#strangemagicsecretsanta

With trembling fingers, she scrolls through his previous messages to see if there’s some mistake, some misunderstanding, some clue that will tell her this is just one of Roland’s horrible jokes. Any minute now, he’d call to to tell her he’s sorry and she’ll yell at him and they’ll laugh about it over wine later. Or rather, he’ll laugh and she’ll seethe, but in the end, all will be forgiven and they’d move on. Or try to.

That’s how things always worked out between them, anyway.

But so far, everything her fiance — her ex-fiance — has sent is damning:

“We’ve been growing apart for a while.”

It’s true; they haven’t been spending as much time together as she would’ve liked. But it wasn’t for lack of trying, at least on Marianne’s part. Every time she tried to plan something, either after class or during one of her rare study-free weekends, Roland always seemed to have an excuse.

Now she knows why.

“You’re not fun anymore.”

She’s halfway through business school for Chrissake! She couldn’t just bank on the trust fund her parents left her the way Roland did.

“I’m taking back the ring.”

He could choke on it as far as she was concerned. That too large rock was hideous anyway. Clearly, he didn’t know her—and apparently, he never did.

“There’s someone else.”

Marianne doesn’t want to feel the sting of this. She closes her eyes to stem the noxious questions twisting through her mind. How long? Who is she? Why her? There will be time to scream and cry and wallow later, but right now she is standing in an extremely well lit public space surrounded by people whose worlds have not collapsed around them.

“Hold it together,” she whispers as she shoves her phone back into her messenger bag.

But every nerve in her body falls apart anyway. A tear escapes from the corner of her eye...then another and another and another. She brushes them angrily aside, hoping her mascara isn’t running.

“That guy’s an arse. Don’t waste your tears on him.”

She turns around and looks up...and up and up and up. Because the guy standing right behind her must have been six-foot-something (extra emphasis on the something). Her eyes move over the harsh, tanned, plains of his face, his seemingly permanent scowl, his hooked nose, his unruly dark hair. Everything about him, from his worn leather jacket to his frayed jeans, spells trouble: big trouble. But it’s his impossibly blue eyes that give her pause. She’s never seen eyes that look so...honest.

Embarrassment floods through Marianne’s veins. Has this guy been looking over my shoulder the entire time? She sniffs her increasingly runny nose as she tries to maintain her dignity and adulthood.

“It’s not polite to stick your nose into other people’s business,” she says.

“Sorry, can’t help it,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m tall.”

His face is so deadpan that it takes her a moment to realize that he’s trying to be funny. Marianne doesn’t want to laugh (she doesn’t) but, despite everything, a subtle tug at the corner of her lips betrays her.

Tall Guy responds with an irritatingly triumphant smirk.

“What can I get for you ma’am?”

Reality reasserts itself when she turns to face a bored-looking barista. She sputters, trying to remember what she wanted in the first place, when Tall Guy steps in front of her (blocks her vision, really) and says, “Two of the usual, please. One for me and one for the little lady.”

“I am not little,” Marianne retorts as Tall Guy looms (literally, looms) over her.

“Are you always this rude when strangers try to be nice to you?”

Marianne reddens. “Thanks. But...I didn’t ask for your pity.”

He fixes her with a gaze that feels like it could peel layers off her soul. Seriously, what is with this guy? “Well, I’m not giving you pity,” he says, quietly. “I just happen to know what it’s like to get discarded by someone who’s not worth your time.”

She grits her teeth, not knowing where her anger is coming from — only that it needed an outlet. “I appreciate it...but you don’t know anything about me.”  

The barista rings up their order and hands over two steaming cups. Tall Guy passes one to her: it’s a double latte, with extra cream and sugar. She tilts her head; that was her regular too.

What are the odds of that?

“Really?” he says.  “Not even a ‘thank you’?”

She wants to say it. In fact, it’s on the tip of her tongue. But something about Tall Guy’s smug expression keeps the words down.

“Have it your way, Tough Girl,” he says briskly. “See you around.”

He slaps his change on the counter and leaves before Marianne can say anything else.

“Ma’am?” says the barista. “Could you move aside, please? There are other people waiting.”

