Page 15 of War on Christmas

The inventory of gifts has been updated too. Instead of generic, run-of-the-mill coffee mugs and coasters, the shelves are loaded with artisanal, hand-poured candles and organic bath bombs. An entire section features products—jams, salsas, and teeny-tiny bottles of maple syrup—from other local small businesses. If I brought friends up from Chicago—which I wouldn’t—this is a place I’d bring them to show off my hometown. Quaint, charming, and a little bit hip.

Bethany, to my amazement, tosses her hair with a huff. “Come on, Freya. If you don’t like it, just say so.”

I stare. Bethany’s always been high-strung. Ready to snap like an overstretched rubber band at the first sign of criticism. It’s my favorite thing about her. How easy it is to reach out and pluck her nerves, to send her shaking and vibrating with insecurity. But this seems excessive. My eyebrows knit together as I consider how concerned I should be about my big sister.

“Um…I said it looks ‘really good.’” I choose my words carefully. “What exactly did you hear?”

“WhatIheard,” Bethany says, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, “is that I’ve made too many changes to an already successful business, and clearly I’m going to mess things up and tank the value of the shop right when Mom and Dad are getting ready to retire. And what was I thinking? It’s too much! But also—”

When a boisterous laugh bubbles out of me, Bethany sputters to a halt. I’m as surprised as she is, and I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stop it.

“Are you insane?” I ask once I’ve regained control.

Bethany shrugs, agitated. “I have four kids. Probably.” Then her attitude drops as quickly as it appeared, and her eyes turn hopeful. Like my approval means something to her. “You’re saying you like it?”

Part of me wants to say something cutting and witty. The instinct is there to bring her down to size. Maybe I could point out the excessive number of “Live Laugh Love” tchotchkes? But much to my surprise, Bethany seems invested in this. She didn’t just come back to the shop to get out of the house and make some cash. She has a vision.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I like it.” Then I circle back to something else she said. “So, are you going to take over then? When Mom and Dad retire?”

Her eyes flick around the shop. It’s a Monday morning. Only a few customers are milling around, but you have to be careful what you say in a small community like ours. Word travels fast. I join Bethany behind the counter and settle onto the empty stool, so we can talk without being overheard.

“They started talking about selling the shop last summer. Right as Andy was getting ready to start kindergarten.” She keeps her voice low. “I wasn’t really sure what to do. Where to work, I mean. I’d been teaching yoga a couple nights a week, but I don’t really want to do that full time. The shop just seemed…I don’t know”—she shrugs—“right. And Mom and Dad have been great about letting me try out some new stuff. My degree was in business, and I’ve been taking some online classes on flower arranging. You know, trying to update things a bit. It’s been…” Her smile is hesitant, as if she’s waiting for my reaction. “It’s been fun.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say.

There was a time when this situation would have chafed—Well look at that. Bethany stepping up to be the perfect daughter. Again.—but all I feel is a quiet sense of satisfaction for my parents. While they’d never pushed any of us to take over the shop, we’d always known they would love for it to turn into a multigenerational business. And it seems like a good fit for Bethany. I’ve got my own career that I love. There’s no reason for me to begrudge Bethany having the same.

And that, as my therapist would say, is what we call progress.

Bethany reaches out like she’s about to hug me, but I’m saved when the bell on the door chimes and a cold gust of wind blows through the store. I’m momentarily distracted by one of the customers, a woman with a large, snow-white bouffant who looks vaguely familiar, but when I see Bethany’s eyes flare, I turn to the front of the store to see what—or who—piqued her interest.

Eleven

FREYA

Ibitebackasmile, my stomach fluttering pleasantly. Standing in the doorway wearing a formal gray suit and black overcoat is Jeremy. Yesterday morning I’d been filled with dread as sour as spoiled milk at the thought of seeing him, but everything shifted last night. In high school, he’d held all the high-value assets: popularity, the favor of the teachers, athletic ability. But what do those things matter now? I never cared that he could throw a football. What Idocare about is the way he undressed me with his eyes when I answered the door to my apartment and the way his pulse tripped drunkenly when I touched his chest.

I’m not at a disadvantage anymore. Jeremy Kelly and I are finally going head-to-head in a fair competition.

And I am going to crush him.

Moreover, once I’ve won, I’ll finally know what category to put him in. For years, he’s been stashed away in his own little storage container with its label scratched over and rewritten so many times it needs to be replaced.

Best Friend

Crush

First Kiss

Guy I’m Awkwardly Avoiding

Arch Rival

However, once we have our little holiday sex spree, which I’m sure will be highly enjoyable, I can move him over to my Sexual Conquests bin with my other ex-lovers and move on.

Ta-da! Closure.

“Um, when did Jeremy Kelly gethot?” Bethany murmurs.

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