The Christmas Pic

7. Ava

CHAPTER 7

AVA

I sit on my couch, head in my hands, pouting. Where even is Harmony Springs, Michigan? Any town with a name like that has to be two stops away from hell. It’ll just be me, alone, at Ye Olde Mitten Nook Inn.

Oh, and Max.

“Max?” I shout to my room. Max runs out, my poofy Patagonia under their arm. “What time’s the flight tomorrow?”

“Four a.m.” Max frowns. “And you’ll have to be photo-ready.”

Not only has Aspen gotten me into this mess, he’s also gotten my Board involved. Aspen suggested to Jason that Max document our ‘adventure’–his word, not mine–so he can get content for his Insta and the Board can keep an eye on me. At least Max knows my good side.

“And I also… rebooked the Maldives. But come Christmas Day, we’ll be on the beach, don’t you worry.”

I’ve never said this before, but Christmas can’t come fast enough.

Since my island paradise is on the backburner for now, I have to deal with the whole reason I’m being sent to Harmony Springs in the first place–Jo Fisher. On my reconnaissance mission, my in-app AI chatbot tells me:

Jo is a lifelong resident of the Springs

Jo took over The Photo Truck from her dad

Jo did one failed GoFundMe for the truck

Jo loves her family

Jo is actually a guinea pig with 1.6 million followers on Gramsta

Oh, uh... AI malfunction. We’re working on that.

Guinea pig or not, Jo has delayed the one thing I anxiously await every year. My annual trip that takes me to the middle of the ocean to my favorite island, away from people and the holidays and all other things generally annoying. No, instead of sitting on the beach, soaking up the Maldivian sun rays with a Maldivian Sunrise, I am going to be stuck in Bumfuck, Michigan in the freezing cold trying to convince some You Betcha bitch that I, the number one tech CEO in the world, am better at building a business than she is. As long as I turn her shit ship around in the next couple of weeks, though, Max and I will be in the Maldives by Christmas.

Shouldn’t the top CEO on Earth have more control over their schedule, you might be asking. Of course he would. But those early contract negotiations with financiers hit me right in the naivete. I was the youngest woman ever to seek (and receive) the millions I was asking for the development of my empire. And make no mistake, I had a vision for Gramsta. I didn’t start it all because I was some snot-nosed Ivy brat trying to find hot chicks online.

No, I had been envisioning a universal online social space since I powered up my very first computer. I came up on the early internet, learning about friendship and connection through a screen, rather than in person–which, if I’m being honest, was much more suited to me. I was strange to my peers in school, but online, I was creative and forward-thinking and cool . Inspiration struck to develop a safe haven for all my little weirdos where we could be ourselves, free of judgment. Thus, Gramsta was born.

I signed the Gramsta contract at eighteen with no real guidance. I was smart, but I wasn’t yet aware of the extent people (namely men) will go to maintain their power. The Board has been fairly quiet prior to the AI boom of the past couple years, but the tension with the new programs has been building. They’re not letting me develop them the way they should be: for the good of humanity. They don’t care about the search bot; their concern is how Gramsta looks on that infamous Nasdaq ticker.

So is my Boss Bitch attitude a facade? No. I understand what I’m capable of. I can run a company on my own… I have . It’s what comes with the territory of playing with (read: getting duped by) others in this slimy little world of tech.

And if I can’t use it to build my own business, I guess I might as well help this Jo Schmo use it to her benefit. If she’ll listen.

The next morning, Max drags me out of bed and we roll into our Escalade. Luckily, I have a private jet out of Santa Monica and don’t have to face the public at LAX, which would be the icing on this already stale Christmas cookie. I pull out my noise-canceling headphones, order a mimosa, let Max snap a photo of me ‘doing research’ on the truck, and relax into that PJ life for the few remaining hours of me-time that I have.

I’m walking down the holly-draped hallway of my childhood home. A pathetic little Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, its sparse needles holding on for dear life. I kneel beneath the fir to a plainly wrapped box marked ‘Ava.’ I open it .

