The Twelve Holidates: a Sweet Christmas RomCom Novella Read online

  “What’s this?” I ask, pulling a crumpled and damp paper from her fist. I thought it was a tissue, though she seemed completely happy using my shirt instead.

  “Don’t look at that,” Taylor says, trying to snatch it from my hands.

  I can play this game. I like this game, because it involves touching Taylor, even if in a playful way. I’m a desperate man; I’ll take the scraps that fall from the table.

  Grabbing both of her wrists in my hand, I start to read what appears to be a printed list with a few notes scribbled in Taylor’s handwriting.

  “‘The Twelve Holidates. Number one—dress in a life-sized stocking and wait for your significant other in their bedroom. Wearing something … sexy.’”

  If I needed another reminder to keep my mouth shut, here it is. I can’t even breathe after reading the words on this paper.

  Sexy?

  It’s like my brain tripped on that one word, and I can’t manage to recover my balance. I know Taylor and Chad dated for two years. But as much as she and I tell each other about our lives, we don’t kiss and tell.

  I prefer to think that after our first kiss, Taylor’s lips never touched anyone else’s. She just did a lot of … hand holding. Years and years of hand holding.

  Realistic, I know.

  My blood is somehow freezing and boiling at the same time, like I’m now a chemistry experiment gone awry. I have no right to feel possessive, to feel jealous, to feel angry.

  Yet I am all of these things and more. I want so badly to be the man she wants. Why couldn’t it be me? Why couldn’t I have kissed her back all those years ago and kept her all this time?

  Taylor jerks out of my grasp and curls into herself at the end of the couch, covering her face with her hands. I don’t even realize that I’ve crumpled the list into a tiny ball until Taylor mutters something I can’t quite hear.

  “What?” I ask, smoothing the paper flat against my thigh.

  “I wore this! Just a dress! Not anything … weird. Or sexy.”

  What Taylor fails to understand is that she doesn’t need to dress in something sexy to be sexy; she just is.

  “I also waited in the living room, not his bedroom. Maybe that’s the problem! I changed the list! I should have worn something sexy in the bedroom, just like they said.”

  “What? No. No. Definitely no.”

  Taylor grabs the list from my hand again and begins to scan the page. I take it right back with enough force that it rips slightly.

  “No, you don’t. Forget this list.” I shove it under my leg to read later. “Forget Chad.”

  Taylor sighs. “I’m so embarrassed. How are you still friends with me? I’m like the hot mess to end all hot messes. What am I going to do with myself?”

  She’s got the hot part right. Even after she’s been crying for hours, Taylor is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Always has been. It’s not just her dark brown hair and eyes a blue that no sky color, wall color, or crayon color has ever matched.

  Taylor’s got that something, underneath all the outside stuff, like a glow that lights it all up. Her quirkiness, her sweetness, her unending optimism.

  Despite what Taylor thinks, she’s the furthest thing from a mess. Or she will be, once she recovers. That’s what I need to focus on: helping her bounce back.

  “What we're going to do is get you over Chad. Even his name sucks, Tay. I swear, it could be a curse word. ‘That guy who cut me off in traffic is a total Chad. Don’t be such a Chad.’”

  The sound of Taylor’s laughter smooths out the twisted-up feeling in my gut.

  Take that, Chad. Did you ever make her laugh like that? Didn’t think so.

  “You’re the best, Weston. How do you always know how to cheer me up?”

  Because I actually pay attention. Because I know her better than anyone else in the world. Because I love her.

  And suddenly, I have an idea so idiotic it just might work. Not just to cheer Taylor up. But one that might help me do what I should have done years ago—tell her how I really feel.

  It goes along with the response I got from Dr. Love. Because I’m desperate enough that I emailed an advice columnist, who also happens to be Taylor’s boss. I figured it couldn’t hurt, and it’s all anonymous, even Dr. Love’s identity, which Taylor hasn’t ever told me.

