Page 81 of Going Viral for Christmas
She smiles at me, and sugarplum fairies start dancing in my stomach at that. I’m about to throw my previous thoughts out the damn window, man up and confess my true agenda—maybe not all of it, but enough—when she flashes a small, wistful smile and adds, “I’m glad that through all of this fake dating debacle, we managed to find a way to be friends.”
Friends.
The word is a dull thud in my chest.
Ava heads for the door. “See you downstairs.”
I watch her go, the echo of that word still ringing in my ears.
Friends.
I should be grateful. It’s better than enemies. Better than rivals. Better than being blocked and reported.
Damn, I was hoping after our little mutual stare down over my spicy scene the other night—and the way she glared at me as if I’d read her mind—that this trip to see her family might thaw the glacier of ice between us.
But nope, I’m friend-zoned.
Still, that’s a step up from nemesis.
Progress, right?
Yeah. Tell that to the part of me that’s picturing her wrapped in one of those ugly holiday sweaters, curled up next to me on a couch, stealing sips of cider and letting me kiss her without an audience.
Exhaling, I scrub a hand over my stubble and mutter to the empty room, “Baby steps, Pembry.”
Following the scent of roasted Turkey, buttery potatoes, and denial downstairs, I find my way to the kitchen, where Ava flits about as though she’s the eye of the storm, the calm surrounded by the chaos.
Leaning against the doorway, I watch her. Curls wild, cheeks flushed.
Her mother barks orders about marshmallow ratios while Ava steals forkfuls of pie like it’s a sport. After rolling out cookies for the kids to decorate, Mandy palms her daughter’s cheek, leaving a white handprint. Ava doesn’t even notice the small spot of cranberry sauce on her sleeve.
When one of the uncles offers to help them, Mandy waves them off with a “Don’t you dare touch that pecan pie.” She’s running a ship and a sitcom at the same time.
Ava’s engulfed by a mix of craziness and comfort, and she’s completely in her element. One of her little cousins barrels from out of the living room and launches himself at her full speed. She catches him midair on instinct and wraps him in her arms, kisses the top of his head, and keeps right on talking while he clings to her like a koala.
Everything inside me twists.
Ava’s beautiful. She’srooted.She’s effortless, capable, full of fire and softness. She’s something I’ve never let myself want.
Until now.
The next hour is a blur of being passed around as though I’m the last deviled egg at a church potluck.
I’m answering questions about my books, my skincare routine, and whether I’m “the one who wore the poet blouse on ShelfSpace.”
Before I can even finish my sentence, Mandy starts corralling everyone for family pictures. I politely offer to take them, phone already in hand, but she waves me off.
“Nope. You’re in them too, sweetheart,” she says, already dragging me into the frame with a grin that promises she’ll be telling this story at our wedding someday.
I hope that comes true.
There’s the full family shot. One with the cousins. The siblings. And then—because Mandy is on a mission—she insists on a few of just Ava and me.
“Smile,” she chirps, snapping away before Ava can object. She shows us the pictures afterward, and a fist of feelings punches me right in the gut.
I grin. And it’s not forced.
I’m standing next to Ava, her shoulder brushing mine, her family buzzing around us, and I belong here. I don’t have to fake much of anything. There’s something disarming about it all. The warmth. The noise. The way her little cousin just slipped his hand into mine as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
