Page 39 of War on Christmas

9 days until Christmas…

Me:Umm…notsurehowto say this, but…I’m taking Freya out on a date tonight. Sorry, man. I know it breaks The Code. I just…well. You know better than anyone I’ve always had my head up my ass when it comes to Freya.

I stuff my phone back in my jacket pocket. Mom and I are standing in the backyard, watching a blazing fire fueled by a wheelbarrow full of Gary’s old shit. Mostly dusty models of military ships, airplanes, and tanks that he filled the basement with. Their monetary value is negligible, and there’s no point in donating them. So, into the fire they go.

It was my mom’s idea, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to stop her. Because this is cathartic as fuck. It took some finagling to wrestle the portable firepit out of the garage and into the snowy yard, but watching all Gary’s favorite stuff go up in smoke? Worth it.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I wait for Thad’s reply. It’s hard to gauge how much he knows about what took place between Freya and me when we were teenagers. I never confided in him, but for all I know, Freya gave him all the gritty details just to watch him squirm.

“Did something happen at the festival last night?”

My mom stares me down from across the fire, one hand wrapped around her coffee mug. Her eyes are narrowed, and her mouth twists to the side with concern. I swallow.

“I, uh…I asked Freya out on a date.” To give my hands something to do, I grab another model, a World War II airplane, and throw it into the flames. “I was just giving Thad a heads-up.”

Mom’s worry appears to melt, her mouth spreading into a wide smile that I’ve been seeing more and more often.

Gary being dead seems to agree with her.

“Oh, Jem, that’sgood,” she says with enthusiasm. Then I sigh, and her smile falters. “Isn’t it?”

I stare at her. Part of me could really,reallyuse someone to confide in. Usually, my go-to person is Thad. But he, for obvious reasons, is out of the question. There’s Wes from work, but he would think I’m out of my goddamn mind for saying no to a no-strings-attached fling with a smoke show like Freya. It’s hard to admit, but my only available sounding board might be a fifty-four-year-old woman who also happens to be my mom.

Jesus Christ.I rack my brain for how to frame the situation in a way that won’t be utterly traumatic for both of us.

“Freya…uh. Well, she doesn’t want to stay in touch once the holidays are over. When we go back to Chicago, she wants to”—I hold my pointer fingers together and then tear them apart—“go our separate ways.”

The concerned look is back on my mom’s face. “But you’ve been spending so much time together.”

“Yeah, well,” I clear my throat. “I think she sees it as a necessary evil of being back in Northview. We’re friends by default here, I guess.”

“But you…” My mom slowly tips her head toward me as she throws a wooden tank into the firepit. “Youwant to stay friends.” I nod, but her face folds into a confused scowl. “But wait—are youjustfriends? Because you also said you’re going on a date.” Her nose wrinkles. “Right?”

Which just about sums up how fucked up and confusing this entire situation is.

“She’s just…” I groan and let my head sink into my hands. “I missed her.” Missed doesn’t seem big enough. I miss my king-size bed and my favorite coffee shop in Chicago. I miss the Italian beef from the sandwich shop on State Street that shut down a couple years ago. But none of those things ache like missing Freya. “At first, I thought we could be just friends, but…”

I’m thinking again about the sight of Freya wrapped around Santa Claus last night.

When Freya crawled onto his lap, her pretty hands running over his chest, my inner caveman won. I knew exactly what she was doing. A distant, logical part of my brain tried in vain to coach me:She’s playing you. Stay strong. Be strategic, Jeremy.Unfortunately, it came in about as loud and clear as a broken, tinny speaker from half a mile away. Because every other part of me—my bones and guts and some ancient, animal part of me—stomped their feet and yelled,Mine! Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.So, I’d marched up there like the caveman I am and bodily removed her from Santa’s lap, torn between kissing her senseless and throwing her over my knee and spanking her luscious ass red.

I groan. I’m not inexperienced. I’ve dated my fair share of women, and I haveneverbeen the jealous type. Best friends with your ex? Cool. Mysterious text messages dinging through our dinner date? Whatever. Other men ogling you when we go out? Lucky me, having the prettiest woman in the room on my arm. I respect my partners and their autonomy. I’m a grown-ass adult who can control his emotions.

Until Freya decides to play me like a fucking fiddle.

“But…” my mom wades back into the conversation. “Now you want to bemorethan friends?”

My head jerks in a nod.

“So…isn’t going on a date a good thing then?”

Before I can answer, my phone dings and I rush to grab it.

Thad: “The Code?” LOL. Dude. None of my beeswax. You’re both consenting adults. (Right? She didn’t coerce you into this, did she?)

I stare at my phone for a second, trying to decide if being expertly manipulated by my baser instincts counts as coercion. Probably not.

Me: Thanks for being cool about it. Looking forward to seeing you and Sam tomorrow.

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