  Dr. Love’s advice? Man up and tell Taylor what I should have told her all those years ago.

  The plan I’ve just come up with will do that. In a roundabout way, sure. But step by step, it will help lay the groundwork for me confessing my feelings.

  Without even knowing it, Taylor just gave me a giant help.

  I pull the list out from under my leg. “Speaking of cheering you up, I’ve got an idea to help you get over Chad. We’re going to take this list of ‘holidates’—cheesy name, by the way—and we’re going to do everything on it. But better.”

  She’s already shaking her head. “No. That’s just going to remind me of how stupid I am.”

  “Chad’s the stupid one. And he doesn’t get to ruin this. Give me a pen. You’ve got one in that purse of yours, don’t you?”

  I know she does. Along with a mountain of receipts, a half-eaten Twix, and an extra pair of socks. Just in case. Her purse falls somewhere between a doomsday prep kit and a back-alley dumpster.

  She hands me a pen. It’s pink with a fuzzy ball on top. She shrugs. “It’s the only one I have.”

  “Clearly, this was one of Chad’s pens.”

  She’s laughing again as I go to work on her list.

  “First things first—you already did number one. Though”—I tap the pen on my lips—“you could put on something sexy and get in the stocking for me?”

  Too far? That was too far.

  Taylor is not moving, just staring at me with wide eyes. Note to self: ease her into this. Slowly.

  “Kidding. Kidding. No more giant stockings.”

  Not this year, anyway. But if this plan works, is it too much to hope for one in the future? Adding it to my mental list …

  “I’m never getting in this thing again,” Taylor says, kicking at the pile of fabric. “We should burn it. Yes! That’s it! Cross off number one and put ‘Burn giant stocking’ there instead. Your apartment complex has an outdoor fire pit, right?”

  “On it.” I adjust the first date, then cross out part of the second. “And we’re going to combine the ceremonial burning of the giant stocking with holidate number two: s’mores. Roasted over the flames of the burning stocking rather than a campfire.”

  Taylor claps her hands. “I love s’mores!”

  “I know! And I happen to have everything we need to make them right here.”

  Because I’m the kind of guy who stocks Taylor’s favorite snacks. I tell myself that it’s thoughtful, not depressing.

  Taylor jumps up and begins dragging me by the arm toward the kitchen. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get out there!”

  And this is how I finally start trying to win over the woman I’ve loved for almost half my life.

  Hopefully, date one isn’t an indication of all the dates to come. Because the fumes from burning synthetic fabric are basically a toxin, and will ruin marshmallows roasted over them.

  So, dates one and two were a bust. But Taylor has moved from tears to laughter,

  Ten more holidates to go.

  Dates 3 & 4

  Taylor

  “Someone’s in a good mood today,” Sam says.

  We’ve made it almost all the way through Monday morning, usually one of our busiest days. Full of unpleasant meetings, talk of website hits and ad revenue and the kind of things that the writers (Sam) and lowly assistants (me) don’t want to think about. But today, I may or may not have been humming and drumming out a beat on my desk while going through Sam’s Dr. Love inbox. I guess I am in a good mood.

  “Big date with Chad last night?” Sam asks.

  “Ugh. No.” My mood is definitely not thanks to Chad. “Chad and I broke up.”


  “Whoa! What happened?”

  I wrinkle my nose, remembering the sting of humiliation from the night before. But it’s quickly replaced by the memory of standing with Weston, watching the stocking go up in flames, melting into a pulpy mess. The smell was terrible, and it made our s’mores inedible. It was perfect.

  I never would have imagined moving from devastation to sheer joy all in one night. But that’s the Weston effect.

  “Let’s just say I wasn’t the only woman in Chad’s life,” I tell Sam.

  “No! You caught him cheating?”

  I nod. “Literally. I had a front-row seat. Actually, better. It was the equivalent of having the exact spot on the water ride where you get completely drenched.”

