Page 82 of Going Viral for Christmas
And then there’s her.
Smiling through clenched teeth. Barely holding it together. Still the most magnetic person in the room.
Fisher comes up behind Mandy. “Could you send those to me?”
“Of course,” Mandy replies.
Guilt worms its way through my veins. This photo isn’t for ShelfSpace, followers, or press tours. It’s a picture of us that no one’s staging. There’s zero branding. Zero spin. It’s Ava and me…Pretending to be something we aren’t.
Reality hits.Shit.
My shoulders fall. I want it to be real. God help me, I want this fiction to become fact.
“Can you send them to me, too?” I ask Mandy.
Ava’s head snaps in my direction. “Why?”
She’s squinting up at me like I asked for a lock of her hair to add to my voodoo shrine.
Shrugging, I keep it casual. “We look good together. It’s a nice picture.”
Her eyes narrow. “You planning to doodle devil horns on me and post it with a snarky caption?”
“Tempting. But no.”
Ava crosses her arms, clearly unconvinced. “Seriously. Why?”
There’s a pause. My gaze meets hers. “Because this—” I gesture around us, at her family laughing in the kitchen, pumpkin pie wafting in the air, the photo that captures us, together. “–feels nice. And I want to remember it.”
A mixture of confusion and uncertainty flies across her face. Ava opens her mouth, but doesn’t speak. Her arms drop slightly. She moves into my frame so nobody can hear her say, “You being sincere when you’re not on camera is messing with my head.”
“Get used to it.”
Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink. “I might draw horns onyou.”
“I hope you do.”
I love this version of her. She lets me in—grudgingly, sarcastically. I’ll take it.
Afterward, someone hands me a staple gun, and suddenly I’m on a ladder helping string lights while Ava’s aunt tells me I have “good shoulder posture.”
I carry folding chairs, open a stubborn jar, fix a rogue cabinet hinge, and sneak not one—buteight—sips of The Gallows Gulp from Uncle Marty’s thermos, which tastes like cinnamon, jet fuel, and is sure to turn into a horrible decision later. Or possibly a good one. We’ll see.
Dinner is an explosion of colorful conversations. Not one soul can escape the turkey hats. Even Tom is wearing one—though he keeps muttering about losing a war for this.
Mandy passes the rolls. Tom drops a turkey leg in a toddler’s lap. G-Ma leads a toast that turns into a eulogy for her third husband—who’s very much still alive but ‘dead to her.’
“Didn’t she say she had four dead exes?” I ask Ava quietly.
“Honestly, we stopped counting years ago.”
Confused, I nod anyway and set my attention back on the craziness before me. Ava’s little cousin insists I’m a wizard. I might be. The Gallows Gulp is doing things.
“So,” Uncle Marty pipes up, eyes glassy from his own drink, “how long have you two lovebirds been together? This is all so sudden to me.”
Ava stiffens beside me. “Oh, um?—”
“Did you meet on one of those apps?” Aunt Lo asks, shoving a casserole at me.
