Chapter 1
Tori Gates
“Ma, work is insane right now—” I say, only to be cut off by my mother instantly.
“No no no— Tori Belle Gates, holidays are sacred!” Mom cuts me off. “I understand you’re a hotshot journalist with your own column and no time for your family! I told your father this city job was taking you away from us.”
Here we go. The annual guilt symphony, right on schedule.
“Mom, I’ve told you three times already, I can’t take Christmas week off—”
“Oh my god!”
I mouth her exact inflection before she even says it. Five years of this same conversation has made me fluent in Maternal Martyrdom.
“Yes, I know, I’m a terrible daughter,” I say, switching my phone to speaker so I can continue editing my article about kickbacks in the zoning commission. Real cheery holiday content. “Add it to the list, right under ‘moved to the city’ and ‘still unmarried at thirty-two.’”
“Don’t you dare make this about—we support your independence, Tori Belle—”
The middle name again. That’s twice in under a minute. We’re escalating quickly today.
“—but Christmas? You can’t even give us Christmas? Your father and I haven’t seen you since—when was it, Howard?” Her voice goes muffled as she pulls away from the phone. “When did we last see Tori?”
I can hear Dad’s mumbled response in the background. Something diplomatic, probably. He’s learned to stay neutral in these battles.
“August!” Mom’s voice returns at full volume. “August! And you stayed for one night!”
“It was a long weekend, and I had a breaking story on—”
“A breaking story.” She says it like I claimed I was hunting Bigfoot. “Your cousin Melissa makes time for family, and she runs her own business from home with three children—”
And there it is. The Melissa Clause. I should’ve started a bingo card for these calls.
“Mom, Melissa’s ‘business’ is selling essential oils in Facebook comments at two in the morning.” I take a sip of my coffee—cold now, naturally—and grimace. “Her commute is literally from her bed to her laptop. It’s not quite the same as investigating municipal corruption for a newspaper with a print deadline.”
“She makes very good money doing that, I’ll have you know. She just bought a new car—”
“A leased Kia, yes, I saw the forty-seven posts about it.” I scroll through my notes, half-listening. This conversation runs on autopilot anyway. “Look, I have a deadline in four hours—”
“Everything is always a deadline with you! What about your life, Tori? What about making memories?”
The word ‘memories’ gets the full emotional treatment—voice cracking slightly on the second syllable. Oscar-worthy, truly.
“I’m making memories, Ma. They just involve public records requests and FOIA violations instead of gingerbread houses.” I glance at my editor through the glass wall of his office. He’s currently eviscerating some intern’s copy with a red pen that should probably be classified as a deadly weapon. At least I’m not in that particular hot seat today.
“This is exactly what I told your father would happen!” Mom’s voice pitches up. “I said, ‘Howard, once she gets that job at that paper, we’ll never see her again!’ And was I wrong? Was I?”
“You see me twice a year, which statistically speaking is more than most adult children see their—”
“Twice! Melissa sees her mother twice a week!”
“Melissa lives twenty minutes away in the same town she grew up in.” I can feel my jaw clenching. “I live in a different state. With a job. That pays my bills. Remember bills? The things you encouraged me to be able to pay when you sent me to journalism school?”
“Don’t you use that tone with me, Tori Belle Gates—”
Full government name. Second time. I’m officially in the danger zone.
“—We are not asking for much! Just one week! Your grandmother is eighty-six years old! How many Christmases do you think she has left?”
The Grandma Card. Of course. I should’ve seen it coming, but it still lands like a sucker punch to the guilt gland.
“Grandma Eileen is going to outlive us all out of pure spite and you know it,” I say, but my voice has lost some of its edge. Damn it. “That woman still does her own yardwork and drinks whiskey every night. She’s going to be around to haunt my funeral.”
“Tori Belle!”
“What? She told me herself last time that she plans to make it to a hundred just to ’see what all the fuss is about.’” I lean back in my chair, watching a pigeon land on the window ledge outside. Even the pigeon looks judgy. “She’s indestructible.”
