Page 89 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Yes, we’re in love.Yes, we’re cohabitating like two adorable, semi-dysfunctional penguins.But let’s be clear: neither of us had a personality transplant.
We still argue over stupid things.Still, throw sarcastic jabs like foreplay.
The only real difference?
Now those arguments usually end with someone getting kissed and fucking against whatever surface is closest.
I read the text out loud, “Sweetheart, I need that picture for the family newsletter.Everyone’s already sent theirs.I’m putting you on top.Isn’t that exciting?”
Of course, she is.
“It’s the Howler, baby.Your ultimate goal,” Soren reminds me.
I glance over at the kitchen.He shrugs while he hums.Yes, Soren Thorn is humming.
The same man who once told me feelings are “inconvenient noise.”He’s stirring something in a pot with his sleeves pushed up and his expression entirely unbothered by the fact that I have reindeer slippers on and our living room smells like pine needles and cinnamon overload.
Last year, this would’ve sent me spiraling.I don’t have pictures—how am I supposed to win Christmas?I have to show them I’m winning.This time, the win is by showing Soren’s mom that she got to spend the holidays with her son and not her.It’s vindictive and terrible.She’s just using me, and old me would be happy to be used just to win the sibling competition.
I should be freaking out, figuring out what we’re going to wear.The thing is that no matter what, I won’t be enough to make her proud.Her other children have been there, done that, and even brought her souvenirs she displays like trophies.
I type back one-handed while adjusting a crooked ornament with the other:Actually, I don’t think I want to be in the newsletter this year.But thanks.
“What do you think if we spend our first Christmas here, in our home?”I ask because, honestly, that’s what makes me happy.That’s what will make the holidays special: spending them with the person I love the most.
He turns to look at me, almost alarmed.“Are you sure?”
I nod and read Mom’s newest guilt grenade.I mean, her text:Winnifred, everyone will ask why you two aren’t included.Can’t you just send one?Just one picture.You and Soren looked lovely in that airport shot you uploaded in your stories.
I could.
But I won’t.
Because the version of me who bent over backward to keep everyone happy?She’s tired.And she’s done performing for an audience that doesn’t give two fucks about her.
I, of course, have to respond:That’s okay, Mom.I never make it into the newsletter; no reason to break tradition.Except, we won’t be there for the holidays.We’re spending them here at home, just the two of us.
I toss the phone on the couch and turn back to the tree.
“I’m not in the newsletter,” I say aloud.“Also, we’re not spending the holidays with them, if that’s okay with you.”
Soren appears behind me like some cinnamon-scented holiday mirage, warm and solid and already too close to resist.He slides an arm around my waist and kisses my temple like he does it on autopilot now.
“Wasn’t that the thing you wanted to be in since you were little?”he asks gently.“Plus, you always go to Winterberry Cove for the holidays.
“Not really,” I admit.“Spending Christmas with them is ...exhausting.It’s performative.I’d rather be here.With you.”
He hums, then leans closer to whisper, “Good.I like you here better.”
“Where’s here?”I ask, teasing even as I lean into him.
“With me.”
I close my eyes and let it settle in—this warmth.This calm.This simple joy I never used to trust.It’s not perfect.It’s not curated for a family newsletter.
But the important part is that it’s tangible and mine.
Not because I earned it by being extra charming or accommodating or good at shrinking myself down for other people’s comfort.
