Page 57 of War on Christmas

“Well, she started it because she was jealous, apparently. Jealous that Jeremy always seemed…into me, I guess? Even though we fought like cats and dogs.” I take a deep breath for courage. “And Friday night, Jeremy apologized to her because—and I quote—‘It was always her.’ Meaningme. It was always me.” I squirm, sending the water sloshing. “That means like twenty-years-ago ‘always,’ though. Right? Like back-in-high-school ‘always.’ Not likealways‘always’?”

I cringe, pretty sure that made no sense, but Sam just hums, like she knows exactly what I meant.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” she asks.

“Of course.” I smile at the memory. “Thad had been in love with you foryears. I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

Thad and Sam had been workplace buddies for three years before they ever got romantic. He had fallen for her instantly—“Like a direct kick to the gut, Frey.Pow!”—but she’d been in a long-term relationship when they’d met. It had been a big deal when she’d finally broken off her engagement and she and Thad were sent on a business trip to Chicago together. Watching them exchange furtive glances and look for every tiny excuse to touch each other had been downright painful.

And wildly entertaining.

Sam continues, “Do you remember what you asked me, about—oh, I don’t know—ten minutes after we met? While we were at that bar across from The Sphere?”

Goddamn it.My face flushes. Powers of perceptionanda good memory? Now that’s just fucking annoying.

“Noooo?” I hedge.

Sam snorts. “I’ll refresh your memory. It went a little something like”—she clears her throat and drops her voice, so it’s huskier like mine—“You must have met Thad’s friend Jeremy by now. What’s he up to these days?”

And Sam had answered as if Thad hadtrainedher (because I’m sure hehad), “I don’t know. Why don’t you pick up the phone and ask him?” It had been humiliating. I still haven’t forgiven myself for being so utterly predictable.

I groan, pushing my hands into my face. You’d think I would be over it a year later, but…nope. Still embarrassing.

“So,” Sam says, a smile in her voice, “a couple nights later we met up with Jeremy. And you know what he asked me about—oh, I don’t know—ten minutes after we met?”

My stomach flip flops, and Ihatethe little jig of hope dancing in my belly.

“I don’t know. Something about golf?” I ask sullenly, and Sam snorts out a laugh.

“Thad may be the good twin, but you’re definitely the funny one. Don’t tell him I said that, though,” Sam orders. “The second Thad left to use the bathroom, Jeremy leaned over and said, ‘You must have met Freya by now. How is she doing?’ AndIsaid, ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you pick up the phone and ask her?’”

My traitorous mouth tries to jerk into a smile, but I hold tight onto my resting bitch face. “What’s your point?”

“Mypoint, oh Queen of Snark and Sass, is that you asked me if Jeremy meantalways‘always’ or just back-in-the-day ‘always.' And I think there’s a very real possibility that it’salways‘always’ been you for him. And if you were really being honest with yourself…” Sam takes a deep breath, “…it’s probably always been Jeremy for you, too.”

Oh gods.I breathe through the anxious nausea that smacks me, wondering what on earth I could possibly say tothat. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Ludicrous. Silly. Delusional.

“That’s—that’s—” I scramble into a sitting position, hoping it will ease the tightening sensation around my chest. Water sloshes onto the floor, but I don’t care. “That’s—”

True, a quiet voice whispers.

And that one word—True—drifts into that hairline crack I could sense Friday night at the inn. That tiny fracture I could feel spreading across my walls, all my carefully erected defenses. That truth is a speck, the tiniest piece of dust, but after all the denials and deflections and dismissals, it’s that little fleck of honesty that wrenches the crack wide open, and that ache in my chest escalates to a full-on panic.

I gasp for breath, my hand pressed to my breastbone to soothe the pain, and on the other side of the shower curtain, Sam sighs.

“Well, shit, Freya. I was looking for some fun girl talk. I didn’t realize you were inthatmuch denial.” She sounds worried. Remorseful, even. “Do you need anything? Wine? Chocolate?” Her voice drops to a hush. “Do you have a stash of weed somewhere?”

I laugh, because the idea of sweet, innocent Sam rolling a joint is hilarious, but it comes out dull and cynical. Because there’s no amount of wine—or weed—that could make it ok that I’m in love with Jeremy Kelly.

Thirty-Six

JEREMY

“Imean,don’tyouthink we’re a little old for this?” Sam eyes the tablespoon of ghost pepper hot sauce with suspicion and hunches her shoulders against the chill of the Nilsen’s basement. “I mean, we’re in ourthirties…Truth or Dare? Come on, guys.”

Sam may look innocent, but she’s a sneak. She blinks at us, her big hazel eyes wide and doe-like, looking tiny and defenseless in her rainbow-pajama shorts and hoodie. As if she isn’t the one who’d suggested playing this to begin with.

“Eat it, Lambert,” Thad orders, using a hard, unflinching tone I’ve literallyneverheard him use with his girlfriend, and Sam’s lower lip threatens to tremble. Next to me on the couch, Freya snorts.

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