Page 5 of You Can't Ruin Christmas

Chapter Three

When I wake up in the middle of the night, I am groggy and disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out whether I am on the couch or the bed. My arms fumble around in the darkness, hoping to collide with the warmth of Sven’s body. I know I fell asleep with him holding me on the couch. That was the most comfortable I’ve ever been in my entire life, and there was no way I was going to move.

A fire alarm couldn’t have made me budge. The San Andreas fault breaking open couldn’t have made me flinch. A meteor crashing down on the city in a burning blaze could havemaybemade me squint one eye open to peek, but then I’d go right back to snuggling against him.

To my great disappointment, Sven is nowhere near me. I am in my own bed, all alone. I am not sure why I was expecting or hoping for anything different. He must have carried me here, and I was probably so tired and drunk that I couldn’t speak coherently. Even if I had been able to speak, it would be fair if he questioned the validity of everything I said due to my altered state of mind. The appropriate, gentlemanly thing to do was leave.

I hope he was at least tempted to stay. Or tempted to take me back to his room instead.

What am I even thinking? He gave meonehug.

A comforting hug. When I was a vulnerable, emotional mess. A hug doesn’t mean anything other than basic human compassion. It could have been a friendly hug. There were also a few nice words sprinkled in, but that could have been friendly, too. It doesn’t mean he is going to give me any more of those earth-shattering, soul-warming embraces.

It certainly doesn’t mean he automatically starts sleeping beside me every night so that I can melt against his massive body as much as I like, soaking up unlimited hugs. It doesn’t mean he even enjoyed the hug himself, or that he even wants to touch me again, in any manner.

Although I really hope he does, because I almost don’t know how I can imagine the rest of my life without having him close to me like that again. It’s funny how things can change so quickly—I had never even really thought about Sven that way. I had never felt any urge to get to know him on a deeper level, or spend time alone with him, and now it’s like torture to have him sleeping just down the hall, in a different bedroom. I feel so guilty for my previous assumptions that he was a shallow meathead. A brainless beefcake. How wrong I was.

There’s more gentleness and sensitivity in him than anyone I’ve ever met, outside my family. Maybe that’s why it felt so natural to be near to him—why he felt like family. Far more than his brother ever did. In fact, this is the first time I have woken up in this bed alone and not given a spare thought to Sebastian. My ex-boyfriend seems so small, far away, insignificant. I went from misery and grief to excitement and optimism almost overnight.

But maybe it’s not fair to Sven.

Frowning, I consider the fact that I am extra-needy and lonesome due to the breakup. The fact that the man who dumped me was histwin brother, might suggest that I am trying to replace the position of my boyfriend with the most similar applicant. Not that I even know if he's interested in applying to the position. Perhaps I should slap a “Now Hiring” sign on my bedroom door, to make it clear that I’m accepting applications. Although I suppose a sign like that could be misconstrued. Peering around in the dark room, I try to see if my phone is nearby. It’s possible I left it on the table with the feast of sugar. I groan, feeling the heaviness of the carb-binge in my abdomen, and wishing it would digest a little faster.

That stuff feels so good going into your mouth, but once it’s actually inside your stomach, it just feels like crap. And makes you feel like crap. It’s really not worth the temporary pleasure. I vow to myself that I will not do that to my body again, and certainly not over some guy who took me for granted. He’s not worth it. I am wondering why when someone treats us badly, we often respond by repeating the behavior and continuing to treat ourselves even worse, like we somehow deserve it. Like we got used to it. But I am distracted from this deep self-analysis when my eyes land on my phone, sitting on the night table. Sven must have placed that there for me. How sweet and thoughtful of him.

I grab my phone and navigate to his Instagram, to gather as much information as I can. It’s a reconnaissance mission. I carefully inspect dozens of photos and videos of him working with his clients. He seems to genuinely care about every single one of the people he’s training, and I sigh happily as I watch him encourage them to be their best selves. He givesthe absolute bestpep talks. Maybe that’s why he was so easily able to lift my spirits last night.

