Page 92 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
She rolls her eyes and then checks around the room again. “Now don’t fiddle around with this stuff. I have it set perfectly.”
“What if something needs to be adjusted?”
“No fiddlin’ around,” she says, pointing at me. “If something goes wrong, it’s because you touched it. Everything is set perfectly. Let it be.”
“But what if a head falls off? These mannequins are old. We can’t have a headless person gesturing to someone with a head.”
“Obviously put the head back. But do not touch anything else, got it?”
I nod, not feeling confident about this. “Are we sure this is the right move?”
“For the love of God, yes.” She blows out a breath.
“Only one more question for you.”
“What?”
“I’m having a party at my house... but where are all the cars?”
“That...” She pauses and then presses her lips together. “Huh. You know, great point.” Then she snaps her fingers. “I’ll tell her you bring people in on a party bus so they can drink and have fun.”
“You think that could work?”
“I can be pretty convincing. I mean, I convinced Cole to wear a thong and you to throw this ridiculous fake party.”
She has me there.
Knowing she’s right, she heads toward the door and then turns toward me. “This is it, Atlas. Don’t get scared.”
“Why am I going to get scared? You’re just doing a drive-by, right?”
“Noooooo, she’s coming to your door, remember? I’ll have her pick up the ornaments off the tree, and we’ll bring them to you. She’ll be excited that the ornament was still there, and you’ll answer the door but keep it partially shut so she can’t get in, and then talk to her. It’s in the script.”
“What script?” I ask.
“I texted it to you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” she counters.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and flash her our text chain.
She clamps her hand over her mouth, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, did I send it to her?”
My stomach drops and panic ensues. “Holy fuck, Storee. Did you?”
She fumbles for her phone, her hands shaking as she unlocks it. I look at her screen, my heart pounding as she pulls up her text thread with Betty.
Together, relief washes through us as we see the last texts were about them meeting up at Ornament Park.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, hand to heart. “I think I almost had a heart attack.”
“That’s so weird. I typed it up. I swear I did. Oh God, did I send it to Cole?” Once again, my anxiety skyrockets only for her to say, “Nope, not Cole. Oh shit, it was Tanya.”
“What?” I say, turning to her.
“Oh, not her either.”
