Page 25 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“What is it now?”
I say it too casually, like I haven’t been side-eyeing her for the last ten minutes, while she mutters under her breath and huffs into her phone camera like it’s going to solve whatever problem she just encountered.
I’ve seen Winnifred spiraling before, but this ...this is Winnifred ten times more—well,her,and I have absolutely no idea how to stop this.She’s squirming like the jet cushions were upholstered in bad decisions, stabbing at her phone like she’s taking down a rival lifestyle brand one post at a time.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she chews her lip and glances at me with that half-horrified, half-determined expression she gets when she’s about to overcommit to a very bad idea.Which means something profoundly ill-advised is coming.
“I wish I could say that this falls apart the second your mom asks me what your favorite color is,” she says finally.
I blink.
“That’s the emergency?”
“It’d be an emergency, but there are a lot more pressing issues,” she corrects like she’s logging the event into her personal threat matrix.“You don’t know my colors, and we need to spin this so the animosity between our families isn’t a big issue between us.You’re setting me up for failure.”
I open my mouth.Pause.Realize I’m about to guess something wildly wrong and possibly insulting.“Your favorite color is bubblegum pink.”
“Wrong.”She crosses her arms.“It’s warm mauve with soft terracotta undertones.Honestly, I thought you were better than basic pink.”
“What the hell is terracotta if not a dusty version of orange?”I mutter.
She gasps like I just told her I mistreat animals for fun.Why did I think dragging Winnifred to my sister’s engagement was a good idea?A well-placed lie could’ve saved me.Not from hell, obviously—but definitely from this.I don’t even know what this is or how to categorize Winnifred when she’s falling apart because she has lost control of her life.
This is fine.Everything’s fine.I take a deep breath and smile because what else is there to do?
“You think this is funny,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“No,” I lie, grinning.“I think it’s deeply alarming that my fake girlfriend is treating this like a DIY romance boot camp.”
She doesn’t answer.Instead, she reaches for a pink pen and a journal—where did she even get that?—and scribbles something.Probably a list titled ‘Reasons Soren is Emotionally Unavailable and Also Wrong About Colors.’
“This is serious,” she mutters.“You don’t know my allergies, my love language, or what fictional couple I model all my relationships after.”
I sigh.“None of this is going to come up.No one’s going to ask which couple you think we’re supposed to be—just smile and act like you don’t hate me.We’re not Elizabeth and Darcy or whatever tragic pair you’ve been romanticizing since puberty.”
“I’m a Scorpio rising with a Capricorn moon,” she says like that explains everything.“People always assume I’m halfway through some epic heartbreak.Also, people can always tell when someone’s modeled their love life after Anne and Captain Wentworth.”
I stare at her because I’m not sure if she’s really quoting some Jane Austen couple—no one should judge me, I took English more than twenty years ago—or a movie I have never watched.She stares back.Neither of us blinks.
Winnifred watches me like she’s waiting for my brain to catch up with her train of thought.
“Persuasion,” she says, sighing like my ignorance physically pains her.“They were in love.She gave him up because her family pressured her.He left, made a fortune, came back years later—furious, heartbroken, still in love.It’s about regret.Redemption.Longing that gnaws at your ribcage.Honestly, it’s basic literacy.”
I open my mouth.Close it.
She crosses her arms like she just won a duel, and I didn’t realize we were sword-fighting.
And maybe she did.Because I’m still here.I’m not walking away or making an excuse.I’m not even pretending to fall asleep—which, frankly, would be the logical move.Though, I never do run away when she takes our conversations two snarks up and hands me my ass because she’s not letting things go.
That’s always been our dynamic since she moved next door.She hijacks the conversation, spins it into something weirdly poetic and mildly combative, and then leaves me sitting in the wreckage, wondering how I lost.
God help me, if I’m not careful, I might end up married to this woman because she’s going to convince me that’s great for some aesthetic or another.
Focus, Soren Thorn.If you don’t, this woman is going to flip your entire life upside down and convince you it was the best life choice.
“Okay,” I say finally, resting my head against the seat and closing my eyes.“Hit me.”
