Page 12 of My Favorite Holidate

“Really?” She sounds so relieved.

“Of course. I would love to.”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“You were born second,” I say as I jerk open another drawer.

“True, true.”

There it is! Safe and sound, though I’ve no idea why I left it in the drawer. Maybe I was just that tired last night. I grab the white shirt with the team logo printed in red and silver bling that I’m sure will be a hit with the female fans the team has been courting this season.

Now that I’ve got the bounty, I bite the bullet. “So, listen,” I say to Charlotte, “This is no big deal, and it’s all totally fine, but I’m not seeing Brady anymore.”

Dead silence.

A few seconds later, there’s a worried gasp. “What happened? Did he hurt you? Because if he did something to my sister a month—no, less than a month—before my wedding, I’ll…I’ll…put composted cow manure in his slice of wedding cake.”

“First, love your attention to detail when it comes to revenge, but…” I pause, wincing. I can’t tell her what he did. Not after she rattled off her DEFCON-5 levels of pre-wedding stress. “It was mutual,” I assure her as I grab my oversized purple bag from the kitchen counter in my little Mission District apartment. “We just realized we weren’t right for each other. But it’s fine. I swear it’s fine. It happens.”

“Fable,” she says sympathetically. “Do you need me tocome over later with a pin-the-tail-on-the-dickhead? We can throw darts at an image of his face.”

As appealing as that may be—I love a good game of darts—she needs to focus on putting together a wedding in just over three weeks. “I’m great, Char. I swear. We weren’t a good match. It was so mutual—it was, like, beyond mutual.”

“Is it going to be weird to see him at the wedding?”

“No,” I lie, trying not to picture Brady pumping a fist and bro-knocking guests at every opportunity. “It’ll be fine. No problem.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I say, grabbing a jacket.

“I’ll find someone to be on your team, then,” she says.

I stop in my tracks at the kitchen counter. Wait. What fresh hell did she just utter? “What…do you mean?”

“Leo and I thought it’d be fun if everyone teams up. For the Evergreen Falls Christmas competition Wilder mentioned. The one in the town. The events are so fun—there’s a snowball fight and a gingerbread house-making competition and more. We’re thinking the bride and groom can be on one team,” she says, then rattles off Leo’s parents, our mom and stepdad, our dad and his third or fourth wife—who can keep track?—and then the cousins. My head is spinning with the inevitable when she says, “Oh. Hang on—Leo’s just texted me. Brady’s RSVP’d with?—”

I knew this was coming since Brady, with the subtlety of an elephant, invited the eggnog drinker in front of me. Still, I groan inside, close my eyes, and stuff the shirt into my work bag. I mutterIrisright as Charlotte says it out loud. Or rather, she asks, “Iris, the caterer?”

AKA, Iris, who sucked the stripes off Brady’s candycane. I can’t believe he’s already put her name on the guest list. But then, I can.

“That’s so great he’s found someone,” I say, so bright, so bubbly I must sound like I’m on helium when, in fact, I’ve drunk a cup of pure dread. The last thing I want is to see them together at the wedding. Correction: the last thing I want is to see them together at all.

But I definitely can’t tell my sister the truth now. I’ll wait till the new year. Once Charlotte returns from her dream honeymoon, we’ll grab brunch and laugh over my terrible ex and what went down.

Well, what went down Iris’s throat.

After watching my father selfishly toy with my mother’s emotions, after he promised to change after every affair, after he vowed to stay faithfulthis timethen dramatically stole the limelight, I won’t do that with Charlotte.

Besides, opening up isn’t my favorite thing to do.

It’s your least favorite thing, and you know it.

I tell that little, knowing voice to shut the F up. There’s nothing wrong with keeping your feelings to yourself. It’s safer than sharing. And frankly, kinder. This way, I can focus on Charlotte during her special time.

Brady’s the past, and the past is behind me. I say goodbye to my sister and gallop out the door to catch a bus to the stadium.

At two minutes past ten, I vault off the bus and race to the employee entrance, where I wag my lanyard with my Renegades ID at the security guard at the door. He has no mercy for my labored breaths or the strands of hair falling from my clip on one side of my head—because, of course,it falls only on one side—or the sweat I’m sweating under my short-sleeve blouse. Running that far made me as hot as Hades, and now the blast of heating from the stadium raises my body temperature about a million degrees.

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