Page 18 of Boyfriend
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “There’s nothing like a little tension during the holidays.”
“Yeah.” He laughs awkwardly. “I know you understand. But here’s the thing—if you told your stepfamily you were going out of town for Christmas with me, then you wouldn’t have to see them, right? Free pass?”
“Well, sure. I was thinking about telling them that exact thing.” After the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Do I sound like I’m pretending he’s really my boyfriend?
He sets down another finished silverware roll, and looks me right in the eye. “What if it were true, though? It’s me who could use a buffer this time. My sister is having an engagement party on the twenty-third, which means that my mom and dad have to be in the same room together. You could, uh, come with me.” He swallows uncomfortably.
“Really? How would that help?”
“They, uh, like to yell at each other. But if I bring home a new girlfriend, my father will be on his best holiday behavior all weekend.”
I think about this for a second. “Their own daughter’s engagement party isn’t reason enough to behave?”
“Well…” He bites his lip.
Before now, I’d imagined Weston Griggs to be the kind of guy who was always comfortable in his skin. But maybe nobody on earth is ever so lucky. I guess he’s just human like the rest of us, because he looks plenty uncomfortable right now.
“Look, Christmas is going to be super awkward. My mom is throwing this party with her new man. That’s never happened before. So my father knows he has to show up and be civil, even though he can’t stand it.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, it’s been three years, but sometimes it’s like his anger is all that keeps him warm, you know? I’m making him sound like a dick right now, but he really isn’t. He is a super nice guy whose wife left him in the worst possible way. And if you spend the weekend with us, he won’t complain to my brother and me the whole time. He’ll have to smile and make waffles and small talk. It would be a nice break.”
“Oh.” I think this over for a moment. “Well, I don’t really have plans for Christmas.”
Weston beams. “And this would put you out of Price’s reach, right? You could just skip the whole sorry holiday.”
“I could. But, Weston…” I don’t quite know how to ask this question without sounding like a self-centered freak. “This isn’t just a ploy so you don’t have to worry about me, right? I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
He takes another napkin and smooths it onto the table. “Abbi, I promise you that I’m truly a guy in need of a date. You should know that there are Swedish meatballs in it for you. My sister made me listen to the entire party menu. I can also promise tiny eggrolls, pigs in blankets, and fancy cocktails. Oh, and hopefully waffles on the morning of Christmas Eve.”
That does sound promising. “Is the maple syrup real?” I ask sweetly.
“That’s my girl!” He cackles. “It’s real, I promise. They throw you out of Vermont if you serve the fake shit on Christmas Eve.”
“Well okay, Weston.” His smile makes me feel fluttery inside. Spending a weekend with Weston isn’t the smartest idea. My crush will only grow stronger. But even so, I hear myself say, “You’ve got yourself a date.”
Six
Can You Drive a Stick?
Weston
On Christmas Eve-Eve, I meet Abbi at noon outside the Vermont Tartan Flannel Factory. She comes bouncing out of the building right at noon, and stops short when she sees me leaning against the driver’s side of her car. Her eyes widen.
“Hey, sister. Something the matter?”
She blinks. “Nope. Not at all. Thank you for meeting me here. You look nice.”
“Thanks. You too.” In fact, I’m glad I put on nice slacks and a V-neck cashmere sweater. Because my fake girlfriend is wearing a dark red velour dress that my sister would describe as artsy. It looks soft and fluid, like red wine in a fabric form. There’s just a hint of cleavage at the top. Just enough of a peek that I’d like to put my face right there and kiss the skin above the neckline of that dress.
She looks delectable.
Abbi opens the hatchback and tosses in a duffel bag and her winter coat. I snap out of it and follow her back there to do the same thing. “You mind if I drive?” I ask. “Since I know where we’re going?”
“Sure thing.” She holds up the keys. “But it’s a manual transmission. Can you drive a stick?”
I snort. “That’s like asking a man if his dick works.”
