Page 21 of The Best You've Ever Had

The lights flicker as if sensing the danger of being around her for too long. Either we come out of this bloodied and beaten down from constant fighting, or my willpower snaps and I do something stupid like try to kiss her.

None of the possible outcomes look great.

While our moms turn on the news to check the weather report, Dad jumps into action to prepare for riding out the snowstorm. I help him gather supplies from the garage—candles, wood for the fireplace, flashlights, and water bottles. We had expected snow tonight, but not to this degree.

I return to my parents’ living room to find Mick fast asleep in his recliner, not giving a single shit about the impending storm. Layla, on the other hand, looks like she’s watching coverage of a major national disaster. She stands beside the couch, arms crossed and a grave expression on her face.

As I start assembling kindling and crumpled newspaper in the fireplace grate, I hear her whisper to her mom. “Maybe we should be heading out. It seems like this is only going to get worse.”

Gina giggles like her daughter has told her that pigs can fly. “Sweetie, there’s no driving in this weather. We’re officially about to be snowed in.”

“No,” Layla insists, a bit too harshly. “I can drive.”

Her mom offers a reassuring smile. “They’re already advising on the news not to drive. So many roads have been shut down by now. Brandy and Dante offered to let us stay here for the night though.”

“Or however long it takes for this to blow over,” Brandy adds. “Plus, it’ll be kind of fun, don’t you think? Like one big family sleepover. Oh, and don’t worry, you and Ben can share a guest room.”

At this point, I glance over my shoulder, needing to see Layla’s face after what my mom just said. She meets my gaze with that perfect stoic lawyer expression, but there’s a silent plea in her eyes, begging me to jump in and save the situation.

“It’s alright, Mom. We don’t mind sleeping in separate rooms,” I chime in.

Mom scoffs, “This isn’t the 1960s; we’re not old-fashioned around here. And, not to be blunt, but I’m sure you two aren’t saving yourselves for marriage. I believe that ship probably sailed a long time ago.”

Layla’s blue eyes widen with a ‘did she really just say that?’ look, while I choke on a cough.

There’s no way we’re getting around this without making it obvious we aren’t actually together. What couple would turn down the chance to be closer and insist on separate rooms?

From across the room, we lock eyes as the fireplace begins to crackle. A silent acknowledgment passes between us—there’s no way out of this except to face it head-on. We both recognize that we’re in too deep with this act, the inklings of drowning in our fake relationship starting to creep in.

All I have to do is keep my mind in check and my hands to myself. But when she turns back to the television, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and biting down on her bottom lip in worry—I realize that’s easier said than done. Because rightnow, I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and kiss away that worried look on her face.

Seeing as we’re now officially snowed in, our moms decide to hold a cookie decorating competition. Either they’re messing with Layla and me, or they’re genuinely oblivious to the intensity of our competitive natures. Ever since we were kids, we have fought tooth and nail in any contest. There has never been a casual competition between us. We will act like it’s worth a million dollars, even over something as simple as sugar cookies.

In honor of the storm and festivities, Dad breaks out the peppermint schnapps to spike our hot chocolate. Christmas music plays softly in the background, and from his seat, Mick watches with quiet delight at the hustle and bustle in the kitchen.

It’s decided that everyone will decorate four different shaped sugar cookies, with Mick serving as the final judge. From across the table, Layla and I don’t say a word. The competitiveness is written all over our faces—we’re ready for battle.

Just as I prepare my piping bag to decorate a gingerbread man, Layla nudges the table, causing the white frosting to smear off its intended mark.

“Oops,” she says, feigning innocence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I continue to pipe the sugary frosting, waiting for her to be completely focused. At first, she’s suspicious, knowing I plan to strike back after her shenanigans. But by the time she starts on her second cookie, she begins to relax, and I know it’s the perfect time to pull the trigger. Right as she’s adding the small detail of Rudolph’s nose, I stretch my long legs under the table and bump her.

Rudolph’s red nose smears across his face, making him look bloodied and absolutely horrifying. She shoots me a glare as I smirk. “Oops,” I say, mimicking her smart-ass tone.

Our mothers shake their heads and let out a collective sigh, entirely fed up with us.

“And here I thought dating would calm this ridiculous competitiveness between you two,” Mom comments, glancing between us.

Mick watches us with amusement as he sips on a cup of warm cider. “Eh, let ‘em go at it. A healthy dose of competition keeps a relationship interesting.”

From her seat, Layla looks up. “Sounds like you have first-hand experience. Were you and Vera competitive?”

As if he’s watching a flashback sequence of key moments with his late wife of nearly fifty years, he’s silent for a moment, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “We couldn’t go a day without challenging each other to something, whether it was a game of cards or who could make the best apple pie. It kept things lively.”

Breaking her cookie decorating concentration, Gina chimes in. “I do vaguely remember there being a chili cook-off for one of your anniversaries. That explains a lot.”

“Now that I think about it, you and Vera were a lot like Ben and Layla,” Dante comments.

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