A Billionaire for Christmas

“What’s this?” I ask Miles, pointing to the tray.

“Your mother, Miss Dumas. She just called. Says it’s urgent that she speak to you.”

“My God.” I sigh, but pick up the phone.

Jesse is waggling his eyebrows at me from across the table as he stuffs mini-rolls into his mouth. I hold up a finger. We had sex like forty-five minutes ago, but hey, if he wants to punch a hole in our mile-high frequent-flyer card, I’m up for another round.

But my mother. I know how she is. She only calls me on the jet when she’s manic about something. So I get up and go into the bedroom, sliding the pocket door closed behind me, before I say, “Yes, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, my stars,” she starts. “Do you know who I just bumped into?”

“What? Who? What are we talking about?”

“Your best friend! Can you believe it?”

“You bumped into—Natalie?” I choose Natalie over Hannah and Mila because she’s the only one I can picture being in Key West this morning without me knowing about it, not because I consider her my number one bestie. They are all equally best in my mind. Nat is a little bit crazy though, and a whole lot spontaneous. So she actually could’ve been in Key West talking to my mom this morning.

“Natalie? No. Karen. You remember Karen, right?”

I should, since my mother is insisting she’s my bestie. But—“No. Mom. Who the hell is Karen?”

“Language, Emma. Why must you use those curse words?”

I sigh and roll my eyes.

“I heard that,” my mother says. “And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Mom. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air. On a jet. Flying to you at this very moment. I will literally be in your house in less than three hours. Why are you calling me on a satellite phone about some stranger named Karen?”

“Stranger? Karen, Emma! Karen Krakken! She used to live behind us, and sorta kitty-wonkus diagonally? Remember?”

Oh. My. God. Karen fucking Krakken.

“She’s in town! In fact, she bought her old house last month. She and her family—the new family—she has two kids, Chauncey and Chance, and her husband, Chad—not the old family—they’re back! Isn’t that wonderful? She just moved in last week and came over this morning to say hi! I told her you were coming and that you’d be so excited to see her again! Oh, this is going to be the best Christmas ever. All the old friends back. The street party will be so wonderful with Karen and her family there, don’t you think?”

I am… at a loss for words at the moment. Because Karen fucking Krakken is… well, you know, sometimes people get a last name that totally fits them? Kraken Karen, which is what we all used to call her back in junior high when she did live kitty-wonkus diagonally behind us, she was a fuckin’ kraken. I get it, the spelling is slightly off, but trust me. If ever there was a person who ascended out of the depths of the ocean to terrorize and trap you in her sticky tentacles, it’s Karen fucking Krakken.

And seriously? Who marries a man called Chad and names their kids Chauncey and Chance? I bet she drives a minivan and is already campaigning to be the PTA president, just like her kraken mother back in the day.

“No.”

“Yes!” my mother exclaims. “Yes. It’s her! I promise you. She looks the same and everything. You won’t believe how great she looks, Emma. I’ve invited her to our street party tonight. She’s bringing a casserole for the family and friends potluck. I think she said mac and cheese flaky-bake. Have you ever heard of that? I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I’m confident I’m going to love it. We loved her and her family so much, remember? She was always...”

I tune my mother out. Because I certainly do remember Karen Krakken. She was a nightmare bully in junior high. And her family was the worst. The worst. Her brother used to spit on me when I was jumping rope. And her little sister used to pee in the backyard. Not their backyard. Our backyard. That was before we bought the whole cul-de-sac and put up privacy fences.

But that was nothing compared to the kind of monster treatment I got from Karen. Every time a boy took interest in me she swooped in and stole him. Or even if she didn’t steal him, she ruined the connection we were about to make.

Fuckin’ Karen.

That internet meme—Look, Karen… yeah. That’s her. She’s that Karen.

“Mom,” I say, because she’s still talking about how much we love, love, love the Krakken family. “She is not invited to the street party. No way. Take it back.”

“Take it back? Why?”

Oh, my God. How does my mother not know how much I hate Karen? “We were never best friends. We weren’t even frienemies. She cannot come to our street party!”