The Christmas Pact by Vi Keeland
Kennedy nuzzled my neck as we lay together. It was a typical lazy Saturday morning. We loved to have coffee and breakfast in bed on the weekends and just lounge around for hours after a long work week.
I couldn’t believe it had been nearly a year since we’d moved in together. Technically, we officially began shacking up a few months after he showed up at my doorstep that night on the horse. In truth, he never really left me after that day, though. One of us was always spending the night at the other’s place from the get go. But eventually, we figured we were just wasting money by keeping both apartments, so Kennedy opted to give up his so that I could be closer to work. That was the kind of man I had—one who always put me first. One who always let me be on top—just how I liked it.
Kennedy suddenly got up off of the bed and cold air replaced the warmth of his body. I admired his sculpted back and utterly perfect ass as he put on some jeans and walked over to the desk. He grabbed the pile of mail that he brought in after he went out to fetch us coffees earlier.
Returning to bed, he flipped through the pile of bills and other junk and stopped upon a large red envelope that looked like a Christmas card. He held it up and flashed a wicked grin. “Oh boy. It’s from your mother.”
I cringed. “Great.”
“Is that the dreaded letter?”
I shook my head. “’Tis the season, I guess, but I don’t know.”
“I thought you said she learned her lesson after last year, that she wasn’t going to send the Christmas letter out anymore.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said. Maybe it’s just a card?”
“Well, open it and find out.”
Ripping it open, I dreaded what might have been inside. Instead of a Christmas letter on the thick stock paper my mother usually ordered, inside the envelope was a folded page from a newspaper.
I unfolded it and saw that it was an Ask Ida column. One I haven’t seen. I haven’t paid as much attention to the advice column lately, for some happy reason.
Dear Ida,
I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with. My lovely daughter Riley has informed me that my annual Christmas letter is a bit obnoxious and egotistical. You see, I like to brag about my kids, but I now realize that boasting in such a way could be interpreted by some as tasteless. I’ve therefore opted not to send a letter out to family and friends this year and will instead just do traditional Christmas cards. So, sadly I won’t get to tell everyone that Kyle has once again foregone Christmas in the States to head to Africa and fix the cleft palates of more precious children in need. I also won’t be able to tell them that my daughter Abby’s twins just gained entrance into the Montessori preschool. Or that Abby is now pregnant with my first grandson, all while continuing to play with the New York Philharmonic. And I won’t get to tell them that my youngest daughter, Olivia, placed first this year in the New York State Gymnastics Regionals.
But here’s my dilemma: I might have some REALLY big news to share soon. And I wondered if you thought it might upset Riley too much if I went ahead and shared only that news with everyone, particularly if the news pertained to her?
Sincerely,
Mrs. Braggart
My mother’s question was followed by the typical response.
Dear Mrs. Braggart,
Did you say your daughter’s name is Riley? I think I know exactly who you are.
In fact, your obnoxious letters were what first prompted Riley to write to us.
If you ask me, those letters saved her.
If she hadn’t written to me about them, she would have never gotten out of her funk. I encouraged her to go out and live a little. But most of all, if she hadn’t sent me that email, she might never have sparred over email with that Kennedy dude. Their heated interactions were the foreplay that ultimately brought them together.
So, one might say you started it all, Mrs. Braggart. You should be proud. If it weren’t for that annoying Christmas letter, Kennedy wouldn’t be getting down on his knee… right this second.
I stopped reading.
Getting down on his knee?
It took me a few seconds to realize what was actually happening.
Except when I looked over at Kennedy, instead of a ring box, he was holding my Lovey doll. My mother must have given it to him. But when?
He proceeded to twist the head off, reached inside her hollow body, and took out the most beautiful round diamond ring. The morning light shined on the stone as he held it between his thumb and finger.
Then, he then got down on one knee at the foot of the bed.
“Riley Kennedy, from the moment our paths—and emails—crossed, I knew it was somehow magic. You were always the one I was meant to be with. This year with you has been the best of my life. And I know every year with you will be better than the last. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
My hands were shaking. I didn’t even have to think about it as I said, “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you! I love you so much, Kennedy Riley. Yes! Yes! Yes!”
After he slipped the ring on my finger, I covered his face with kisses and he collapsed onto me as we filled the air with the soft sounds of our private celebration.
Sometime later, he pressed yet another soft kiss to my lips and murmured, “You didn’t finish the letter.”
I reached for the paper that had fallen out of my hands and read the remainder of Soraya’s response:
Oh, and Riley? You should say yes, even if he can be a horse’s ass. (Flip around for Exhibit A.)
On the back was a photo that Kennedy must have sent her. It was a selfie of him and the white horse he’d had to abandon. He looked flustered and exhausted while the horse flashed its huge set of teeth and appeared to be smiling victoriously.
I pretended to be speaking to her. “That’s no horse’s ass, Soraya. That’s my fiancé you’re talking about. The soon-to-be Mister Kennedy Kennedy.”
His eyes widened. “Not sure if you’re joking, sweetheart, but for the record, I will totally take your last name if you don’t want to be Riley Riley.”
“I’m just kidding.” I laughed. “I want to take your name. We’ll figure it out.”
He pressed a firm kiss on my lips and took my face in his hands, pressing his forehead to mine as he declared, “I don’t care if you go by Riley Kennedy, Riley Riley, or Riley Kennedy-Riley, as long as I can call you mine forever.”