Marianne steps away to hunt for some hidden corner of the cafe to sit in. Finding a spot by the back window, she drains her coffee in silence, waiting with each passing second for the world to make sense again.

***

Three weeks later...

The last thing Marianne wants to do that night is go to a Christmas party. Her heart is still chafed and jagged over her ex-fiance-who-shall-not-be-named. So much so, that the thought of being corralled with a bunch of cheerfully drunk partygoers sounded about as appealing as rectal surgery.  

“You are being so dramatic,” says Dawn, flipping on her bedroom lights and making a show of pinching her nose. “Ugh. Seriously, Marianne. You need a shower. Or possibly a chemical cleansing.”

“Shut up,” says Marianne, pulling her comforter over her unwashed hair. “And turn off the lights! Can’t a girl listen to Alanis Morissette in peace?” She waits a few more minutes for Dawn to go, but is sorely disappointed when her little sister yanks the covers away from her. “Hey!”

“Look, I know you’ve been going through a pretty rough time,” says Dawn, her patented optimism drive kicking into high gear. “And I’ll admit that Roland—”

“Ex-fiance-who-shall-not-be-named.”

“Yeah...oof...whatever,” says Dawn, as she continues dragging Marianne’s prone body towards the edge of the bed by her ankles. “He’s a jerk. He broke your heart. And that really sucks—”

“We dated for six years, Dawn. We were planning on getting married.”

Dawn grunts, gives up, and plants her hands on her hips. “Marianne Elizabeth Summers.” Uh-oh, she summoned the middle name. “I’ve been really supportive of you for the last few weeks, but enough is enough. You need to get up, get out there, and get back on the horse. At least for one night. Because the Marianne I know would never give in to something as stupid and trivial as a boy.”

Marianne cracks open an eye, groaning as she rolls over on her back. She doesn’t want to admit it (especially not out loud), but Dawn has a point. She’s been neglecting school. She’s been neglecting friends. And, worst of all, she’s been neglecting herself.

She throws a pillow over her face and says, voice muffled, “I’ll only go for an hour, okay? An hour.”

Dawn squeals (about six or seven octaves higher than Marianne is currently comfortable with) before pulling Marianne into a bear hug that would have qualified as assault in any other situation. “Oh Marianne, I promise you’re going to have such a good time!” And here, her face curls into something foreboding and mischievous. “And I have the perfect dress for you too...”  

What exactly did she get herself into?

***

“Sunny says this is one of the hottest parties of the year. Can you believe it?”

Hottest party or not, Marianne is freezing her ass off as they wait for admission into a brownstone building that no one with less than a seven-figure-income could possibly own. The line is ridiculous, looping around the entire block and then some.

The little black dress Dawn forced Marianne to wear does nothing to shield her from the cold weather either. In fact, it barely reaches past her thighs and left a wide path of skin exposed down the middle of her chest and stomach, stopping just before her waist. Luckily, a tasteful network of matching beaded lace allows her to leave something to the imagination, but it had been awhile since Marianne had worn anything so...risque.

Yep, there definitely isn’t going to be much sitting down tonight.

She stuffs her gloved hands into the pockets of her overcoat (thankfully, much longer than her dress) and taps her thigh-high boots onto the frosted pavement.

“Just who is this party for, anyway?” she says, teeth chattering.

Sunny, Dawn’s boyfriend, looks over his shoulder. “Some rich heir to one of those big oil companies, I think. It looks like he invited the whole campus here. Rumor is that he went through a pretty bad breakup...and that his mother put him up to this party.”

“His mother?” says Dawn and Marianne in sync.

“Yep,” says Sunny, nodding. “Looks like Mommy Dearest didn’t want her only son to be lonely during the holidays.”

“Wait a minute.” Marianne frowns. “His mom’s throwing a party because she’s trying to find him a girlfriend? That’s pretty….”

“Awesome!” cries Dawn as the line crawls forward. “At this rate, we’ll make it inside before the the hour is through! Oooh, do you think they’ll have those fancy schmancy h'orderves? Like fish eggs?”

“I think you mean caviar,” says Sunny.

Marianne resists the urge to roll her eyes.

No really. What exactly did she get herself into?

***

Loud noise. Shiny people. European furniture. Five-star food.

