Page 50 of War on Christmas

Kickoff. Packers game. Starting in—I check the dashboard clock—approximately forty-five minutes.

Shit.

I get out of the car and walk around the front to open Freya’s door for her. “Well, out you go.” I flash her a smile and gesture for her to get out. “I’m going to run home quick and freshen—”

Her fingers fasten around my wrist like a vice as she climbs out.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.” She shakes her head, limp hair swishing. “You think you’re going to send me in there for my own personal walk of shame while you go home and ‘freshen up’ and come back looking like some kind of all-American golden boy? Fuck. No.”

“Frey…” I’m whining, tugging against her hold as she pulls me to the front door. “This is awkward. You know what’s worse than a walk of shame? Aparadeof shame. Nobody wants to—”

My pleading is interrupted by the front door of the Nilsen’s house bursting open. Thad and Sam tumble out shouting a chorus of “Freya sandwich!” and then descend on Freya and squeeze her between them, Freya squealing in protest and trying to push them away.

Thad, in jeans and a thermal shirt, looks a lot like a male version of his twin, with the same dark hair and classic features but with their mother’s light-blue eyes. A total goofball, he's worn his hair in every style imaginable. Long. Buzzed. A mohawk most of his sophomore year of college. Today, he’s sporting an undercut with the long top pulled into a bun and just enough scruff to call it a beard.

Sam, who insists on being called “fun-size,” is petite, not even reaching Thad’s shoulders. Her brown hair is tied back into a short, spiky ponytail, and her face scrunches up with glee as she squeezes into Freya.

I smile, taking in the sight. Freya has mentioned that she and Sam get along, but it’s different seeing it. And I’m happy for Thad. He and Freya are close—twinclose—and not everyone is excited about their partner having that kind of connection with someone else. The kind of bond where Thad would drop everything and drive to Chicago at a moment’s notice if Freya needed him, and vice versa. Clearly, Sam has figured out that the only way to love one Nilsen twin is to love them both.

I take one step back. And another.

“Well, since you’re…occupied…with your sandwich…I’m just going to run next door and—”

“He’s getting away!” Freya shrieks, pointing at me.

The next thing I hear is Sam yelling, “Jeremy sandwich!” and then I’m surrounded by allthreeof them, a mass of writhing, tangled arms and bodies pressing into me.

“I need to—oof—go change—”

“Ooh,” Sam trills, grinning up at me. “Somebody pulled an all-nighter.”

“Gross,” Thad moans. His mouth twists with disgust, and I want to die of shame right there on the Nilsen’s front porch with its garlands and oversized Christmas wreath. They can put the wreath on my casket to commemorate the exact moment of my death.

“What’s gross?” Bethany sticks her head out the front door, and the Jeremy sandwich breaks up. I draw in a long, shuddering breath, and she smiles at me. “Oh, hey, Jeremy.”

I give Bethany a nod. Because I can’t speak around the taste of bile and guilt.

“Jeremy and Freya,” Sam croons, reaching out to tickle my rib and make me squirm. “Walk of shaaa-aaaame.”

Bethany smirks and reaches out to fist bump Freya. “Nice.”

And now I’m blushing.

“Like I said…” I try one more time, even though I’ve accepted that the universe hates me and all my efforts are doomed. “I need to go home and change—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Freya’s hand clamps onto my bicep. “Thad, can Jeremy borrow a shirt? His is missing some buttons.”Shoot me now.“I just need to throw on some panties.”

And I’m dead.

Judging by Thad’s groan and dramatic gagging noises, he won’t be far behind.

Thirty-Three

FREYA

Myrulesforuncomplicated,no-strings-attached sex are lying around me in tatters, blown to smithereens by the surreal circumstances of said sex happening with Jeremy Asshat Kelly.

Rule #1: Don’t talk about anything too personal.Kaboom!

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