Page 6 of War on Christmas

I roll my shoulders, as though I could physically shake off my nerves, and head up to Freya’s unit. It’s a small, older building that smells like cooking spices, laundry, and the warm, musty smell of pets. It’s got character. Probably ghosts, too, which makes me smile. The Freya I knew would love living in a haunted building.

My knuckles rap against the thick wood door. At the shrill slide of metal on metal, my heartbeat accelerates from its usual throb of bored indifference to a quick, heavy trip of anticipation.

I’m about to see Freya for the first time in seventeen years, and I knownothingabout her. Not anymore.

I once knew her favorite color. (Black, obviously.) Her favorite foods. (Tie: Broccoli and frozen Snickers bars.) Her one giveaway when she was lying. (A twitch in her right eyelid.) Her favorite movie moment. (Éowyn declaring “I am no man” inLord of the Rings: The Return of the King.) I knew she was secretly self-conscious about the tiny mole next to her nose, even though it was super cute. And I knew that when she was six years old and her parents gave her a Barbie Dreamhouse for Christmas, she locked herself in her room and cried because she’d really wantedTheNightmare Before Christmason VHS.

The door swings open, and my polite smile freezes. Because standing in the doorway of a small, neat apartment is a bombshell. Sophisticated and sharp. Dramatic curves and poise.

A bombshell I’ve never seen before but would recognize anywhere.

This isn’t the little girl who ran through the neighborhood wearing her mom’s panties and bra over her clothes, pretending to be Princess Leia in a gold bikini. And this isn’t the silently seething teenager I stood next to at graduation. This is someone new. Someone who took all the versions of the Freya I’d once known and transformed them into a woman. A woman with the confidence to meet my shellshocked gaze with an ironic tilt of her eyebrow.

When I knew Freya, too many people couldn’t see past her black clothes, her black hair, her black eyeliner. Some even said her black heart.

But when I was with Freya, the world went from black and white to technicolor. It’s always been that way, and it still is. Because right now, all I can see are her red lips. They’re the luscious lips of a 1940s pinup girl. Full, bowed, and inviting. The bright, intoxicating color of poppies. Of fresh, shiny apples. Or, as Freya would probably prefer,poisonapples.

I finally drag my gaze away from her mouth. You know the color of those lips? Forbidden fruit. Those lush, pouty lips gave me my first kiss, and allthatdid was get me permanently kicked out of Freya’s good graces.

A black sweater and dark gray jeans mold themselves to her full hips and breasts and highlight the tiny curve of her waist. No more baggy band T-shirts then. And instead of dusty, dilapidated Vans, she’s wearing cute black ankle boots. To top it all off, a black cat lies draped across her forearm like a living accessory, staring at me with bright, golden eyes.

My heart thumps painfully, but I ignore it, giving Freya my most charming smile as I finally meet her gaze. Why? Because I know it will drive her nuts. And nothing—I meannothing—makes me feel alive like driving Freya Nilsen out of her goddamn mind.

“Hey, Sunshine. Is this everything?” I nod at the two suitcases next to her. “Or do you need anything else?” I purse my lips and pretend to think. “Extra coat? Purse?” I pause. “Broomstick?”

She stares back, deadpan. “If my broomstick was working, why would I need a ride from you?”

Five

FREYA

Hewhistleswhilehecarries my suitcases to the car. I give him my best death glare, and he winks back. Because he knows it will drive me nuts.

That’s how it was between us. He became Mr. Popular, the happy-go-lucky, friendly guy who everybody loved. I doubled down on Freaky Freya, the little emo theater geek who steadfastly refused to smile. We poked and prodded each other relentlessly, like canker sores we couldn’t keep our tongues away from. But whereas Jeremy’s barbs came across as innocent and cute (“Oh, he said, ‘Good morning, Sunshine’? So adorable!”), mine always got me cast as a grade-A bitch (“You told him that Zac Efron called and wants his ugly-ass haircut back? That’s just mean, Freya.”).

But he’s not that teenage kid anymore. His eyes are the same shade of blue-green, but they have smile lines around them now. His hair is still sandy blond, but he traded in hisHigh School Musicalshag for a stylish crew cut with some length on the top. He still towers above me, but the lanky, boney awkwardness of adolescence is gone. In high school, his shoulders were too big for the rest of him, like shoulder pads he forgot to take off after football practice. He fits them now, moving with easy, athletic grace as we walk down the snowy sidewalk.

I roll my eyes. Of course he’s gorgeous. Nothing like the pale, passionate, artsy types I usually favor. Just objectively, undeniably handsome.

Annoying.

However, I didn’t miss how his jaw dropped when he first saw me, and I’m vain enough to really,reallyappreciate that little victory.

As awkward and emo as I was in high school, I discovered my style quickly once I was immersed in the New York theater scene. And, not to brag, but guys dig it. Dramatic eyes, red lips, dark wavy hair. The costume designer at the theater where I interned taught me how to thrift for clothes that show off my pinup-girl curves, and I ditched my baggy jeans and T-shirts and never looked back. I’ve attracted a lot of male attention since then, but that look on Jeremy Kelly’s face just now? That might be the best.

He's parked half a block away, his car a silver hybrid sedan that I eye with interest while he stows my bags in the back seat. Hecate mews plaintively from her carrier—she’s not a fan of the stiff, December wind—and I open the door opposite Jeremy and strap her carrier into a seat, sneaking a glance at him as I fiddle with the seatbelt.

I know nothing about him anymore. My summer in New York, Thad got fed up with me asking my snarky questions (“And how is Mr. Popular?”) and told me in no uncertain terms he was done being our go-between. “I don’t know, Frey, why don’t you pick up the phone and ask him?” So, aside from knowing that Jeremy also lives here in Chicago, his life is a mystery to me.

As I slide into the passenger seat, I look around the car for some clues, anything that will give me insight into this enigma of a man who can still make my blood boil. However, there’s not so much as a crumpled receipt telling me what takeout he likes.

“Did you rent this?” I ask, running my hands over the upholstery next to me. There’s not even a speck of dust on the dashboard. If Abi were here, she would call it “Sus.”

“No, it’s mine.” He glances down at my hip, checking I’m buckled before putting the car in drive and pulling into traffic. “I have colleagues and clients in here pretty frequently, so I like to keep it clean.” I nod, intrigued by that “colleagues and clients,” and, like a mind reader, he asks, “So, how should we do this? I ask you all my questions? You ask me yours? We take turns? Ooh, I know—Truth or Dare. That could be fun. You pick. But no daring me to wear frozen underwear again. That was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

I stare at him, horrified, and barely refrain from patting my bra to double-check for the garnet and snowflake obsidian gemstones I tucked away for protection. If they are there, they’re definitely not working.

My plan had been to spend the three-hour drive in contemplative silence while pretending to be a rich lady with a chauffeur. One of those “one-percenters” all my communist theater buddies want to eat. Outside the window, a wintry Chicago speeds by, and I consider jumping out at the next stoplight. Or maybe I can do one of those fancy, action-movie rolls while the car is still moving? If I break enough bones, I can stay at the hospital for the next two weeks. I have a high tolerance for pain.

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