“That is not the point.” Mom’s voice shifts into that dangerous quiet register that’s somehow worse than the yelling. “The point is that family shows up for each other. We make time. We don’t—we don’t just—”
She trails off, and I can hear her actually getting choked up. Great. Fantastic. Now I’m the monster who made her mother cry three weeks before Christmas.
I close my eyes and count to five. My cursor blinks mockingly on the screen in front of me, the paragraph about contractor fraud sitting half-finished. The really infuriating part? She’s not entirely wrong. I could probably swing a few days if I really tried. If I groveled to Harrison, my editor. If I filed my stories early. If I admitted that maybe, possibly, I’ve been using work as a very convenient excuse to avoid going home to a town where everyone still remembers me as “Tori Gates who cried during the homecoming pep rally” and “Isn’t she the one who dated that guy who’s now in prison?”
Small towns have long memories and short entertainment options.
“Mom—”
“No, you know what? Fine.” Her voice goes brittle. “You do what you need to do, Tori. You stay in your city with your important job and your deadlines. We’ll just have Christmas without you. Again.”
The martyrdom is so thick I could spread it on toast.
“I’ll tell your grandmother you couldn’t make it. I’m sure she’ll understand. Even though she asks about you every single day. Even though she’s been saving recipes she thinks you’d like. Even though—”
“Okay! Jesus, Mom—” I catch myself. “I mean—look, let me talk to Harrison, okay? Maybe I can work something out.”
The silence on the other end is loaded. Calculating. Mom knows she’s won.
“Really?” Her voice is suddenly lighter, innocent even, like she hasn’t just emotionally waterboarded me for the last ten minutes. “Oh, Tori, that would be wonderful. Your father will be so happy. And Grandma! Oh, wait until I tell her—”
“I said maybe, Ma. I’m not promising anything.” But we both know I’m lying. The second I invoked the possibility, I lost. “I have to pitch it to my editor, and he’s been in a mood lately—”
“You’re so good at your job, sweetie. I’m sure he’ll say yes.”
The whiplash from criticism to praise is dizzying. This is her closing move—butter me up so I can’t back out without looking like a complete asshole.
“He might say no,” I try weakly.
“But he won’t.” She’s smug now. Victorious. “Because you’re brilliant and he knows it. Oh, I need to call your aunt Carol! She’ll be so thrilled—”
“Mom, I haven’t even asked yet—”
“And we’ll do the cookie exchange! You always loved the cookie exchange. Remember when you were little and you ate so many snickerdoodles you threw up in the—”
“Yep, great memory, thanks for that.” I rub my temples. A headache is forming right behind my eyes, probably stress-induced, definitely mom-induced. “Look, I really do have to go. Actual deadline. Not fake.”
“Okay, okay. But you’ll call me after you talk to your boss?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Today?”
“When I get a chance—”
“Tori.”
I sigh. Defeated. Exhausted. Already mentally drafting the email to Harrison that I know he’s going to hate. “Yes. Today. I’ll call you today.”
“I love you, sweetie! This is going to be the best Christmas! Oh, and bring nice outfits—we’re doing the church service on Christmas Eve and you know how people talk—”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“—and maybe something for the Hendersons’ party on the twenty-sixth! Nothing too revealing, just—”
“Hanging up now.”
“I love you!”
“Love you too,” I mutter, and disconnect before she can add anything else to the growing list of requirements for this trip I haven’t even officially agreed to yet.
I drop my phone on the desk and stare at it like it’s personally betrayed me. Which, in a way, it has. That little rectangle of glass and aluminum just sentenced me to a week in my hometown. A week of “Oh, Tori’s back!” and “Heard you’re doing some writing up in the city!” and “Are you seeing anyone special?” and endless, endless questions about why I’m not more like Melissa.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Through the glass, I watch Harrison emerge from his office, the intern trailing behind him looking like he’s just survived a natural disaster. Harrison catches my eye and makes a “come here” gesture.
