Page 9 of The Mistletoe Kisser

Leave Ryan instructions on feeding chickens.

Breakfast with the BC.

The living room was a cramped rectangle. Built-in shelves crammed with tractor and chicken figurines surrounded a bulky TV set on top of a stand with a built-in electric fireplace. Next to an ancient recliner was a stack of yellowingMonthly Moonnewspapers. The couch looked like something a drunk ninety-year-old picked out for her Florida condo. In 1984. It had orange and pink flowers and sagged in the middle under the weight of what looked like two dozen shoeboxes.

An upright piano partially blocked the front window that looked out onto the porch and whatever god-awful pastoral scenery was visible in the daylight.

To his right, oak-stained stairs with a worn green carpet runner went up to the second floor. Straight ahead, he could see the kitchen and dining room.

“Home sweet home,” he grumbled to the empty house. As if on cue, the electric fireplace flickered to life. Apparently empty houses didn’t get sarcasm.

Giving in to the exhaustion, he flopped down on the recliner and made a new plan.

Ryan’s New Plan

1. Find a liquor store.

2. Drink half a bottle of whiskey.

3. Call Mom and break the news that her third favorite uncle had officially lost his damn mind.

4. Book flight home.

He felt good about everything except Number 3. But he was nothing if not efficient when it came to accomplishing unpleasant tasks.

The pink and purple tie-dye letterhead on the metal TV tray at his elbow caught his eye, and he picked it up. The paper smelled like the inside of one of those stores that sold dragon head letter openers and bongs.

Dear Mr. Shufflebottom,

It is with the deepest of regrets that the Blue Moon Bank must remind you that the balloon payment on your loan is due by 11:59 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

If you are unable to make the attached payment, we will be forced to collect the collateral—your farm—and remove you from the premises.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of solstice celebrations! Don’t forget to cast your vote for us as Local Bank of the Year with the Chamber of Commerce!

Best wishes,

Rainbow Berkowicz, Blue Moon Bank President

Ryan flipped to the attached notice. The amount due made him pinch the bridge of his nose again.

“Fuck me.”

New #4: Save Great-Uncle Carson’s farm from foreclosure.

He needed to see a copy of the loan, the statements. Maybe the bank was pulling something over an elderly, not-right-in-the-head farmer? It wouldn’t be the first time a financial institution screwed over the little guy. The accountant part of his brain started sifting through possible tactics.

He could use a win. Even if it was against some small-town, patchouli-scented bank that had probably never even heard of mobile deposit.

The stack of shoeboxes on the hideous couch caught his eye again. He shoved out of the chair to examine them. Each one was labeled: Receipts, Important Papers, Family Stuff, More Receipts and Paperwork, Stuff I Might Need Sometime.

There was a sticky note on top of the first box.

Ryan, Everything you need is here.

Curious, he lifted the lid. The box was crammed full of crumpled receipts, a collection of rubber bands, and coupons for soap that expired in 1988.

“Nope. Whiskey first,” he decided.