Page 62 of War on Christmas

Bethany follows my gaze and sighs. “She’ll be ok. Don’t worry. You’ve got other stuff to focus on.Funstuff.” She bumps her shoulder into Jeremy’s, as if I could have missed her point. “You’re good for her,” she says, smiling up at him.

Dammit, Bethany.I force myself to stay soft and relaxed in Jeremy’s arms. No need to react to a throwaway comment that doesn’t change anything. Jeremy, however, chuckles lightly and rests his chin on my head.

“She’s already perfect,” he replies, his arms squeezing my waist gently. “I’m just basking in her infernal darkness.”

A throaty, full-belly laugh bursts out of me—I blame the mulled wine—and Bethany rolls her eyes. “Too fucking adorable,” she mutters under her breath, then squeezes my hand as she drifts away to chat up another guest.

Too fucking adorable.The words drop like tiny bombs around Jeremy and me, words that under normal circumstances would be considered casual and sweet.Oh, look at that. People think we’re adorable.Except there is nowe.

I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth, begging my suddenly pounding heart to ease. Overall, I’ve been disciplined about staying in the moment. About making every second with Jeremy count. Then there are times, like this, when the dread sets in. Times when my mind races ahead to a future that looks exactly like my past. Getting home late from the theater with only Hecate there to greet me. Grabbing drinks at Joe’s with Leo and the crew, exchanging empty flirtations over dirty martinis. Indulging in a hot, steamy bath for one, glass of red wine in hand, with no big, hairy Viking body surrounding me. I’ll have my freedom. My space. My independence. All the things I love about my life in Chicago.

I just won’t have him.

“Do you think we can sneak away yet?” Jeremy murmurs in my ear, and I nod, even as I swallow the lump in my throat. “Good.” His arms tighten around me. “Because I have a Yule present for you.”

Thirty-Nine

JEREMY

“AYulepresent?”Freyaflops onto the bed cross-legged, leaning back on her hands. She shed her coat and winter gear on the way in, and she’s looking barefoot and beautiful in curve-hugging skinny jeans and a black sweater. “You’re an overachiever.”

We managed to escape to the apartment above Bethany’s garage without attracting anyone’s attention. Now, I’m standing across the small studio apartment from her, hands stuffed in my pockets. The open concept bedroom, living space, and kitchenette are decorated in soft, hazy shades of gray and taupe, all dimly lit by a small lamp.

“Well, I didn’t have to eat nineteen Burger King meals to get it,” I tease, “so I can’t compete with you circa Christmas 2001. Your title as Greatest Gift Giver of All Time is safe.”

Freya fluffs her hair, preening.

The moment of levity eases the tightness I’ve been carrying in my chest all day. I’d tried to keep things light. I’d smiled and joked through our hike, pelting Freya with snowballs every time she turned her back on me. (Which she’d promptly avenge by jumping on my back and stuffing handfuls of snow down my coat.) I’d chatted with folks at the solstice party and played tag with Andy, August, and Aiden. I’d sipped the mulled wine and gazed at crystal-clear stars I’d never be able to see in Chicago. But through it all, those fucking words ran through my head on a loop.

“Go ahead and have your fun, but girls like her are not the marrying type.”

Freya—my headstrong Freya who doesn’t take directions for shit—had somehow absorbed them until they rewrote the next decade of her life.

Maybe it’s because, in a sense, there’s a grain of truth in the words. Because that old windbag had probably meant “the marrying type” in a very specific way. He’d meant a pliable, biddable girl who would accept marriage as a hierarchy with her kneeling humbly at her husband’s feet.

And Freya sure as hellisn’t—and never was—thatkind of “marrying type.”

However, you’re never going to convince me that she—the girl who’d nearly swooned with delight when she’d read about Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie’s weird-ass blood necklaces—is a commitment-phobe. It might be her best kept secret, but Freya I’m-a-closet-Swiftie Nilsen is a hardcore romantic.

I just need to remind her.

Following Freya’s lead, I slide off my boots, coat, and hat, running my hand through my hair as I cross the small space to my overnight bag and grab my gift for her. After years of spending the holidays by myself, selecting and wrapping gifts this year has been a novelty. For most people, the ritual of gift-giving may be a chore, but the act had felt significant to me. A symbol, hopefully, of a new stage in life. A stage where I’m not alone. A stage where my past, present, and future are more integrated.

Freya reaches out her pretty hand, and I place the rectangular package into her palm as I sink onto the bed next to her. Her side tips into mine as the mattress dips, but it’s still not close enough, so I slide up to the pillows and pull her back into my chest, my legs enveloping her.

There’s a part of me that wants to drag her so we’re face to face, nose to nose, and demand that she admit how we fit together. Naturally. Effortlessly. Like two trees planted side by side as saplings so that they bend and weave and embrace each other as they grow, their roots inextricably tangled beneath the earth’s surface.

The wiser part of me recognizes that Freya already knows this. It’s what scares the hell out of her.

Her fingers smooth over the wrapping paper, a white background scattered with gold suns, and as she looks at it, her mouth drags into a smile.

“Fine,” she says, “I give in. Why did you start calling me Sunshine?”

I chuckle into her hair.

“You fell so hard into your emo stage. It was like you were begging the world to see you as so dark and scary. So, I knew calling you Sunshine would piss you off, which meant you’d pay attention to me.” I clear my throat, my face heating.

She twists her head around to narrow her eyes at me, and I laugh as I drop a kiss on the tip of her nose.

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