Page 2 of War on Christmas

“More importantly,” Abi says, as if I won’t realize she’s changing the subject, “Grandma says you’re coming home for Christmas. Please tell me it’s true. Pretty, pretty please.”

I choke on my coffee. There is no way in hell I’m going home for Christmas. My plans are the same as they’ve been for the past four years: cozying up and drinking mulled wine while binge-watchingChilling Adventures of Sabrina. It is, objectively, the perfect Yule/Winter Solstice celebration.

I blink at the screen as I wipe coffee off my chin, trying not to get drawn in by the hope in Abi’s large, almond-shaped eyes. Eyes such a dark shade of gray, they sometimes look black. Eyes like mine.

“I…wasn’t planning on it,” I hedge.

Usually I love crushing people’s dreams; it builds character. Both my twin brother, Thad, and his girlfriend, Sam, have been texting me for weeks begging me to go home for the holidays, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed telling them no. But Abi is my kryptonite. When her lower lip begins to tremble, I sigh and lift my gaze to the black crystal chandelier hanging above me. This shouldn’t be on me. Itisn’t. What was my mom thinking getting Abi’s hopes up like that?

I’m also, if I’m being honest, a little impressed at Mom’s sneakiness.

Somehow, despite her unerring ability to never understand me at all, she zeroed in on my biggest weakness: Abi. It was the dart, thrown wildly in the pitch dark, that miraculously hit the bull’s-eye.

I look to my framed poster of Frida Kahlo hanging on the exposed brick of my living room wall. Her clear eyes and thicket of unruly brows cheer me on:Stand your ground! No excuses! No apologies!

“Please, Auntie Freya. It’s been forever since you’ve come home from Chicago. I miss you. Things at school have just been—ugh, theworst. And Mom isMom. You’re the only one in this family who gets me. I’ve got all this stuff going on with my friends, and her advice is all like, ‘Try out for cheerleading! Join the newspaper! Have you thought about yearbook?’”

As she talks, Abi impersonates my older sister, her voice lifting with fake cheer like she’s giving herself a pep talk. I know she’s trying to make me laugh, but it triggers too many memories. If anyone knows what it’s like to not live up to my older sister’s expectations, it’s me. I’d say I grew up in Bethany’s shadow—prom queen, cheerleader, teacher’s pet—but it was more like growing up as some cave-dwelling, primordial creature thrust into Bethany’s unrelenting sunshine.

That said, I don’t talk trash about Bethany to her kids. That’s what therapy is for.

“I’ll think about it, ok?” I lie. Then the bedroom door squeaks open to my left, and I jump to my feet. “Gotta go, Abs.”

“But wait!” Her eyes go wide. “What about my tarot read—”

“I’ll call you later this week!” I rush to say, hanging up just as a quiet, timid voice behind me says, “Freya?”

“Hey…” I drawl as I spin to face Tim, who is standing in my bedroom doorway, shifting from side to side. He pushes his thick, black-framed glasses—the only thing he’s wearing other than plaid boxers—up his nose. “Do you want a cup of coffee before you go?” I ask over my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen. Then I’m slammed with a stroke of genius. “Or I have paper cups. So you can take it with you.”

Was that too obvious?I wonder, then decide I don’t care.

Tim smiles a sweet, crooked smile and comes to give me a kiss on the cheek, his fingers wrapping around my hip.Or…not obvious enough, I conclude, as I lean away from him with a grimace, my back pressing into the edge of the countertop behind me. My silky robe gapes, and I pull it closed. Tim grabs a ceramic mug and fills it with coffee.

“Do you have creamer?” he asks.

“No.”

“Oh.” His forehead furrows for a moment, but he bounces back quickly. Like an overeager puppy. With another hopeful smile, he settles into a stool at the kitchenette island. “So, was that your mum?”

Damn his cute British accent. It’s what finally broke me. After months of him hanging around The Sphere, he caught me during post-performance drinks with the cast and crew and serenaded me with English slang: “So, I had a cuppa,” “I was gobsmacked,” “Cheers.” Combined with a months-long dry spell and the fact that he’s totally my type—artistic, emotional, easily manipulated—I guess it was inevitable that we ended up messing around. I only resisted for so long because I knew this awkward morning after would be just as inevitable.

I ignore his question and take a long drink of coffee, staring him down until he blinks and looks away. Good. He knows who the alpha is. I established that the night before, of course, but sometimes they rebel. Best to be sure.

As if sensing the need to exert dominance, Hecate leaps onto the island and positions herself next to Tim, lifting her tail to present him with her butthole, a small pink starburst in her sea of inky black fur. Feline behaviorists claim this implies trust, but I know better. Supremacy through humiliation is her modus operandi. Tim’s face contorts with disgust, and he pulls back, looking to me for help. I take another drink.

“I’m allergic to cats,” he reminds me.

“Oh.”

I can tell the moment it sinks in. His face, usually the startling white of a consumptive Victorian poet, grows ruddy. Hecate takes a strategic step backwards, wiggling her furry behind closer to his nose.

“So, it’s going to be like that?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrows—Yes, it’s going to be “like that”—and feel grateful that I rolled out of bed and immediately put on my full makeup, complete with bold winged eyeliner and classic red lips. Crusty eyes and smudged lipstick just don’t command obedience the same way. With a sigh, Tim pushes away his coffee and walks briskly through the apartment, collecting his belongings. Socks from the couch. Wallet and phone from the coffee table. By the time he’s wrapping his scarf around his neck and pulling on his coat, a muscle jumps in his jaw. I sip my coffee as I watch, and Hecate leaps gracefully from the island to the countertop next to me, rubbing along my arm.

“You’re going to end up alone, you know.”

I chuckle into my mug. “One can hope.”

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