“So you should be able to find a holiday soiree, and I would like to attend. With you as my entree, of course.”

The thought of bringing a guy who said “holiday soiree” unironically to meet the small-town Oklahoma friends I’d grown up with held very little appeal, but my options were few. Besides, with enough alcohol even Arthur had the potential to be somewhat bearable. Our one previous notable interaction before the Incident with the Bee had been at Bronwyn Campbell’s Halloween party. Arthur had brought his own chianti (because, of course) and after a couple of glasses had been passably decent in our conversation about the possibility the Universe was a simulation and we were all sentient programs acting out predetermined stories for the amusement of godlike supercreatures. It made sense after the wine.

“I could maybe ask around,” I said.

He nodded, satisfied. Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

“There’s a great deal more here. Review it and we’ll discuss later. But you should know there is one element that is nonnegotiable: snow. There has to be snow on Christmas Day.”

“Seriously, Arthur, we’ve covered this. There is no snow.” I indicated our still-snowless surroundings but he wasn’t to be deterred.

“All perfect American Christmases have snow. It’s common knowledge. Your website of deceit even promises snow every Christmas Day.” He pointed. “It says so, right here. And I know for a fact that snow was one of the things Auntie Esha was most looking forward to in coming here.”

“If you wanted snow then you should’ve stayed in Connecticut for Christmas.”

“Well, we didn’t, did we?”

Nope.

Arthur eyed me a moment before he continued. “You will show both of us each of these Christmas experiences reflected on the aforementioned website”—he held up his phone again, for effect—“and make certain they’re idyllic, perfect, and, most important, memorable.”

“Why?”

“Because you owe me.”

“Because of the bee?”

“No. But I’ll add that.”

“Your reaction is way outta proportion.”

“The reasons for my reaction are my own.” His sudden discomfort told me there was more to this.

But I wasn’t ready to capitulate.

“And if I don’t do everything?”

He was prepared for that question.

“Then I will spend all my time here taking as many photos and videos of this charmless hellscape as possible, interviewing your friends and fellow towns-members, and I will bring all this information back to Barrington, where I will make absolute certain it is seen by everyone, so your image of growing up as some sort of Midwestern princess will be revealed as the lie it truly is. And you know what the likes of Bronwyn Campbell and Josie Sutton and the rest of their ilk will do with that.”

Yeah, I knew. A part of me was still hurting from Bronwyn’s snub ten days ago.