Inside the box is my very first computer, an old Macintosh, in pristine condition. I tear off the box around it and run my fingers over her lovingly. The machine that started it all.

The computer purrs to life, the Apple logo shining at me on the like-new screen.

I go to move the computer to my old desk, hungry to explore the ancient device.

“Time for dinner, Ava,” I hear my mom shout from the kitchen. But I can’t pull my attention away from my new acquisition, as focused on its magnificence as the day I got it.

“Ava… Ava….”

I race to the kitchen, but my mom isn’t there.

“Ava!”

I run to her room. Empty.

“Ava! Help!”

The backyard offers no sign of her either.

I dash back to the living room where the Macintosh sits, waiting.

“I’m right here Ava.”

Her voice emanates from the glowing screen.

“Will you listen to me now?”

I startle awake to the plane thump ing onto the runway. The pilot apologizes over the speakers–a cold front caused the bumps, of course. Add ‘being cold’ to my list of things I abhor.

All I have to do is get through the next couple weeks, I repeat to myself.

“All you have to do is get through the next couple weeks,” Max says, eyeing me from the seat across the aisle.

“It’s that obvious?” I grumble, grabbing my handbag.

“You were grinding.” Max chomps their teeth together, imitating my sleeping self.

My anxiety manifests in all sorts of fun ways, one of which is teeth-grinding. I usually have my extra cushy bespoke mouth guard to keep the grinding at bay, but you wouldn’t catch me dead wearing that around anyone. I’d rather grind my teeth down to pre-veneer levels than be witnessed in that state, even if the only witnesses are Max, a stewardess, and a pilot I definitely won’t be hiring again.

The stewardess fights the wind to thrust open the plane door, and I am met with air so frigid that I fight not to turn around and command the pilot to fly my ass back to SoCal.

I step off the plane and into a putrid puddle of slush, which fills the toe of my left heel. My digits freeze up like little Jimmy Dean sausages.

“I need. A coffee.” I try to keep it together. In through the nose, out through the mouth , I remind myself. Breathing is hard sometimes, also due to anxiety, but lucky for me I’m too stubborn to let it win.

“I’ve already got a place pulled up,” says Max, holding up their phone. We approach a sedan painted with a giant rainbow flag.

“This is cute and all, but where’s our ride?”

“Uh, this is it,” Max says, hesitant. “They didn’t have any other drivers in the area so we had to order… this.”

The driver, a cheery old man on the verge of getting his license revoked, honks at us. It’s meant to be friendly, but all I can hear is the grating sound of a Toyota Corolla.

He rolls down his window. “Pulling up right on the runway... you must be important.” He winks at us.

I muster a smile. “Not that important, apparently.”

I buckle myself into the cramped backseat. The floor is freshly wet from a previous passenger’s boots and the overwhelming smell of Christmas Cookie air freshener pervades my senses. I try not to gag.

“I’m George. Gum?” George offers us a Christmas-ified Wrigley’s tin.

“No, thank you,” I say .

Max takes one and mutters, “Plane breath.”

“Going to Slay Ride Rentals?” George confirms.

Max nods.

“So how’d a couple of hot shots like you wind up in Harmony Springs?”

I do not do small talk, and Max knows it. They give an ‘I’ve-got-this’ nod, so I put on my noise-canceling headphones to meditate.

After a few deep breaths, I feel the car moving beneath me. I’m centered, I’m calm, I’m cool. Especially cool. Collected, too.

I pop open an eye to see Max animatedly telling George about Gramsta, when the town outside the window grabs my attention.

Every last building, street sign, stoplight, and traffic cone is decorated for Christmas, but these aren’t any old holiday decorations.

A Rudolph with a blinking rainbow nose.

Mrs. Claus with a shirt that reads ‘Santa’s Beard’.

A Christmas tree whose ornaments are hundreds of tiny yellow bottles labeled… Rush ?

Where the hell am I?

George catches me gawking.

“Welcome to Harmony Springs, the gayest little town you’ll ever see!”