Great. Because this day needed to get better.
I grab my notebook and coffee—still cold, still bitter, still the perfect metaphor for my existence—and head toward his office. Might as well get this over with.
Harrison’s in his late fifties, perpetually rumpled, and has the disposition of a hungover bear. He’s also the best editor I’ve ever worked with, which is the only reason I haven’t quit during one of his legendary tirades.
“Gates,” he grunts, not looking up from his computer. “Tell me you have something on the zoning story.”
“Fifteen hundred words, ready for your red pen of doom by end of day.” I slide into the chair across from his desk, which is covered in newspapers, coffee cups, and what might be a sandwich from last week. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”
“No.”
I blink. “You don’t even know what I’m going to—”
“You’ve got that look.” He finally glances up, eyes narrowed behind wire-frame glasses. “That ‘I need a favor’ look. And we’re three people down with the flu, it’s the week before the holidays, and the mayor’s office just announced a surprise press conference for tomorrow that I need you to cover.”
My stomach drops. “Tomorrow? I thought Jenkins was on city hall—”
“Jenkins is one of the three people with the flu. Currently vomiting in his bathroom and texting me about his imminent death.” Harrison leans back, making his chair squeak in protest. “So no, whatever you’re about to ask for—time off, a raise, a pony—the answer is no.”
I should leave it. I should just nod, take the assignment, call my mom back and tell her it didn’t work out. She’d be disappointed but she’d get over it. Probably. Eventually.
But then I remember the catch in her voice. The guilt. The fact that I haven’t been home since August, and even then it was barely more than a pit stop.
“I need Christmas week off,” I say.
Harrison stares at me like I’ve just asked him to dance naked through the newsroom.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Gates, we just went through this—”
“I know, but—” I lean forward. “Look, I can file the zoning story early. I can cover the press conference tomorrow and have copy ready by evening. I can pre-write the city council wrap-up for the twenty-third. I’ll leave you with enough content to run the section without me.”
“And what about breaking news? What about follow-ups? What about—”
“Marcus can cover it. Or Chen. Or literally any of the other city reporters who aren’t currently dying of influenza.” I’m talking fast now, the words tumbling out. “I haven’t taken more than a long weekend in two years, Harrison. Two years. I’m pretty sure that violates some kind of labor law.”
“We’re journalists. Labor laws are suggestions.” But he’s wavering. I can see it in the way he’s chewing on his pen cap, which is disgusting but also a sign he’s actually considering this.
“One week. I’ll have my phone. If something massive breaks, I can file remotely—”
“From where?”
I hesitate. This is the part that might sink me. “South Carolina.”
He blinks. “You’re kidding me.”
“Wish I was.” I slump further into the chair, which smells faintly of old coffee and crushed dreams. “Little town called Magnolia Creek. You’ve never heard of it. No one has. That’s kind of its whole thing.”
“South Carolina.” Harrison says it slowly, like he’s trying to parse a foreign language. “You want to take off during our busiest week to go to South Carolina.”
“I’m aware of the optics, yes.”
“South Carolina,” he repeats, because apparently we’re stuck in a loop now. “What’s even in South Carolina?”
“My family. Sweet tea. Aggressive humidity even in December, somehow.” I count off on my fingers. “Oh, and approximately seven hundred people who still remember me as the girl who accidentally set off the fire alarm during senior prom. So, you know, real vacation destination stuff.”
Harrison removes his glasses and rubs his eyes like I’m giving him a migraine. Which, fair. “Gates, we’re down three reporters. The mayor’s doing God knows what tomorrow. The city council’s about to vote on that rezoning mess—”
“Which I’ll have wrapped and filed before I leave,” I cut in. “Look, I can front-load everything. The rezoning piece is basically done—just needs your edits and a final quote from Councilman Peterson, which I’ll chase down today. I’ll pre-write the holiday crime stats roundup, the year-in-review City Hall piece, and whatever else you need.”
