Page 11 of War on Christmas

After that, I was over it. “It” meaning relationships. Love. Emotions. Romance.

So, I nursed my broken heart by signing up for a burlesque class, and from my very first day, I loved it. Because when the rest of the world says, “Too much,” burlesque says, “More.” Burlesque doesn’t only welcome my curvy ass and big tits; it welcomes my drama, my dark sense of humor, my drive to undermine authority. For the first several years, it was just for me. Classes at the studio with occasional public performances. Then, a few years back, The Sphere went through a tough financial streak, and we started the monthly shows as a fun, low-cost way to stir up excitement and get new people through the door.

And for one night a month, I ditch my cozy office for center stage.

I’m not embarrassed by my stints as Scylla Wilde. I love them. Scylla is bold and empowered and sexy. Everything I needed to feel when I was brokenhearted.

I just don’t need my parents—or anybody back in Northview—to know about her.

A scratching noise at the window draws my attention, and I narrow my eyes, trying to focus on the darkness outside. To my astonishment, a tiny figure starts hopping and swaying along my windowsill. I try to blink it away. Did the monster debate go to my head? And if, hypothetically, Iwereto hallucinate a monster, wouldn’t I come up with something scarier than the four-inch elf dancing outside my window?

Holy fuck, I’m way more drunk than I thought.

I grab Hecate and roll out of the papasan, nearly knocking it off its platform. I tuck her under my arm and do an awkward, one-arm crawl—arm-leg-leg, arm-leg-leg—across the room. I slowly raise myself up until my eyes are at window level and peek outside. The first figure—Legolas?—is joined by a second one. I squint. Arwen?

My eyes go wide as recognition dawns. I’m staring at the collectibleLord of the Ringstoys I’d earned, one Burger King kids meal at a time, so I could give them to Jeremy for Christmas when we were in eighth grade.

I reach up to unlock the window and open it a quarter-inch.

“Go away, you crazy-ass stalker,” I hiss.

A pair of blue-green eyes appears opposite mine, and I jump. I blame the brandy; I’m not usually so excitable. Those tropical-water eyes crinkle at the corners, and I scowl back.

“Or what?” I can hear the smile in his voice, and my blood pressure spikes accordingly. “You’ll hex my prom date?”

Ah, the prom date hex. The stuff of legend at Northview High. Our junior year, there were widespread rumors I hexed Jeremy. When his first prom date broke her ankle playing basketball, everyone shrugged. When his second date came down with mono and missed a month of school, my classmates got suspicious. When histhirddate concussed herself playing pickle ball in gym class, all bets were off.

To this day, I have neither confirmed nor denied the hex.

“Can you prove it?” I force the words through gritted teeth, and he laughs. A man’s laugh, but it carries echoes of the boy I knew. Movie nights and Caves & Conquerors and kick-the-can on sticky summer nights.

“Come on, Frey,” he pleads. “For old time’s sake. It’s cold as balls out here, and things are fucking awkward with my mom. Please?”

I slam the window shut and roll so my back is to the wall, my knees propped up in front of me. Hecate mews from where she’s tucked in my armpit, and in my other hand, I’m still clutching the brandy bottle. My heart races uncomfortably, and the combination of my rapid pulse and too much brandy leaves me feeling vaguely dizzy. Fiona Apple and Pete Wentz stare back at me from my bedroom wall.

This—whatever Jeremy is trying to do right now—is a very bad idea. Right up there with flavored Mountain Dew andStar Warsepisodes one through three. We’ve both been doing perfectly fine before today. I havemylife in Chicago. And Jeremy hashis. That doesn’t have to change just because I needed a ride home for Christmas. We listened to music. (“He assaulted me with music” feels more accurate.) We chatted. The end. Now we can go back to hating each other and not talking again for another seventeen years.

Simple.

Next to me, the window squeaks open an inch, and I curse myself for not remembering to lock it. Fucking brandy.

“What are you afraid of, Frey?” he whispers, and I can hear his teeth chattering.

“Afraid of?” I scoff. I set Hecate on the Pepto Bismol pink carpet I’ve always loathed and kneel so I’m looking out the window again. Jeremy, his nose pink, stares back from inches away. I glance down. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a Green Bay Packers hoodie. No hat or gloves. He must be freezing. “I fear nothing.”

“Is that brandy?” His eyes light up when he sees my bottle, and I squeeze it to my chest. “Are youdrunk?”

“Jealous?” I ask.

“Extremely.” His teeth chatter again. “There’s booze at home, but I don’t want to drink in front of my mom.” I tip my head in question, and Jeremy explains, “Gary was a dick when he drank.I’mnot, but she doesn’t know that, and I don’t want to stress her out.” He looks longingly at my bottle. “Just for a minute? Unless you’re scared, of course.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Jeremy. I’m notthateasily manipulated.”

He grins. “Aren’t you?”

He has a point, and I hate him for it. Whatever weird game we’d played through high school, he’d undeniably played it better. The meaner my comebacks, the funnier he found them. Not engaging would have been the only way to defeat him, and it was the one thing I couldn’t do. He always knew how to draw me out, guns blazing. But I’m older now. Maybe even wiser. I slide down the wall and bite my lip.

I amnotsmiling.

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