Page 77 of War on Christmas

Like the Death card, I muse, thinking back on my conversation with Bethany. Not an actual death, but an ending, followed by a beginning. Over the past two days, it’s felt like my heart’s been physically breaking, but I’m not dying. Just the old version of me, so something else can emerge. A new variation of me that’s willing to do life a little less alone.

D.G. shrugs. “Then there’s thedramaof it, of course. Death—literal or figurative—is exciting. Especially when it’s tragic. Plays and books, they allow people to live the fantasy of something wilder. Greater.” She shoots me a sly smile over her shoulder. “Youwere never going to settle for a nice, quiet love story, now were you?”

I glance around the room, where it’s easy to imagine the ghost of my teenage self among the gowns and tunics and three-piece suits. She spent more than one late night here, taking in and letting out costumes, fixing buttons and adding sequins. That girl was impulsive and abrasive and naïve. But she was also brave. And she loved the theater because it told big, bold stories.

Stories like she desperately wanted for herself one day.

Teenage Freya never dreamed of a soft, unassuming love. She craved a love story for the ages. A love that moved mountains. Shook the heavens. Parted seas. A love that turned her world upside down. Turned her heart inside out. Rocked her to her very core.

I run my thumbs over the waistband of the pants, smiling to myself. “No,” I admit, as the words I’d been looking for all night start to take shape. “No, I wasn’t.”

Forty-Eight

JEREMY

“Onlyonedrink,right?”I ask Thad.

“Sure, man,” he says, pulling into a parking spot at the Galway Inn. “One drink.”

Let’s be clear: I didn’t want to come out tonight at all. However, when Thad and Sam showed up on my doorstep and invited me to go out, every excuse I grasped at melted away like a spring icicle. First, I claimed it was too late, but my mom had insisted on serving Christmas Eve dinner promptly at 4:30, like a seniors-only early bird special. So, even after eating and doing the dishes, it was still only six o’clock. Next, I told Thad I was planning on spending Christmas Eve with my mom, which was true. Until Mom started to yawn loudly in front of Thad and Sam and informed me she was going to bed. Three hours before her usual bedtime.

I’d grumbled and grabbed my coat.

The Galway Inn is bustling, its lights warm and welcoming, its main doorway bedecked in evergreen boughs, all making for a festive air. I follow Thad and Sam inside, trying not to let my thoughts linger on the last time I was here. As Freya and I had left that morning, I’d held the heavy wooden door open for her, and she’d pressed her hand into my chest and leaned up to kiss me.

I rejected her last night. She’d come to my window with an offer I would have jumped at two weeks ago, and I’d turned her down flat.

Do I regret it, though?

Hell, no.

As I’d looked out at Freya standing in the snow, trying to play things as small and safe as possible, I’d known I needed to be honest with her. And not my make-sure-you’re-still-the-nice-guy kind of honesty. Because I can’t love Freya in half measures, and if I try—if I hold back how I truly feel—I’ll end up resenting her. It will be death by a thousand cuts, every time I swallow my feelings another tiny wound, and I won’t do that to us.

I know in my gut it was the right call, but that doesn’t make waiting for her next move—if she has one—any easier.

I’m barely inside, the door still swinging shut behind us, when Sam trips to a stop beside me and slaps a mittened hand into her forehead.

“Shit,” she mutters, already pivoting to leave. “I forgot my purse in the car.”

Thad grabs her hand and twists toward me. “We’ll be back in a minute. Grab us a table?”

I jerk my head in a nod, and they disappear into the night, leaving me to navigate the crowd. I keep my head down to avoid eye contact with anyone—I don’t need another run-in with Tiffany Ebner or the like—but before I can reach the hostess stand, a firm, clear voice I haven’t heard since high school reaches out from the hum of small talk in the bar.

“Ulrik Lightborne.”

I freeze, hands still stuffed in my pockets, and slowly turn my head to where a tiny, middle-aged woman is standing from a wooden bench, smoothing her long, brightly colored skirts. I blink, trying to shake off the topsy-turvy feeling of two distinct worlds—the academic world of Northview High School and the fantasy world of Caves & Conquerors—colliding.

“Mrs. Davis-Green?” My shock turns my voice into a croak, and I clear my throat. “Um…how do you know about—”

She straightens her back, her posture rigid, and rests her hands on her hips. She always could command a room. “Ulrik Lightborne, Dwarf Paladin of Tradepass. Welcome, crusader, to our fair town of Palribe.” My eyes widen, and it takes considerable effort to stop my jaw from dropping. Mrs. Davis-Green, ever the professional, keeps right on going. “I would invite you to quench your thirst with a pint of ale or mead, but unfortunately, time is of the essence. A quest awaits, and you, brave warrior, are the only one who can complete it.”

My heart thunders in my chest, and my eyes flick around the crowded bar, scanning for bold winged eyeliner and poison-apple lips. A few curious onlookers stare back at me, obviously noticing Mrs. Davis-Green’s theatrics, but Freya is nowhere to be found.

My cheeks heat. Playing the role of Ulrik Lightborne in the safety of Thad and Freya’s basement is one thing. Letting my nerd light shine in the middle of Northview’s most popular bar is another. But I don’t care. Because whatever this is, Freyamustbe behind it.

I was waiting for her to make a move andthis…this is it. Which means Freya is all in. She is finally saying yes tous.

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” I rush to say, my tone formal as I tuck my hands behind my back. “And thank you for considering me for this quest. If time is of the essence, please continue.”

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