Page 12 of War on Christmas

“Ok…” He drums his fingers on the windowsill. “How about this? Isn’t letting me in the moreinterestingoption?” Still definitelynotsmiling.“Imay make safe, boring choices. But never you, Freya Nilsen. You never, ever settle for boring.”

Dammit.I reach above me and push the window open. Just one drink. Onesip.

With a quiet chuckle, he ducks through the window and closes it behind him. Then he slides to the floor next to me, long legs stretched out in front of him. My room isn’t especially tiny—Bethany and I shared it until she moved out—but it’s not big either. Those wide shoulders of his, the ones that fit him just right, seem to eat up space, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of shifting away. He’s wearing unlaced sneakers with no socks, and I wince when I see the snow melting inside his shoes.

To my surprise, he doesn’t immediately say something annoying. Instead, he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, giving me plenty of time to study him in a way I never felt comfortable doing in the car today. He’s always been beautiful. At least to me. His nose is long and straight and turns up the tiniest bit at the end. His cheekbones are high and always covered with a faint spray of freckles, even in winter. And, my personal favorite, the small, deep dimple in the center of his chin. Like an elf pressed her teeny-tiny finger into it.

Things were already strained between us when he ditched his glasses for contacts freshman year. The tension was myfault. I can admit that now, at least to myself. Then his glasses were suddenly gone, and this secret I’d been keeping my whole life—“Jeremy Kelly iscute. Jeremy Kelly has dreamy eyes and a smile that can make your knees weak.”—was out. And I hated every one of those insipid girls who were noticing it for the first time.Could they really not see past a dumb pair of glasses?I remember thinking.It’s Jeremy for fuck’s sake—not Clark fucking Kent!

He turns his head toward me and cracks open one eye.

“Wanna’ talk about it?” He keeps his voice low. It’s not like my parents would care if they knew he was here. TheyloveJeremy. Everybody does. Besides, I’m thirty-five now. I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to have boys in my room with the door closed. But we keep our voices soft, like we did when we were kids and Jeremy would sneak over to stay with Thad or me on particularly bad nights. Usually when Gary was drinking.

“Talk about what?” I whisper back.

His gaze sweeps the room, and my breath shudders as I realize what he means by “it.” The last time he was in my room. Christmas break 2002. The night I lost my best friend.

I shake my head, and he smiles, but it’s sad. Like he’d been hoping to rehash something thatI know can’t be fixed. Then he grabs my brandy bottle, and as he raises it to his lips, I hear something that sounds suspiciously like, “Coward.”

Nine

JEREMY

Thebrandyburnsinthe best way possible. A baptism by fire that may not burn my sins away, but may distract me from the heat of Freya next to me. She’s wearing tight black leggings, and they embrace every curve of her legs, from her rounded thighs and ass to her muscular calves and dainty ankles. Even her feet are pretty, graceful bones with rounded toes pointing like a dancer. A gray wide-neck sweater sits unevenly on her shoulders, revealing the delicate lines of her collarbones and the upper swells of her breasts. Her makeup is still in place, but she’s swept her long, wavy hair into a messy knot on top of her head, and I have to force myself not to stare at the stray curls at the nape of her neck.

I take another drink.

“It was only a kiss,” I mutter.

That’s always been the worst part. At least to me.

We’d been best friends. Freya and Thad and me. Then, the summer between eighth grade and high school, something began to shift. It was like an unexpected sequel to your favorite movie—What? There’s more?!It happened bit by bit, moment by moment. Freya stepping out of the public-pool dressing room in her first bikini, and my eyes jumping out of my face. The way she smiled in response, even though she tried to hide it. My stomach contracting whenever our hands brushed as we passed the sunscreen or a soda can. The way the apple scent of her shampoo would distract me into making ridiculous mistakes during Monopoly games. Each little moment felt like it was leading somewhere. Somewhere amazing.

It dragged on like that for months. Both of us trying to pretend that things were the same. The tension climbing. Then, a few days after Christmas, Gary had his holiday work party and came home in a foul mood with a fouler mouth. So, like countless times before, I’d “gone to bed” then snuck out. I used to go to Thad’s room, but once Bethany moved out, I was climbing more and more through Freya’s window and spreading blankets into a makeshift bed on her floor. This time, though, instead of staying in her own bed, she stretched out on the floor facing me, her gray eyes wide and luminous. It felt natural to cup her face in my hands, her skin soft, like the silky edge of my favorite blanket as a kid. My thumbs brushed along her cheekbones, and I breathed in the soapy scent of her face wash.

It all felt so innocent. The obvious next step we’d been waiting for.

When she bit that full bottom lip of hers, I was lost. I’ve revisited that moment so many times, that final half-second when we could still pretend to be “just friends.” Every time, I want to scream at my fourteen-year-old self:Don’t do it, buddy! Just don’t.But I couldn’t resist her. I couldn’t fight that unspoken pull between us anymore than I could stop my voice from changing or my feet from outgrowing their shoes for the second time that school year.

Just like that, I outgrew the old version of us.

My heart jackhammered behind my breastbone, my pulse thundered through my ears. But I could still hear the throaty sigh she released against my lips when they met hers.

It was awkward at first. As awkward as any first kiss, I guess. We were normal, awkward kids. Noses bumped. We pressed close, pulled away, pressed close again. But I never felt embarrassed. Not at the time. It was Freya.MyFreya. Bold and serious and earnest. I could do anything with her. There was no rush, no urgency. Just the feel of her lips on mine as we lay side by side in her familiar room—a clash of Bethany’s pink and Freya’s black—dimly lit by the glow of white Christmas lights. It was Freya who deepened the kiss. Freya who tentatively stroked her tongue against my lips. My whole body jerked like I’d been shot—an arrow, straight to the heart—and her mouth curved against mine in a smile. We both knew in that moment that she owned me. And did I care? Not a bit. I already would have given her anything.

We must have kissed for hours. Innocent and sweet and wondrous. And that’s what changed everything.

By the next day, Freya had already started to pull away. By the end of January, feeling heartsick about Freya and determined to recover, I started going out with Tiffany Ebner. And by the end of freshman year, Freya and I had the most infamous rivalry in the class of 2006.

"If you were just going to ignore me, why did you bother asking if I wanted to talk about it?" she asks, her voice chillier than the frosted window next to us.

I shrug. “It was twenty years ago, Frey. I think we probably have the emotional resiliency to tackle this one by now.”

Silence. Then, “Like you said…it was just a kiss. There’s nothing to quote-unquote tackle.”

She jerks the bottle back from me and takes a long pull. God, she’s feisty. Always has been. Her red mouth turns down at the corners, and I want to kiss that sullen scowl off her face, but I resist.Forbidden fruit, I remind myself.

“Good.” I smile broadly. “Then we can be friends again.”

---