Marianne couldn’t feel more out of place if she tried. All around her, guests (quite a few of them her own classmates) are laughing, talking, dancing, drinking — taking part in the gyrating rhythm called fun. But perhaps the most exasperating part is that everyone (seriously, everyone) is paired off, like some weirdly clubby version of Noah’s Ark.

Everywhere she looks, there are possessive arms draped casually over shoulders, kisses discretely (or not so discretely) bequeathed in hallways, as well as urgent tugging into the spaces of the house that are more private.

Maybe it’s the punch, thinks Marianne. It was this funny purply color.

Tired of being everyone’s third wheel, she breaks away from Dawn and Sunny to retreat into a dark corner with a long and thankfully unoccupied chaise lounge. She sits down (carefully), grateful to rest of her aching feet, but she isn’t alone for long.

A strange, squat-looking woman with flyaway hair and several layers of costume jewelry soon joins her. Then offers a silver tray of colorful drinks.

“Here,” the woman says, handing Marianne a fruity cocktail. “You look like you could use one.”

Marianne smiles shyly. “Um, thanks.”

But the small woman does not disappear. Instead, she lays the tray of drinks on the little coffee table in front of them and takes a seat right next to Marianne. She slips off her shoes to reveal tropical-colored nails on her feet that match the ones on her pointed fingertips.

“I’m Griselda,” says the woman. “And you are?”

“Marianne.”

Griselda narrows her eyes and glances over at her shrewdly. Marianne squirms, wishing she wore something more conservative for the fifth time that night. “So what brings you to my son’s party, Marianne?”

Marianne nearly spills her drink.

Is this the matchmaker mother Sunny was talking about?!

“I...uh..nothing really. I’m just here for the fun.”

“Hmm,” says Griselda, in that perfect way mothers do to show that they don’t really believe you but want you to tell them the truth first.

“Okay, okay,” says Marianne, holding up her hands in surrender. “You got me. I’m...not really here for fun. I’m here for my sister. But I...I don’t know. I’ve been going through some things... and I guess I just came here to forget about them. Or, you know, brood about them. Here. In this dark corner. Alone.”

She blushes, cursing the alcohol running through her because she obviously said waaaay too much to the hostess of this party.

“Brooding, huh?” Griselda cocked her penciled eyebrow and Marianne could suddenly see a glimpse of the young and vivacious woman she was a decade ago. “You should talk to my son. He practically majored in brooding.”  

“Well my first major is business. I’m in the Laurens Executive Program.”

“Really? My son was just accepted there for the coming fall...” Griselda turns around and looks through the swaying crowd. “And speaking of my errant son, I should call him over. Knowing him, he’s probably off brooding somewhere in his own corner. Stay put: I’ll introduce you.”

“Oh that’s not necessary…”

But Griselda is already off and running and Marianne doesn’t know whether she should bolt now or wait for the excruciating inevitable. Because if the rumors are true, then it is a thousand percent likely that whoever Griselda’s son is, he would definitely not be amped to meet someone new.

Then everything stops and suddenly she is paralyzed.

Because Roland just strolls in out of nowhere with another brunette hanging off his arm, a brunette who also happens to be wearing the hideous engagement ring she sent back weeks ago.

What the hell is he doing here?

He is high-fiving and fist-bumping and chest-thrusting his way through a crowd of people before his eyes settle on her. He stumbles, gulps, and they continue staring dumbly at one another.

She wishes she could set him on fire with her eyes alone.

Just as she is about to do something that would result in an explosion, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She whirls around to find Griselda beaming at her while her extremely reluctant son stands awkwardly at her side. Marianne’s eyes widen.

“Tall Guy?”

“Tough Girl?”

“You know each other?” says Griselda, her wicked grin widening. Marianne could practically hear her planning a wedding. “And you have nicknames for each other too?”

“Uh…”

“Um…hi again,” says Marianne, giving him a little wave. Tall Guy returns it, almost shyly. It’s actually...sort of...really cute. He glances at her dress and then quickly averts his gaze to the floor. And wait, is he blushing? He is! In fact there’s a telltale redness from the tips of his ears to the plains of his cheekbones.

Another tap on her shoulder brings her around.

