Page 51 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
But have you heard of small towns?
They’re charming if you’re passing through—if you’re a tourist buying local maple syrup and cooing over picturesque bakeries.But when you’re from there?It’s less sweet and more surveillance-state.I’m convinced these people have a telepathic group chat.There’s no other explanation.
One moment, my mom learns I’m in town.Next, she has photographic evidence of the kiss, a video of the dip, two screenshots of the Thorn Group Chat, and a forwarded voice memo titled:Is this your daughter??
And now, we’ve reached peak scandal.Not metaphorically.Literally.
Two members of sworn enemy families are dating—and happy.Happy.
Are we happy?I don’t think so.In fact, because of all the drama and my mother’s texts, I begged Soren to take me back to Colorado like we were fleeing the scene of a crime.I’m not dealing with either one of our families.Not in my condition.
Let’s be clear: I am not pregnant.I am suffering from acute family-induced anxiety and probably stress hives.It’s different.And way more contagious.
Now I’m back in my apartment.One can think I’m safe and finally grounded.I can only confirm that I’m emotionally unstable.
It feels like someone took my Google Calendar, lit it on fire, poured espresso over what was left of my dignity, and whispered, “Good luck explaining, Chad.”
Right.Chad.
We can’t forget about Chad.Once my boyfriend, now the imaginary man I invented to keep my family off my back about being single and unavailable.He had a LinkedIn, a vague job in “branding,” and conveniently didn’t like to have his pictures online.
“Chad was real,” I say out loud, even when no one is here to listen to me.
He was indeed real.The asshole broke up with me before I got the chance ...‘we’re not meant for each other.’No kidding.
And now, not only do I have to admit that I fabricated a boyfriend—but I also have to explain why I upgraded from fake Chad (he was real) to real Soren Thorn (who is fake).Also, his family is known as a Wolfcraft-adjacent enemy of the state.
So yeah.Things are going well.
Really fucking well.
I swing my legs out of bed and immediately regret it.Everything hurts—not in a physical way, but in the too-much-feeling-in-too-many-places way.My limbs are filled with static and unfinished business.My brain is tap-dancing through ten different disasters: Winterberry gossip mill, Soren’s stupidly perfect mouth, brunch invites with hidden agendas, a baby brunch menu that includes decaf tea and prenatal muffins, and Grandma Rita’s Lavender Blanket Countdown.
And then ...there’s my mother.
Because, of course, there is.
Nothing screams rock bottom louder than the dread of facing the woman who once removed me from the family Christmas card lineup for wearing black nail polish—on my toes.“It sent the wrong message,” she said.“We are not a goth family, Freddy.”
And now?Now she knows.
They all do.
Because of Helena.Helena Fucking Thorn.
Is she even a Thorn?Jury’s out.Family tree needs pruning.DNA test pending.
Honestly, I don’t know who she is at all.But I do know this: I hope her phone autocorrects ‘yes’ to ‘yeast’ for the rest of her natural life.I hope every RSVP she ever sends is greeted with a gluten-free panic.I hope every time she Instacarts, it delivers her mortal enemies: bruised bananas and five bags of potatoes instead of five potatoes.
Speaking of disasters, my phone’s buzzing like it’s trying to warn me this is how my villain origin story starts.Mom’s name keeps blinking on the screen like a countdown to personal doom.I can’t put her off much longer.She’ll just pivot to video call and catch me raw—no skincare, no plan, no hope.
I drag myself to the bathroom like I’m marching toward my own public execution.Flip the light on.
Sink.Serum.Moisturizer.War paint.
“This is fine,” I mumble at my reflection as I pat toner into cheeks that are still flushed with last night’s poor decisions.“You’re a grown woman with a functioning credit score and an online vision board.You can fix this.”
I swipe on my favorite hydrating mask like it’s armor.“You’ve handled worse.Remember that accidental email to one of your catering clients with the attachment titled Vibrator Warranty?You survived that.They’re still hiring you, often.Just recently, you delivered, like, so many cookies they might not have an order for Christmas.”
