Page 35 of War on Christmas

It still does.

We fall into easy chatter as D.G. shops. She’s been keeping busy, stepping up as director of the local community theater during summer vacations and even writing some plays. I, on the other hand, have the uncomfortable realization that, even though it’s been eight or nine years since we’ve been in touch, I don’t have much new to report. Aside from burlesque, which I don’t feel like talking about with my former teacher, my life looks remarkably the same.

As D.G. pays for the considerable pile of items that I carefully wrap in tissue paper and bag, she reaches across the counter and pats my arm, sending her bracelets clinking.

“Don’t be a stranger, ok?” she asks. “If you want to grab lunch or coffee while you’re in town, give me a call. My number is the same.”

I nod, but I know I won’t. As much as I love D.G., I don’t want to bind myself to yet another relationship I know will fall by the wayside when I return to Chicago.

The door is still closing behind D.G. when Bethany runs into the shop from the workroom, clutching a fistful of white tulips in one hand and spiky globes of purple allium in the other. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shining with the near-panic that’s always simmering under her surface.

“Freya!” she bursts out.

“Bethany!” I shout back, leaning back on my elbows against the counter.

“I need your help.” She bites her lip. “Drew just texted, and his client’s flight got cancelled, so he’ll have to take him out to dinner again tonight.” My stomach sinks like someone filled it with rocks and chucked it in the icy waters of Lake Michigan. “And it’s the—”

“Fucking Christmas festival,” I mutter, finishing her sentence.

Every year, Northview hosts a big downtown holiday event. Stores stay open late and offer elf-sized cups of hot cocoa with stale marshmallows. Santa’s at the plaza next to the ice rink, which crawls with skaters. Mrs. Claus leads crafts. Portable fire pits dot the sidewalks, offering a place to warm your hands or make s’mores. It’s cheery, wholesome fun, straight out of one of those goddamn TV Christmas romances Leo’s obsessed with. And this year, Bethany helped organize it. She’s been talking about it nonstop.

“You need me to watch the store?” I ask. Forget hot cocoa. My cup is going to be filled to the brim with mulled wine.

“No! It’s going to be really busy. Like,reallybusy.” She winces. “Mom and Dad are already planning to cover the store tonight while I help manage the festival. It’s the kids. Drew was going to bring them. They come every year. It’s tradition—”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll bring your demon spawn to the festival. Just don’t blame me when I lose one of them.”

“I’d be insulted, but I know that coming from you, ‘demon spawn’ is a compliment,” Bethany retorts. I shrug. She’s not wrong. “I’ve also set up help for you. So that youdon’tlose one of them. I texted Jeremy—”

“Of course, you did.” I roll my eyes again, but it’s not unexpected. Somehow, in the five days since we’ve been home, Jeremy has insinuated himself back into Honorary Nilsen status. To be fair,I’mthe one hanging out with him every day. It’s mostly my fault. But now Bethany just gave him yet another opportunity to spend time with me while her children chaperone. Perfect.

“Come on,” Bethany says, her mood shifting now that I’ve agreed to her plan. “There are worse fates than spending time with Jeremy McHottie, who is very obviously crazy about—”

“One! You cannot call him Jeremy McHottie when you’re sober. It’s bad enough when you’re drunk.” I shake my head, but she just snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Two! Jeremy McHottie has been using your children as cockblockers to keep our relationship platonic.” (Aside from the first-base-only make out sessions.) “So, yeah, Jeremy McHottie is fucking annoying.”

Bethany lights up like a string of fresh-out-of-the-box Christmas lights. “Ooh, so he’s been foiling your seduction plans?” She grins. “For whatever it’s worth, he’s totally into you. It’s obvious. Why do you think he’s holding out?”

I lean back against the counter, crossing my ankles. “I want a fling. He wants to date. Which isnotgoing to happen.”

“Um, why not?” Bethany’s forehead wrinkles. “He’s the total package, Frey. Have you seen him with Andy? The man is going to be a fantastic dad.”Oh gods.Something in my chest short circuits, and I rub at my breastbone. Maybe it’s heartburn. I’ve been drinking too much coffee to make up for my late nights with Jeremy. “He even likes the same nerdy shit as you and Thad.”

“Maybe I’m not looking for the ‘total package,’” I respond, complete with air quotes. “Maybe I’m just looking to get my rocks off.”

“Jesus, Frey.” Bethany’s eyes sweep the shop to make sure it’s empty. Then her voice drops to a whisper. “Does that even apply to women? ‘Get your rocks off’? It seems—”

“Fine.” My eyes narrow. “I’m looking to get my skittle diddled. To get my bottle popped. To get my cream churned—”

“Oh my god!” Bethany tries to cover her ears, but her hands are full of flowers. Instead, she dissolves into a laugh, and somehow, I find myself laughing with her. “All I’m saying is that you can doallof that,andyou can date. Pro tip: They’re not mutually exclusive.”

I sigh. Maybe for Bethany they’re not, but as I’ve established…I’m not Bethany. When Bethany met Drew’s parents, they probably brought out their good china and measured her hips to ensure safe passage for their grandchildren. Me? Not so much. It’s been ten years since the whole Ryan incident, but I learned a valuable lesson as I stood in the foyer of his parent’s fancy house, his mother’s lip curling as she took in my red lips and my dress, modest as it was, clinging to my curves. I may be a fantasy to a lot of men, but I’m not the type they commit to. I put my dreams of a happily-ever-after to rest a long time ago, and I have no interest in resurrecting them just so Jeremy “The Total Package” Kelly can bash them to bits.

We’re playingmygame, and it ends at Christmas.

Twenty-Four

JEREMY

“Momisfreakingthefuck oooooout,” Abi croons next to me, her face splitting into a wicked grin. I glance around to make sure her brothers didn’t hear her f-bomb, but Andy’s across the small bonfire roasting a marshmallow with Freya, while Aiden and August are fencing with metal marshmallow-roasting sticks. I reach out and grab the sticks with one swift movement, and for a second it looks like they’re about to protest. But when I raise my eyebrows—Really?—they give me sheepish grins and stick their hands in their pockets. They’re not quite a year apart in age, twelve and eleven, and, according to Freya, it was August’s rapid arrival after Aiden that pushed Bethany from high strung to manic.

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