It’s Roland.

Oh, right the other shocker for tonight. Can I just die now please?

“Hey Marianne,” says Roland, his hand nervously fidgeting behind the back of his neck. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She crosses her arms. “Yeah? I wish I could say the same.”

“Heh...right,” says Roland, before clearing his throat. “Listen, about what happened between us…”

Oh my God, was he really going to bring this up right now? In front of total strangers? How self-centered could he possibly be?

But just as she’s about to give her ex-fiance a piece of her mind, she feels the surprising warmth of someone at her back. She looks up and sees Tall Guy looking menacingly over her bare shoulder, his own long arm tucked protectively around her body.

She doesn’t expect to fit at his side so well.

“This guy bothering you, babe?” says Tall Guy, his voice low and forbidding. Maybe it was just the cocktail from earlier, but Marianne feels an unexpected shiver at his deep tenor.

“Yeah,” she says, glaring at Roland. “He is.”

“You heard the lady,” says Tall Guy, taking a few threatening paces towards Roland’s direction. A few guests turn their attention towards their little scene.“Get out.”

Roland makes a dismissive noise as he sizes up Tall Guy’s shabby appearance. Of course, Roland’s never been told ‘no’ very often. “And just who do you think you are?”

“Bog King of Marsh King Enterprises,” says Tall Guy. “And this is my party you happen to be enjoying. That means I have say in who stays and who goes...so go.” And here, he leans down to push Roland in the shoulder. “Or you’ll wish you had.”

Roland clenches his fists, but then notices all the eyes that have turned their way. He drains his red cup and tosses it on the floor. Then, cursing, he turns and grabs his new girlfriend as they make a beeline for the exit.

Tall Guy...or Bog?...turns around and gives Marianne an embarrassed, but apologetic smile. It is miles away from the smugness she encountered at the cafe. Meanwhile his mother has been watching the whole affair from the chaise with stars in her eyes.

Bog clears his throat. “You wanna go...somewhere else?”

Marianne nods eagerly. “Anywhere, but here.”

“Go on you two crazy kids,” says Griselda. “Take as loooong as you want to come back home.”

They could not get out fast enough.

***

“That was your mom?” asks Marianne, incredulous.

“That was your fiance?” Bog shoots back.

“Ex-fiance. And...yeah okay, fair enough.”

They are both back at the cafe, perching themselves at the granite counter with another round of double lattes steaming in front of them. Marianne is once again sheltered in the comfort of her long overcoat and cannot be more grateful for the lack of noise, people, and cold weather.

“He looked exactly like I pictured him,” says Bog, shaking his head. “What a jackass.”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” says Marianne. “Thanks for that, by the way. You didn’t have to...you know, defend my honor or anything.”

“No need to thank me...something tells me you could have taken care of him just fine on your own.” And here, Marianne couldn’t help but smile. She’s been doing a lot of that in his company. “I just didn’t want to end up paying the cleaning bill to get the bloodstains out once you were done with him.”

This time, Marianne allows herself to laugh.

It’s a really good feeling.

They pass the hour in contented silence.

“Hmm. Knowing Roland, he probably won’t let this whole thing tonight go,” says Marianne. “He’s never been kicked out of anything important before. In fact, he’s probably plotting his revenge as we speak.”

“Let him plot. I’m not scared of some self-entitled pretty boy.”

“He also probably thinks we’re dating too.”

Their eyes meet again and they glance away.

“I’m not really ready for another relationship….just yet,” says Marianne, softly.

“Neither am I,” says Bog.

That’s right, thinks Marianne. Sunny said that he had just gone through a bad breakup of his own. Without thinking, she grabs his large hand and he stiffens under her touch. She takes a deep breath.

“So we agree: we’re both not ready,” declares Marianne. “But...would you like to start over? As friends first?”

The corner of his mouth turns up in the first genuine smile she’s seen.

“Friends first?” Bog considers. “It’d be the first time in a long while since I had one of those….I’d like that...I think.”

And who knows? thinks Marianne, as he gently returns the squeeze of her hand. Maybe later they could be...something more.

“You’re buying the next round,” he tells her as he motions to their empty cups.

This, coming from the heir of a business empire?