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“Yeah, Quincy,” Matt adds, placing a hand on my arm. “I’m sure you were able to take a simple dance class, right?”
Heat and humiliation creep up my neck. Ialmostdid. But when I arrived at Introduction to Swing in a 1950s rockabilly outfit only to find everyone else in street clothes, I was so embarrassed, I quickly ducked out of the room. Then I kind of… forgot about it.
When I don’t respond, my mother and father exchange a look. A look that simultaneously fills me with shame and relief as Mom chirps, “Why don’t I go next?”
For several minutes following, I barely listen as my parents take turns reporting on their accomplishments. Ever since I was five and quit ballet after one lesson, it’s become a family joke that I never follow through on anything. The adorable nickname Quincy the Quitter has been bandied about more than a few times. I’m not sure if it’s a chicken-and-egg situation and I quit things to live up to the moniker, or if I earned the title because I always quit things, but either way… The charming epithet will probably be engraved on my headstone.
“Anyway, kids,” Dad says, “that’s my big announcement.”
I blink, realizing I’ve missed something important. “What announcement?”
“Jeez, Quincy. Aren’t you paying attention?” Veronica sighs loudly. “Steve Bailcroft is retiring, and Dad wants to promote either Matt or me to marketing director. We have three months to create a campaign for our new client, Extra Energy Drink. Whoever comes up with the winning pitch gets the promotion.”
For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. Steve Bailcroft has been Dad’s right-hand man at Carmichael Creatives since its inception. He’s credited with more successful ad campaigns than anyone else in the company. Of course, Matt and Veronica have coveted his position since the day they were hired straight out of college, but everyone—including myself—thought Steve would keel over mid–pitch meeting before he ever retired. I guess we underestimated the powerful—and undeniably adorable—draw of his grandkids in Idaho.
Without thinking, I blurt, “What about me?”
Veronica bursts into laughter, and I can’t blame her. I have no idea what came over me. Except, I have this sudden, all-consuming urge to change the course of my life. Like Scrooge being shown his dismal fate by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I glimpsed my own depressing future and didn’t like what I saw.
Veronica quickly sobers when I don’t recant my question. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Why not? I’ve worked there nearly as long as you have. And I’m a pretty decent copywriter.”
“Sure, but…” She trails off as if her objections should be obvious, and casts a “can you believe her?” expression in Dad’s direction.
He steeples his fingers and presses them to his chin, mulling it over.
“Daddy, please don’t tell me you’re actually considering Quincy for the position. Even if she wins, she’ll quit a day later,” Veronica voices what everyone’s thinking.
After a beat, Dad lowers his fingers and meets my gaze. “Veronica makes a valid point. How can I be assured you’ll follow through if you win?”
I hesitate, admittedly stumped. I’d give him my word, but it doesn’t mean all that much when you consider my track record.
“I know!” Veronica cries, snatching the scroll from my hand. “What if she has to finish her Christmas Commitments?Allof them?” Her eyes flash with a devious triumph, and for a moment, I marvel at how two people can look so much alike—we share the same lapis-blue eyes and blond hair, though mine is more sunny than snow queen—but be polar opposites in every other way.
As Dad ruminates over her suggestion, my pulse sputters. Maybe I could complete one or two of the items on the list, butallof them in three months? There’s no way.
“That’s not a bad idea, Veronica,” Dad says, and my heart plummets. “But not the entire list.” He turns to me. “If you want to be taken seriously in this competition, over the next three months, you’ll need to finish the last ten items on your list, including whatever you add today. Do we have a deal?”
I glance between Matt and Veronica. Matt licks his thumb and rubs the remaining powdered sugar smudge on his sweater, wholly uninterested, like he knows I’ll fail and isn’t worried about it. But Veronica… Veronica has this slightly manic glint in her eye, and her lips curl into a challenging sneer.
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly before I can stop myself.
“Excellent!” Dad raises his glass. “Then may the best Carmichael win.”
As everyone salutes with a sip of eggnog, Veronica traces her fingertip down my list, landing on the first item I’ll need to cross off—the one I wrote ten years ago.
A slow smile spreads across her face as she leans in and whispers, “Good luck, Quincy. New York City is going to eat you alive.”
CHAPTERTWO
Idig my nails into the disconcertingly sticky leather seat as the cab driver swerves around a pedestrian with a death wish, wondering if Veronica was right.
This New York, with the petulant gray sky and gritty slush covering the uneven sidewalk, isn’t the magical city of Nora Ephron films. Although, it’s probably my fault. If I’d arrived in autumn rather than early January, I’d be sniffing bouquets of sharpened pencils instead of shivering in my too-thin coat, regretting my life choices.
The cabby—who’s inexplicably averse to modern comforts like a heater and air freshener—slams on the brakes, and my forehead flies forward, colliding with the front seat headrest, which is slimy for unfathomable reasons.Ick.
He hammers his fist against the horn, glaring at a stylish woman weighed down with shopping bags who’d stepped off the Fifth Avenue curb without a moment’s thought to oncoming traffic. Somehow, she manages to maneuver her belongings just enough to free her hand for an offensive gesture that elicits a round of obscenities in return.
