Page 1 of The Mistletoe Makeover

ONE

Mia

“Ihatemistletoe.” I glance over at my roommate, Jaz, from the top of a ladder while wrestling with a tangled fake evergreen garland that’s been in storage for a year.

“What did mistletoe ever do to you?” Jaz replies as she digs through a box and plucks a fake mistletoe from the bottom.

“Basically, ruined my childhood.” My staunch dislike for mistletoe started early. Every year, my mother forced me to attend our town’s annual Maplewood Mistletoe Festival, but after one disastrous Christmas, I vowed I could never look at mistletoe the same again.And for good reason.

Jaz twirls the green sprig between her fingers. “If a handsome stranger stops by the house, you’ll thank me later.” She knows I’d rather get pelted with sharp rocks than forced into kissing a man I’ve just met. But she also knows how stubborn I am. Too headstrong to fall for a sharp, stubbled jaw and pretty eyes.

If I’m going to fall for someone, it will have to happen naturally and, possibly, against my better judgment.

“You’re assuming that I’m desperate,” I say, untangling a knot in the stiff garland.

“Holding the title ofnever been kisseduntil you’re forty is not a goal you should strive for.” She tosses the mistletoe toward me and I fumble it for a second.

“I have nine years until I’m forty, thank you very much,” I add, tossing the mistletoe back at her. I said the same thing about turning thirty, and here I am, still single and never been kissed. I’ve been so focused on finishing college, getting a job, and supporting my mom that dating in my twenties just wasn’t a high priority. But now that I’m settled in Sully’s Beach, South Carolina, I probably should at least consider dating again.

“So why all the mistletoe hate?” Jaz asks, setting the mistletoe aside. I have a feeling I’m going to find it later, hanging where I least expect it, and I’ll be forced to make a wide circle around it the rest of December.

“For years, my mom has volunteered for the committee that plans the Maplewood Mistletoe Festival in Vermont, which meant our entire fall was consumed by festival planning and stockpiling Christmas decorations. Why do you think I avoid going home for the holidays?” My hometown is overrun with tourists the week before Christmas, and Mom is always in full-on festival mode. “At least I can have a normal holiday here.”

“Normal?” Jaz says. “You meanboring?”

She doesn’t appreciate that my usual holiday plans include binge-watching every holiday movie on Netflix while wearing buffalo-check flannel pajamas.

I climb down from the ladder. “What do you think?” I point to the garland draped over the door.

She presses a finger to her lips. “It needs something.”

“You sound like my mother. Her motto concerning Christmas decorations was alwaysmore is more.”

“Then I’d probably love the Maplewood Mistletoe Festival.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” I warn, remembering the obnoxious blinking lights, the fake trees, the garish hand-painted elves next to a hideous plastic Santa Claus I nicknamedUgly Santa. “The festival is dying a slow death. And I’m not sad about it.”

For years, the festival covered up the actual issue in our home—my father’s glaring absence. When I was a kid, my dad walked out on us a few days after Christmas, forever tainting what should have been a season of blissful memories.

After that, Mom threw herself into the Mistletoe Festival committee because she thought helping with a massive community celebration was the solution to fixing Christmas. For me, mistletoe became a symbol of forced cheer, of people pretending to be happy, when I knew their circumstances suggested otherwise. Not that I can blame her. I’m just way too realistic to drink the Christmas Kool-Aid.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Speaking of Mom.” I hold my phone up for Jaz to see.

“It’s a sign,” she says. “She wants to know if you’re coming home for the holidays.”

“She knows my answer. I’m staying here with you,” I say before accepting the call. “Hey, Mom.”

“Are you busy?” she asks. In the background, a blender rumbles to life.

“Yeah, but what’s that noise?”

“I’m making a green smoothie. My friend Judy swears by them.”

Mom’s weakness is falling for every new weight loss item on the market. The ThighMaster. The George Foreman Grill. Every version of Spanx ever invented.

“Excuse me?” I ask. “What green vegetable would you actually eat?” I know my mom’s love of vegetables only includes starchy white potatoes. For years, she believed the food pyramid should categorize french fries as a healthy vegetable.

“A pinch of spinach,” she admits.

---