“And when breaking news happens?”
“I’ll have my laptop. And my phone. And unfortunately, the internet has reached even the deepest corners of the rural South.” I lean forward. “I’m not asking to disappear off the grid. I’m asking to do my job from a location with worse coffee and more passive-aggressive church ladies.”
He’s silent for a moment, just staring at me with that look—the one that says he’s running calculations, weighing options, probably wondering if replacing me is worth the hassle.
“Your mom really got to you, huh?”
“She used my full name. Three times.” I shake my head. “Tori Belle Gates. When the ‘Belle’ comes out, you know it’s over. That’s the verbal equivalent of a tactical nuke.”
“Belle?” A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Your middle name is Belle?”
“We don’t talk about it.”
“Tori Belle Gates,” he says, clearly enjoying this. “That’s very... Southern.”
“Harrison, I swear to God—”
“No, no, it’s sweet. Very genteel. Very magnolia trees and front porch lemonade—”
“I will put glitter in your keyboard.”
He laughs—actually laughs, which is rare enough that I almost forget I’m supposed to be annoyed. “Fine. Fine. But you’re filing everything early, you’re on call for emergencies, and you owe me. We’re talking every terrible assignment in January. Parking commission meetings. Zoning board minutiae. That guy who keeps calling about chemtrails.”
I sit up straighter. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” He puts his glasses back on. “And Gates? If you come back with a Southern accent, you’re fired.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” I stand, already mentally cataloging everything I need to finish in the next forty-eight hours. It’s going to be hell, but at least it’s my hell. Not my mother’s. “Thanks, Harrison.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of here. And get me that zoning piece by end of day. I mean it—end of business day, not your usual three-AM panic spiral.”
“Got it!” I call back leaving his office.
Now I just need to book a ticket. Buy everyone presents, wrap them, figure out how to cram them into a carry-on because I refuse to check a bag again after what happened last Thanksgiving — may that suitcase rest in peace wherever Delta buried it — and then mentally prepare for a week of being guilt-tripped, overfed, and passive-aggressively judged by relatives who think “liberal media” is a synonym for “demonic possession.”
Also, I’ll need to find an “appropriate” church outfit, which in my mother’s world means something that says, “I’m successful, single, and not actively disappointing Jesus.” Bonus points if it covers my shoulders and doesn’t suggest I’ve ever had sex. Ever.
And then there’s the sweater situation. The annual Christmas Eve “ugly sweater contest” that’s only ever been won by Melissa and her stupid hand-knit reindeer monstrosities with LED lights and bells. Real bells. She jingles when she walks. It’s like being stalked by festive livestock.
But no, I’m the one who needs to “put in more effort.”
Of course, I also need to brace for the parade of questions:
— “Still single, sweetheart?”
— “When are you moving back home?”
— “Do you ever write nice stories?”
— “Melissa’s oldest just won the regional spelling bee. Did you hear?”
Yes, I heard. It was in every family group chat. With photos. And a custom meme Carol made using Canva, which frankly feels like a crime.
But sure. Let’s all gather ’round the punch bowl and celebrate Melissa’s fifth-grader spelling dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane while I explain, again, that journalism isn’t just shouting questions at politicians and getting famous. It’s mostly public records, angry emails, and arguing with copy editors over whether a semicolon makes me sound “too smug.”
And still—still—I’m doing it. Booking the damn ticket. Smiling through clenched teeth. Showing up, like a good little daughter-shaped disappointment in boots that aren’t nearly warm enough for church but too expensive not to wear.
Because this is what we do. We go home. We endure. We survive the cookies and the comparisons and the globs of marshmallow on sweet potatoes that are not dessert, Mom, they’re a vegetable, please stop lying to yourself.
I open my browser, sigh, and start searching flights.
Let the holiday games begin.