He would make a great father, too, wouldn’t he? I realize I am smiling stupidly as I Insta-stalk him.Stop it, Mary. You don’t even know if he wants kids. You’ve hadoneconversation. Calm your tits. Soothe your boobs. Hakuna your tatas. Contain the calamity that is your mammaries.

My sister Clara picked up the phrase “calm your tits” in Australia when she was practicing ballet there one summer. We became obsessed with every variation of saying that, and it became a running joke among my sisters. Not my brother—he wasn’t allowed to talk like that, or we called him a sexist pig. I miss my siblings, and wish I could tell them about Sven, but I don’t know whether there is actually anything to tell them. I also don’t know how to explain the breakup with Sebastian without sounding ultra-pathetic.Hey, so remember that boy I planning to marry—yeah, he just got too famous and successful, and realized he could do much better than me.Oh well, better luck next time!

Groaning, I focus on my phone. Remembering my promise to fix up Sven’s website, I click on the link from his Instagram profile and immediately cringe. It looks clunky and not even optimized for mobile. I have no idea where he made this, and with what outdated template from the 90s. Yes, it is indeed awful, and in serious need of revamping. I begin brainstorming ideas on how to help him when I see a text message from Clara. She says she had a horrible night at rehearsal.

I immediately sit up in bed and call her. I believe she is performing in New York right now, so it is three hours earlier, but still a little late for her to be texting me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her when she picks up.

“Holy crap, Mary, I didn’t expect you to call immediately. Why are you up at like… 4 AM?”

“I just am. Now what happened at rehearsal?”

Clara gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s my understudy. I think this bitch wants my job. She’s actively trying to injure me at every chance she gets. I fell on my arm today, and I have it bandaged up with ice. But this isn’t the first time she’s done something like this. I can’t prove it, but I know she slipped a powerful laxative into my coffee before a performance last year. I didn’t think it would be very graceful to have exploding diarrhea while on stage in a tiny pink tutu, you know? Brown shows up on pink. I had to call in sick, and she went on instead of me.”

“Yikes,” I say, making a face. “Have you told someone?”

“Of course! I mean, not about the laxative. I didn’t want that in the headlines. But tripping me so that I smashed my arm? That was obviously intentional!”

“Did anyone see it happen?” I ask her.

“Yes, but no one believes me. She seemed so sorry and helped me immediately. You oughtta see her, Mary. She’s so sweet and fake, and everyone thinks she’s an amazing friend, until she stabs you in the back and takes your role. This should be an amazing time for me. I’m getting paid more than I’ve ever gotten in my life. Everyone is coming to the shows specifically to seeme.I’m earning more for one performance than I used to get in a wholeyear.After every show, my dressing room is filled with flowers and cards and teddy bears. The love isunreal. And this bitch wants to take it all away from me.”

“Don’t let her, Clara. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You’ve sacrificed so much. You’ve been injured so many times, and you never let it keep you down. So just—don’t let her get you down, and don’t let her win.”

“I miss you so much,” Clara says, and she sounds on the verge of tears. “It wasn’t just me that sacrificed for this. It was you, and mom and dad, the whole family. If I fail now, I’ll be letting you all down.”

“You won’t fail. You can’t fail,” I tell her, trying to dig deep for my inner-Sven and find some pep-talk skills. “You’re my sister, and you’re the best. You eat, sleep, and breathe ballet. Your name is Clara, for goodness’ sake! You werebornto dance in The Nutcracker. Of course, people are going to be jealous of pure perfection—but remember, you worked your ass off to achieve it, and no one can take that away from you. They are just looking for shortcuts to the top, but hurting you won’t give them your skills. They will still suck, and you will still be Clara. The best of the best.”

“Oh, Mary,” she says brokenly. “I’m just tired. I miss Snowflake Creek and want to go home. I just want to get through this last month of performances without any diarrhea or broken bones, and get away from this cutthroat company to be around people who actually care about me again.”

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