Page 1 of The Holiday Ex-Files

Chapter One

Okay, Ex-Filers, it’s October. We all know what that means. The holidays are upon us. I know, it gives me the shudders too. Many of us will feel compelled to couple up, but just remember that while it’s easy to crop a mistake out of a photo, hearts and souls are an entirely different matter. So be safe out there. And I’m not talking about safe sex, though that is important too. Actually, think abstinence with a capital A. Better to be safe than sorry. Like really, really sorry. Remember, one might be the loneliest number, but there are worse things than being alone—even during the holidays. (See my list of things worse than being single under the pinned posts and highlights.) But if you must indulge in coupledom this holiday season, please visit my website at www.theholidayexfiles.com for the best poses and photo arrangements in case, or should I say when, you have to crop out those pesky exes.

As always, I will be here winter, spring, summer, and fall to remove them all.

Lots of love,

Cami

P.S. Don’t forget about the Halloween Bash at the Civic Center in Aspen Lake to benefit the women and children’s shelter. You can donate online or in person.

P.P.S. No couples allowed.

I read over my post for the day, did a quick spell-check, and clicked publish. I set my phone down on my nightstand, ready to pick up my laptop and get to work. I know working in bed isn’t good for my musculoskeletal system, as my mom loved to point out, but I was most creative in bed. Wait, that didn’t come out how I wanted. What I meant was I did my best work in bed. Oh. My. Gosh. Forget the whole bed thing. I work best when I was comfortable.

I went to reach for my laptop but stopped when Neville, my shih tzu and the only man allowed in my bed, narrowed his eyes at me. I’d seen the look before—he’d inherited it from my mother. The look said, “Cami, honey, all this helping people shun relationships and the holidays isn’t healthy. You used to be such a happy, sweet girl. Maybe you should talk to someone. Would you like some cheesecake?”

I always took the cheesecake. As for the other advice, I filed it under It’s Too Painful, Let’s Not Go There. And as far as happy and sweet went, I wasn’t unhappy, and perhaps I wasn’t as sweet as I was before the incident. I was more like artificial sweetener sweet. It almost tasted like real sugar, but you knew something was missing. That pretty much summed me up—something was missing. More like something was stolen.

That was okay though. I was okay.

I scratched Neville’s head. “If only you knew the whole story, buddy, you wouldn’t be giving me that look. You’d be cheering me on. But it’s just too much for your virgin ears. Well, that is if you are a virgin.” I wasn’t exactly sure. I’d adopted Neville after the incident almost three years ago, and Neville was already four by then, which meant he was twenty-eight in people years, which meant he was the same age as . . . well . . . the him at that time. Which might explain why Neville needed anxiety meds. He’d probably had an incident too. Regardless, he didn’t need the gory details. Besides, I kind of sort of already told the entire world about it; well, most of it at least. Some pain was better off private.

I swore Neville shrugged before curling up and closing his eyes. If only my mom were so easy to appease. She would have given me cheesecake and a lecture about the beauty of love and the holidays. She might have even serenaded me with “Have Yourself a Merry Little C-word.” (I refused to say or even think the once-beloved word.) It had happened during the annual Jenkins Fourth of July lake party this past summer. To make it worse, my entire family—all one hundred and fifty of them from my five brothers, their spouses, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and I think some random strangers looking for free food—all joined in. If that wasn’t enough, they sang ten more C-word songs like they were herald angels leading us to the baby Jesus, all while fireworks exploded in the star-filled sky. I had tried to escape but they all surrounded me like they were doing some sort of intervention. They probably were. But I’d held strong and refused to sing any of my old favorites. The entire time, I repeated in my head the lyrics to “Love Stinks.” This thing they call love, it’s going to make you cry. Truer words had never been spoken.

A loud sigh escaped. I needed to work. I grabbed my laptop, ready to edit the photos I had taken for an upcoming listing at my father’s real estate firm. I should mention it was his father’s too. Yeah, that was awkward. A word of advice: don’t ever date a coworker, especially when he’s the son of your father’s business partner. Really, just don’t date. Here’s another tip: don’t marry him.