Page 39 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“Well, call your mom,” Mrs.Rogers insists, tone shifting from nosy to downright maternal.“She worries about you.”
Winnifred gives a breezy wave, all flutter, and charm.“I will,” she lies so casually, I almost believe her.
Of course, this woman seems to have found some kind of bone that she doesn’t want to let go.It’s juicy, and as if this isn’t already a little tricky, my grandmother approaches us.Fuck, we haven’t been here for more than five minutes, and I definitely feel attacked by karma.
“Soren, dear, you made it,” she says to me, then her gaze shifts to Winnifred.Her whole face lights up like it’s Christmas, and someone just brought her the best cinnamon rolls of her life.“Oh my goodness,” she exclaims, reaching out to clasp Winnifred’s hand between both of hers.“You’re that sweet girl from the bakery.Always helping Mrs.Greaves on Sunday mornings.Freddy, is it?”
Winnifred stiffens just for a second.Then smiles like someone who’s both surprised and flattered and completely cornered.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says.“I used to help out whenever she needed the extra hands.”
My grandmother beams.“I knew I recognized you.You were always so polite.Always wore those darling little aprons.And you had that one braid—remember?”She nudges me with an elbow.“And now look at you two.Together.”
Winnifred doesn’t correct her.She leans in slightly, tucking her shoulder beneath mine like it’s second nature.
“How did this happen?”Grandma asks, eyes bright with curiosity and just enough glee to signal she will be repeating this story to her bridge group by Tuesday.
And then, like some cruel cosmic joke, someone else picks up the thread with way too much enthusiasm.“Yes.Tell us the story.”
Fuck.I don’t even know who said it—Mrs.Rogers again?Daisy?One of my aunts?There are too many faces, all blurred together in a glittering fog of catered hors d’oeuvres, champagne bubbles, and judgment.I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m just being haunted by the ghost of every impulsive decision I’ve made since puberty.
Winnifred turns to me slowly, her brow lifting just enough to say, “You better deliver.”
Me?Deliver?
What the fuck am I supposed to say?She’s the one with the stories, not me.
Obviously, this is my fault.Yesterday I was too fucking desperate, and here we are?That probably doesn’t go with the aesthetic of full in love and fall in the vineyards that she’s been trying to accomplish, will it?
That probably doesn’t fit her “fall in love in a vineyard, lit by string lights and sexual tension” aesthetic, does it?
Still, there’s no escape.So I channel the most Winnifred version of myself I can manage—sarcastic, charming, just enough bite—and clear my throat.“Right.The story.”I snatch a champagne flute off a passing tray like it’s emotional support and take a long sip.
“Well.It started like any other.Boy meets girl, you know—except we then realize that we kinda knew each other.”I shrug like ‘what can you do, it was destiny.’
Winnifred immediately rolls her eyes and subtly shifts her stance like she’s about to launch into a TED Talk calledLies I’ve Told at Vineyard Engagement Parties: A Cautionary Tale.
“There was more to it than that, I swear.”She sighs wistfully and stares off into the crowd like she’s seeing a dramatic montage.“It was early spring.I was standing in the produce aisle.Alone.Heartbroken.Holding a single lemon.”
A lemon.
Daisy frowns.“A lemon?”
“Why?”someone asks.
Yeah.Why the fuck was she holding a lemon?
She shrugs one shoulder, graceful as ever.“Symbolism.I felt ...acidly lonely, a little bitter, you know?Probably the lack of vitamin D and a good adventure.”
The crowd laughs.She leans her head on my shoulder, and I freeze like someone just activated my inner panic switch.
“And then,” she says dramatically, with a wistful smile that’s almost too good, “he appeared.”
I blink.“Did I?”
“Did he ask you out then?”someone else shouts.
“Pfft,” Winnifred scoffs.“No.He said—and I quote—'If you’re not going to buy the product, don’t fondle it.’”
