Page 51 of Elf-ish

I’ve been living a good life. I’ve had a great life. Travel and parties. Dinners and dates.

But good isn’t what she means. She means live a better life.

One that isn’t full of extravagance, wealth, and hanger-ons telling me only what I want to hear. She means a better life than the lonely life I’ve been leading.

But I don’t need this shit. She’s breaking up with me. My fake girlfriend is stomping on my weak heart.

“Yeah. You, too.”

I watch as she walks through the small courtyard and disappears through the entry door without a glance back in my direction.

Yeah, fuck this, Angel.

I slam my car door shut, pound my hand on the steering wheel, and tear from the curb with a heavy screech from my tires.

I don’t need a better life. I don’t want to volunteer or give up my time. I certainly don’t wish to donate a thousand-dollar dress to a charity.

When I get home, I toss my bag on the entryway floor and head for the coffee machine. My head is suddenly pounding. My heart races. Caffeine might be the last thing the ticker needs. Maybe I should just start day-drinking. A strong whiskey might calm me down.

Only as I open the fridge, a white bakery bag stares back at me. One that I’ve been holding onto for a week. Each day since I’ve returned from the hospital, I’ve treated myself to one chocolate mint. The truffle-like candy was a secret reward. I’d been alive another day. Plus, eating only one a day prolonged their existence.

Hastily, I reach for the bag, ripping the top of the folded-over sack open to find the bag empty. I’d eaten the last one on Friday before I picked up Angelica and must have absentmindedly returned the bag to the refrigerator after my silent wish to pull off a fake relationship to appease my board members.

A fake relationship with a real woman.

A beautiful woman.

One who visited me in the hospital and brought me chocolates.

One who agreed to a deal but has broken the pact. Selflessly taking nothing in return for being my date. Not even keeping the dress. She could have sold it on one of those repurposed dress sites herself. She could have kept the money.

Angrily, I crumble the bag into a tight, waxy-paper snowball before tossing it toward my trash bin.

I miss the shot.

What the fuck?

Next, I whip my phone out of my pocket. The text notification from her practically glares at me. My thumb hovers over the message before eventually pressing it. Her list fills the screen.

Where can you make a meaningful donation?

How can you gift time?

Who do you need to make amends with?

Who deserves an apology from you?

How can you show compassion for another?

I slam the phone face down on the countertop and brace my hands wide on the edge. Hanging my head, I curse again.

I don’t need this.

Then I flip the phone over and read through the list one more time, noticing one important question is missing.

A question I can’t quite form yet but have an answer to already.

The one thing Scrooge didn’t get in the end . . . the girl.