? Send apologetic gifs to the group chat? Arrange to overnight some Cadbury to the house before they leave for their cruise, even though Dad’s trying not to overdo it with the sweets this year?
Stop being crazy and focus. The only thing worse than missing family Christmas for work would be missing family Christmas for work and not landing the gig.
The Inner Voice is right—I can’t afford to be emotional about the holidays right now. I have to be locked in, creatively loaded, and ready to deliver the party planning pitch of my life.