Page 41 of War on Christmas

And Freya is at the heart of it. The key to this whole, crazy adventure. Because as infuriating and terrifying as she is, she’s always seen me, therealme, and accepted me without reservation. The dorky parts. The scared parts. The angry parts. The only time she rejects me is when she knows I’m faking it. When I become the “Abercrombie & Fitch zombie” version of me. Is she ruthless? Hell yeah, she is. But only when she’s holding me accountable. Only when she’s pushing me to be true to myself.

And that’s exactly what I need. Which is why I cannot fuck this up tonight.

I eye Freya nervously as I park in front of the Galway Inn. It’s a new addition since I left Northview, but according to my mom, it’s the most popular place in town. An Americanized version of an Irish inn and pub that serves traditional Irish food with Irish and British drinks on tap. It’s busy, but I made reservations, so I’m not worried about getting a table.

I am, however, worried about whatever Freya is wearing under her black dress coat.

The coat itself is cute, accentuating her tiny waist and extending to her knees. But what’s underneath is going to destroy me. I could tell from the sassy way she sashayed into the living room when I picked her up. She’d already buttoned it up to her neck so I wouldn’t see what’s coming.

Whatever she’s wearing tonight is her secret weapon in this little war we’re waging.

I lead her inside, my hand stretched across the small of her back, and the hostess, a twenty-something redhead with a spray of freckles across her cheeks, appears harried as she shows us to our booth.

A four-piece band plays Irish folk tunes from a small, makeshift stage in the corner, background music for the countless conversations taking place throughout the bar and restaurant. The smell of alcohol and shepherd’s pie permeates the air, and a fire crackles in the fireplace. It’s warm and welcoming, a cozy contrast to the snow and cold outdoors.

Whatever Freya has on under that coat, I’m safe here. There are too many people around for things to get out of hand. Yet.

Then Freya spins around to face me, dropping her coat to her elbows.

Did I say I was safe? Scratch that.

I am fucked.

Freya’s wearing a vintage-style dress that hugs her generous breasts and the slender curve of her waist before flaring out over her hips. It’s a deep, classic red that matches her lips, and it cuts into a deep V filled by a scoop of black and white polka-dot fabric. Panels in the skirt echo the flirty polka dots, and a short row of shiny black buttons runs down each side of her ribs. The colors make her pale skin—her slender arms, her neck, her perfectly made-up face— glow, opalescent. Her black hair falls in elegant waves down her shoulders, and the dress is sleeveless, exposing the swirling lines of her tattoo on her upper right arm. Her flowers and herbs. Poison and medicine.

Without the ink, she’d be a flawless illusion. A 1940s lady heading out on the town. With the ink, she’s downright dangerous. None of this is a happy accident. Freya’s a devil who carefully curated every detail of this look, right down to her shoes, to break me.

My heart pounds, the sound a dull thudding in my ears, like I used to hear when I had to make a big play in football. When the pressure was on and every eye in the stadium was on me.Thud. Thud. THUD.Down by six with thirty seconds left, fourth and goal.

Not a fuckboy. Not a fuckboy. Not a fuckboy.

***

FREYA

I try not to smirk as I hand my coat to Jeremy and he fumbles it to the floor. He’s usually so at ease in his body that it’s impossible notto feel a little thrill at how obviously affected he is by my outfit. He doesn’t even take his eyes off me as he bends to pick up my coat. The entire time, he stares at me like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet and he doesn’t know where to start.

Which is exactly where I want him.

The problem is that there are too many layers to Jeremy and me. We’re that neglected chain necklace that’s been lying in the bottom of a jewelry box, links tangled and locked into a jumbled ball with no hope of being unraveled. The formative years of childhood friendship, of laughter and secrets and fun. The transition from middle to high school, with our growing attraction to one another. High school, with its bitter rivalry that still felt better than not having Jeremy in my life at all. Then…seventeen years of nothing. Seventeen years of wondering, but never knowing, what he was doing.

And now…

Now all I want is to take this opportunity to simplify things. I want Jeremy to finally make sense to me. We’re single adults who are obviously attracted to each other. We just need to enjoy each other while it lasts—nine days, to be precise—and go back to our very different lives.

Then there’s Jeremy, who—in true infuriating Jeremy fashion—seems intent on complicating things at every turn. If we’re a knotted chain, he’s grabbing each end and pulling, tightening the snarls into an irredeemable cluster fuck. Hot, steamy, teenage-style make-out sessions. Late-night wine and games, complete with trash talk. Movie nights and sledding and festivals with Bethany’s kids. Earnest, heartfelt confessions about his complicated relationship with his mom.

It's messy. And maybe popular, captain-of-the-football-team, I-shoot-rainbows-out-of-my-ass Jeremy can do messy and come out unscathed, but it’s never worked out for me. It’s much easier (and less painful) to keep my expectations realistic. Whatever game Jeremy’s playing isn’t going to lead anywhere but disappointment.

Which is why I worked so hard to get my look exactly right for this date. And not just my look. I used every weapon at my disposal. I scouredHope & Stardust’s archives for every seductive morsel I could find. I made a batch of their sexy sugar scrub and exfoliated every inch of my body, my skin soaking up the scents of rose, patchouli, and ylang-ylang. I even have a hunk of carnelian, good for passion and sexual energy, tucked away in my purse.

It’s time to get things back on track.

Jeremy swallows. I can see him trying to collect himself. Trying to regain control. He looks good tonight. It’s not the same kind of transformation I underwent, but his date-night look offers me a glimpse of who he is in Chicago, fashionable but understated. His black chinos and white button down with a camel-colored jacket are simple. It’s an outfit any of my typical beaus might wear. Jeremy, however, fills it out differently, his shoulders and thighs stretching against the fabric, a reminder of how big he is. How powerful. Powerful enough to hold me suspended off the ground last night while he demanded I go on this date with him. The reminder gives me a sudden urge to fan myself, but I ignore it.

I need to stay sharp.

He reaches to hang my coat on the hook behind me, his eyes never leaving mine, and as his arms fall, he grips my hips, anchoring me in place.

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