Page 60 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
A green bubble slides in just as I’m about to set my phone down.
Soren: You alive?
I squint at the screen.Alive?Questionable.
Me: No.I’ve become a cranberry ghost.I haunt fall-themed vision boards and passive-aggressively rearrange centerpieces.
Three dots appear.
Pause.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Soren: So ...you’re still spiraling?
Winnifred: Profoundly.
Soren: Want to talk?
Winnifred: Yes.But I’m mad at you.
Soren: That’s fair.
Soon enough, the phone rings.
His name lights up.I stare at it for one long second, my thumb hovering over decline.Then I sigh, flop onto the couch with a dramatic groan, and swipe accept.
“Thorn,” I answer, voice already at max exasperation.
“Wolfcraft.”His voice is low, smug, and entirely undeserved.“Still mad?”
“Yes.”
“Still spiraling?”
“Spiraling artistically,” I correct.“If I’m going down, it’ll be with color-coded place cards and emotional vulnerability folded into every napkin ring.”
He chuckles.Bastard.“What did I miss?”
“I’m thinking that maybe?—”
“Nope.You already got your ficus, a front-row seat to my family’s group chat meltdown, and they’re mad because I’m spending Christmas with you.I’m not doing anything else for you.”
“Look at you, setting boundaries,” I deadpan.“Therapy’s working.”
There’s a beat of quiet.Familiar.Infuriating.If he’s not going to talk, I will because there are things to plan.
“I’m afraid we need to discuss Halloween,” I say, voice tight with purpose.
“What about Halloween?”
“Matching costumes, obviously.”
“No.”
“But—”
