Page 56 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
And Winnifred?
Radio silence.
Which, honestly, is fair.I didn’t just leave—I disappeared.No goodbye.No explanation.I ghosted the woman I’ve been fake-dating in front of two generations of relatives and a drone that’s got better angles than half the local news.
She’s in Colorado.I’m across the Atlantic.And not because I had to be—because I couldn’t handle staying.
Because staying meant facing her.
It meant risking that she’d ask what the kiss meant.
Or worse—what I meant by kissing her like that.
And I have no good answer.Just a mouth that betrayed me and a heart that won’t shut up about her.
And I still don’t have an answer about what to do next.Move out of my townhouse and live in a remote cabin?That’s probably a bad idea when the commute would be a bitch.
Fuck, what did I do?
I thought I was immune to her—this bossy, neurotic, maddeningly brilliant woman who fake-swooned for my grandmother, became best friends with my fake dog, and lies so effortlessly I’m starting to forget where the script ends, and the truth begins.
But now?
Fuck.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through this fog of jet lag and regret.
What if I hadn’t kissed her?
What if I’d pulled away?
Would that have made everything easier?
Or would it just mean I’d still be lying—to her, to my family, to myself?
Because the truth is, I wanted that kiss long before we were pretending.
And now that I’ve had it ...
I can’t stop replaying it.
How she trembled slightly.How she melted into me.How her hand lingered on my shirt like she forgot the script, too.
I should’ve stayed.Faced the consequences, or more like her inquisition while she scrapbooked the fuck out of every moment we spent at that party.Helped her walk it back.
She deserves better than that.
Better than me.
I reach for my phone, thumbing through my contacts like it might magically tell me what to say.But I can’t call.I can’t face her voice yet.Not when I still don’t trust mine.
I scroll up in our messages, stopping at the last photo she sent—her, mid-laugh, holding a to-go cup that probably contains something pumpkin-spiced and too sweet, standing in front of a lopsided roadside display of hay bales and gourds someone in town declared “autumnal ambiance.”Her cheeks are a little pink from the morning chill, her nose scrunched like the joke just landed, her eyes bright and wide and so damn open it knocks the wind out of me.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
This trip just feels like I brought my feelings with me: I just tucked them under the seat in front of me like emotional carry-on baggage.
If she had just broken up with someone and was spiraling, what would I do?I would be giving her chocolate from her favorite artisanal store as I do every time she’s having a bad week, I would just let her banter against the world, and ...why didn’t I just listen to her?
