Page 43 of Love in Focus

“Yeah…” Gemma replies. “And I know it wasn’t my place to say this, but the only way I could think of telling him off was by saying I’m attending with a date.”

Celeste lets her ex’s words sink in for a beat. And then another. “And I’m assuming that’s where I come in?”

“Yup. Again, no worries at all if you don’t want to. I just said it to piss him off—”

“I’ll come,” Celeste cuts in. There’s something very tantalizing about the chance to see for herself the person whodaredto replace her in Gemma’s life. The work aspect is another huge perk, which Gemma had mentioned in her account. “It’ll be good for the project if we went together, right? Why don’t we kill two birds with one stone? Piss off your ex-fiancéandsecure our chances of a cover story. I want this cover, Gem. It’ll be my very first one.”

Gemma groans. “Your Gemini and Capricorn placements are showing.”

Celeste is taken aback by the random segue. When her brain catches up, she asks, “You remember my signs?”

Gemma sighs dramatically. “Gemini Sun, Capricorn Moon, and Scorpio Rising. But also, Gemini Venus and Virgo Mars. Basically, a hot workaholic who loves drama but hates emotions.”

A surprised laugh escapes from Celeste’s mouth. “Gem,” she says. “And what are you… a Pisces?”

Astrology is a common gay pastime, and many of Celeste’s queer friends—especially the ones who live in LA—are deeply involved in it, sometimes even using things like astrocartography to determine where to travel or relocate. Meanwhile, she herself always has trouble remembering the different signs and who is what.

“Yup,” Gemma says with another loud sigh. “Pisces Sun, Taurus Moon, and Cancer Rising. With a Leo Mars and Aquarius Venus at that. Basically, a stubborn ball of water that loves people a bit too much.”

“I don’t know that much about astrology, but I know enough to know that I love your Big Three. I have friends with some of the exact same placements. So adorable.”

“Even if it makes me a stubborn ball of emotions?”

“Acuteball of emotions.” The moment she says it, Celeste bites her lip. Somehow, they’ve gotten dangerously close to flirting.

Gemma clears her throat. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll text you the information about the party. Thanks for agreeing to do this last minute. And for listening to me vent.”

“Great,” Celeste says. She does her best to switch gears so her tone is once again clipped and professional. “And you’re welcome. See you.”

She hangs up, hoping she didn’t make a huge mistake.

The dress code for the office NYE party is always ugly Christmas sweaters. It’s a tradition that goes back several years to one fateful day when someone in the office—Shane, probably—lamented that he never got to see anyone’s ugly Christmas sweaters because people were always gone for the holiday. It’s a quirky idea that stuck, mostly because everyone was glad to have another excuse to wear their ugly Christmas sweaters before packing them up for another year.

In the past, James and I got matching ones, wearing anything from slightly inappropriate designs like snowmen that had carrot stick dicks and boobs, to cute and wholesome ones like Santa and Mrs. Claus. I have no idea if Celeste will want to wear matching Christmas sweaters, since we never wore coupley outfits when we dated incollege. But I buy a pair for us anyway. I can always return them if she says no.

Because it’s so last minute—and almost a week past Christmas—the sweaters I find at a nearby thrift store are basic but still, I think, pretty cute. Both are bright Christmas red with white text on them. One saysSANTAwhile the other one simply saysBABY. And the best part is, they’re professional enough to wear while talking to the higher-ups without explicitly denoting any sort of relationship label whatsoever.

I send Celeste a picture of the sweaters a few hours before the party.

Adorable,she replies, along with a laughing emoji.

Who should wear “Santa” and who should wear “Baby?”

Celeste replies almost instantly withWell, you’re obviously “Baby.”

Back in college, Celeste usually called me Gem. But on rare occasions, she called me “Gemma baby,” especially when she was feeling particularly romantic or when we were in bed together.

My heart speeds up. I don’t know how or when it happened, but at some point down the line, Celeste and I stopped being strictly professional with each other. It makes my stomach flutter nervously, but if I’m being honest with myself, I kind of like it. It’s nice to not have to beso stiff and formal around Celeste anymore. Regardless of whatever’s going on between us.

Since no one else—including Burrito—is at the apartment tonight, I invite Celeste over so she can change into her sweater before we head out for the party. When I answer the door with myBABYsweater on, her face softens.

“Very cute,” she says.

That is definitelynotthe response I have whenshecomes out of the bathroom in her sweater. With her black leather skirt, tied-back hair, and knee-high white leather boots, she gives her “Santa” sweater an edge that screams more “Daddy” than “St. Nick.”

I never thought I could find someone in a Christmas sweater sohotbefore, but I stand corrected.

“Thanks again for doing this,” I tell Celeste on our way to the venue. “And sorry in advance for any awkwardness that might ensue at this party. Hopefully it’ll be somewhat entertaining, though. And we’ll have a productive conversation with the higher-ups.”

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