Page 74 of War on Christmas

And just like that, I find myself facing the same question I threw in my mom’s face less than ten minutes ago: How am I going to make it right?

Forty-Five

FREYA

TheridebacktoNorthview from Chicago is surprisingly jovial. At least for my companions. Me?Ifeel like I’m going to throw up. At first I blame it on lingering effects of the wine, but my mom—who’s riding in the second row with me—shoots me a blinding smile, pats my hand, and says, “That’s not the hangover, honey. That’s what it feels like to be inlove.”

Her eyes go all starry, and she says the wordlovewith an enthusiasm that sane people reserve for cheese and Baby Yoda.

“Love feels like wanting to hurl all over Bethany’s SUV?” I ask, wondering ifshegot into some wine too.

But three enthusiastic heads nod back at me.

Fuck.

“So, what are you going to do?” Bethany asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Not to be a downer, but you fucked up pretty royally. You’re gonna have togrovel. Like, get down on your knees and—”

She uses her tongue and hand to mimic a blow job in the mirror, and I lean forward to slap her shoulder.

“Freya!” my mom scolds. She’s sitting directly behind the driver’s seat, so she didn’t see Bethany’s fancy tongue action. “Don’t hit your sister while she’s driving.”

I stick my tongue out at Bethany, and she winks back. Bethany, I suddenly realize, was never a goody-goody; Bethany, it hits me like a bolt of lightning, is justsneaky.

Gods, what is the world coming to?

“So…” I heave a sigh, not believing what I’m about to ask. A couple days ago, I would have sat through a four-hour sermon on the benefits of chastity before I would ask this particular trio for love advice. But desperate times call for desperate measures. “What do I, you know…do?”

“Like, how should you pledge your love to him?” Mom asks, and something inside me dies. Maybe I’ll just start with Bethany’s advice and see if a really amazing BJ does the trick.

“Forget I asked,” I mumble, but all three women squeal in protest.

“That’s what we’reherefor,” Sam insists, twisting around in the passenger seat to beam at me. “You don’t have to do this alone, Frey.” She spins back toward the front, already brainstorming. “So, one time when your brother and I got into a fight about something stupid, I apologized by hardcore organizing all the closets in our condo. You know how tidy he is. He wassoexcited.”

“That is the fucking nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I reply. “I bet he loved it.”

“Oh, he totally did.”

For the rest of the ride, they share romantic gestures they’ve taken part in, sometimes as recipients, sometimes as the gift giver. Fancy dates. Moonlit walks. I get teary-eyed hearing the story of my dad’s proposal for the first time: he filled Mom's tiny, rundown apartment with flowers, a promise that even though they didn’t own a flower shopyet, they’d work toward that goal together. Then Bethany shares a story about Drew dragging her into the utility closet at the shop for some super-hot sex that hasMomslapping her on the shoulder.

“Bethany!While there werecustomersthere?”

“No,” Bethany says, sounding offended. But she nods at me in the rearview mirror.

By the time we’re getting close to home, a blanket of black is settling over the sky, dark and comforting, and as Bethany turns onto our street, she lets out a squeal.

“Ooh! I’ve got it!” she shouts, hitting the steering wheel with excitement. “What aboutprom? What if you set up a little prom and go as his date since you hexed—”

“Can’t prove it,” I say. Promiskind of a cool idea, but prom also feels like it belongs to the world of high school Jeremy. Bright and glittery and a little fake. A world I neverwantedto belong to. “And I don’t know if prom feels quite right.”

“Maybe you don’t need something fancy at all,” Mom suggests. “Maybe you can just, you know, tell him how you feel?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, stretching her arms dramatically, “you know—pledge your loveto him.”

Before I can comment, Bethany pulls into my parents’ driveway and puts the SUV in park. I peek at the driveway next door—Jeremy’s car is still there—and my butterflies come back with a vengeance, fluttering drunkenly. I push the feeling down as I collect my bags and Hecate’s carrier. It’s Jeremy. Just Jeremy. Yes, I fucked up, but he’ll forgive me. I just need to come clean and tell him how I feel.

It'll be simple.

Right?

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