Page 13 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
A long one.
Then her sigh comes down the line, drenched in vintage disappointment and rosary beads.“Soren.The Lord gives us free will, but he also gives us family.One we don’t get to skip because of wine tastings and casual sex.”
“Mom.”I close my eyes, already regretting this.“I?—”
“Your sister is getting married.Do you know how rare that is these days?Real commitment?A church ceremony?A man who prays with her, Soren.”
Here it comes.
“Meanwhile, you’re out gallivanting with some mystery woman and sipping Chardonnay while your soul dries out like California raisins.”She sniffs.“I knew the West would take away the values I painstakingly instilled in you since you were born.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.“I’m not gallivanting, and it’s not casual sex.I’m very committed ...”to the lie,I don’t say.
She gasps like I just said mass doesn’t count if you watch it online.
“Your poor grandmother would be weeping if she could hear this.”
She passed away two decades ago, but sure, let’s get Nana involved.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You’ll call me tonight with your arrival details so I can tell the family what to expect,” she finishes.
I hang up before she can loop the Vatican into this call.I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this one ...or if I can even find a plus one.
Then I look down at my phone and mutter, “Winnifred, you better help me come up with a good lie or something to get me out of my predicament.”
I mean, she owes me, right?After all these years of listening to her, she has to owe me something.At least good advice to fix my problems.
When I come out again, I hear Chad say, “So ...about that.I’ve been thinking, and I feel like we’re not really ...compatible long-term.”
He’s been thinking?I went away for like two minutes, and he went from “be my wench, and we’re an epic story” to “we’re not compatible?”
“Is this because I don’t own a sword?”Winnifred asks, her voice feather-light but with just enough crack to make a person feel it.
Chad shakes his head.“No.I mean ...not just that.”
Not just that.Wow, that’s probably ...what the fuck is happening?
“I just think you want different things,” he says, shifting in his boots.“I’m more into, like, cosplay and community.You are—” He gestures vaguely, as if she’s an abstract painting he’s only halfway looked at—you’re something else.”
He shrugs like that’s a complete sentence.
Like that explains everything.
I don’t move.Just watch, because I could tell him who she is.
She’s Sunday morning waffles with extra whipped cream and a side of existential crisis.She’s long walks that turn into detours because she has to stop and take a picture of a tree.She’s voice notes filled with book recommendations and emotional spoilers.She’s awkward dancing in her kitchen and crying at Pixar movies she’s already seen a hundred times.
She’s late-night vision boards and big dreams she’s half-convinced herself she doesn’t deserve.She bakes like she’s trying to heal the world—one cupcake at a time.Every batch is a good vibe sent to the world wrapped in buttercream and her signature chaos.
She wants something tangible.Something hers.A little corner of the universe that smells like vanilla and ambition and hope.
And he has no fucking idea.
He can’t see her past the corset he wants her to wear.
Winnifred shifts slightly, the smile on her face clearly held together by nerves and secondhand embarrassment.“So ...this is a breakup?”
