Page 22 of War on Christmas

“Jeremy.” Her foot slips on a patch of ice, and I tense, but Jeremy has already steadied her.

She looks at him again, then back to me. Her voice goes breathy, like she’s trying to whisper, but her volume is way too loud. “Heeees hooooot,” she slurs into my ear, and I shake my head. Drunks are the worst. However, I’m oddly comforted by the fact that she’s this wasted from a few drinks. If her tolerance is this low, I don’t think this is a regular habit.

“Yup,” I agree. Because what’s the point in pretending? Thirty minutes ago, I was openly ogling his half-naked body.

I sneak a peek at Jeremy. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. He’s looking back at me over the top of Abi’s head, and when he winks, I quickly turn away.Asshat.

We make it back to Jeremy’s car, and I’m just opening the back door to tuck Abi inside when she makes an ominous glugging sound. Before I can react, Jeremy pulls her away and keeps a hand on her shoulder as she doubles over and pukes, staining the white snow a startling, neon pink. He even holds her long black braid out of the way.

It's not until five minutes later, when we’re a couple blocks from Bethany’s house, that I remember to check for a reply from Thad. Abi is passed out next to me in the back seat, her head on my shoulder, and I shift her weight to reach my phone in my jacket pocket. Sure enough, a text is waiting for me.

The Good Twin: You thought he HATED you?!? I always told you I got the brains.

Sixteen

JEREMY

13 days until Christmas…

“Knock-knock.”

I blink awake. I’d been sleeping in after my late-night adventure, and my head is squished between two pillows to block out the morning light. But even muffled, I know that low, husky voice. I grin, enjoying a few more seconds of darkness before throwing the pillow off my face and squinting into the too-bright sunlight.

My gut twinges with guilt about feeling so happy. Last night had, after all, been a total disaster for Abi and her distraught parents. But despite all that, it had felt like a win when it came to Freya and me. The raw emotion? The truth bombs? The eye fucking?

Definitely a win.

I stretch my arms above my head as I climb out of bed. For a second, I play with, then discard, the idea of putting a shirt on. Because, friendly or not, there is no part of me that doesn’t enjoy Freya checking me out.

Smile in place, I open my bedroom door and lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my chest.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

“Morning, Asshat.”

Yeah, the teachers and principals hadn’t been as fond of Freya’s nickname for me. It had earned her more than a few detentions. But there’s no heat in it this morning. As anticipated, her gray eyes travel over my arms and torso, and I soak up every second of her attention on my bare skin.

I don’t usually consider myself vain. The gym routine started as a coping mechanism when I got to college and suffered nearly constant anxiety after being unexpectedly cut adrift. When what-ifs and worst-case scenarios pulled me into darker moods, I found that my only way out was to take things moment by moment, and exercise helped me do that. One muscle-screaming lift, one pound of my sneakers on the pavement, one tricep-burning push-up at a time.

Now? Now I would do every single rep all over again just to have Freya’s eyes eating me up like this. As an experiment, I scratch at a pec, then smirk when Freya’s gaze follows. Fascinating.

Not that I’m any better, mind you. I’ve always found Freya attractive. She was constantly reinventing herself in high school, floating between emo, goth, and even grunge. Any style that accepted her heavy black eyeliner and flipped a giant middle finger at the mainstream kids. Whether she was rocking cut-off denim shorts or T-shirts and flannel, I’d been unable to keep my eyes off her. I’d loved her drive to challenge and subvert.

Maybe because once I started getting noticed by the Tiffany Ebners, I lost that ability myself.

If she’s staring at me now, I’m staring back just as hard.

“I owe you,” she says finally, her expression giving away nothing. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling too big, knowing full well she’ll snatch back her olive branch if I act like a dick about it. She sighs. “I was thinking a friendly brunch?”

***

I tuck into my food, attacking the French toast I drenched in real Wisconsin butter and maple syrup. Wren’s Café, a greasy spoon diner in downtown Northview, is an institution. It’s been owned by the same family since the Great Depression, and it hasn’t been updated since. A long counter that stretches the length of the restaurant. Overstuffed napkin dispensers that make the single-ply paper rip every time you try to grab one. Old-timey cholesterol and saturated fats.

It's glorious.

”So, you haven't been home in four years." I take a drink of stale coffee. “Why?"

For a second, Freya balks, her nose wrinkling as she takes a bite of pancakes. The question, as planned, busts through the polite barriers I’d allowed her to keep in place during our drive from Chicago. She owes me big right now, and I’m not squeamish about capitalizing on it.

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