  “You seem to be taking this remarkably well. What’s your secret? Dr. Love could use some breakup tips.”

  That’s the thing about working with Sam, whose public persona is Dr. Love. She’s great with advice, but the tradeoff is that she’s always hungry for stories she can use in the column or the book she’s working on. Basically, everyone she knows becomes potential material for her to write about.

  I don’t really mind. She’s been good to talk to, her advice often echoing what Weston says. Just thinking about Weston has me smiling again.

  “How about I buy lunch and you spill?” Sam asks.

  “I’ve actually got lunch plans, and I probably need to get going.”

  “A date? Already?”

  I laugh, waving her off. “No. Not a date. Just hanging out with Weston. He’s actually the reason for my good mood.”

  I fill Sam in on the events of the night before, starting with falling out of the stocking on top of Chad and spider-lashes, and ending with adapting the list of holidates with Weston.

  Sam looks thoughtful. “I’m glad you’re handling this so well. I mean, two years is a long time to be with someone and have it end like that. Not to rub it in. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I shrug. “I should care more. Maybe I cried it all out. Or maybe burning the stocking was cathartic.”

  “Or maybe …” Sam trails off, a smile tugging at her lips.

  I know that look. It means she thinks she’s figured something out. I have a feeling I know what she’s thinking. But she’s wrong. I cross my arms, waiting.

  Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve heard you talk about Weston for years. He’s your best friend, right?”

  “Yes, and just a friend.”

  “Hm. Are you sure?”

  I’m used to this question. From my parents, from my friends, and in the eyes of his few girlfriends who lasted long enough to meet me.

  “Guys and girls can be friends, you know. It happens.”

  “Only if there’s no attraction either way,” Sam says. “Otherwise, it’s usually friendship with some hopefulness attached to it.”

  I swallow hard. It’s easy to say that Weston and I are just friends. It’s harder to say that I’m not attracted to him. I’d be crazy not to notice how handsome my best friend is. Tall and broad-shouldered with caramel eyes and dark hair. I even like his beard, which is just the right length for kissing without giving your face an unwanted microdermabrasion. NOT that I’ve thought about kissing him. (I totally have.)

  Add his thoughtfulness, sense of fun, and quirky sense of humor, and Weston is a catch some girl should have snapped up already.

  I gave up the dream of that girl being me years ago.

  “Nope. No attraction.”

  “Really? Huh.” She looks thoughtful. “Guess I was wrong.”

  Sam is dangling bait in front of me. I know it’s bait, but I still can’t resist nibbling.

  “Wrong about what?”

  Shifting on her desk perch, Sam steeples her fingers. “I just always got the sense when you talked about Weston that you had feelings. Or maybe he did.”

  “He definitely doesn’t.”

  The words leave my mouth before I realize what I’ve actually revealed. Something I’ve always known—that my feelings never died for Weston. Just as I’ve known he doesn’t feel the same way about me.

  “But you do?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I tell Sam. “Long ago, we decided to be just friends. He made it VERY clear that he didn’t want more. Embarrassingly clear.”

  The burn from Chad’s unfaithfulness has already lessened, but the rejection at age thirteen has not dulled. I cannot think about that moment where I laid it all on the line for Weston without feeling it deep in my gut. The shame, the rejection, and the disappointment never lessened, all these years later.

  I’ve also never stopped wondering what would have happened if he kissed me back. Or, if I’d waited a few years, when I wasn’t so awkward and I had some actual experience with kissing. Maybe he would have responded. He might have loved me like I loved him.

  Liked, I remind myself. You liked him. Past tense. And definitely not love.

  “But you’re going through the list of holiday dates with Weston? As … friends?”

  “Yep. He suggested it as a way to help me forget about Chad.”

  “He suggested it? Interesting.”

  “It’s just for fun. That’s actually why I have lunch plans.”

  “What’s today’s date?”

  I grab my bag and slip on my heels, which I’d replaced with the fuzzy slippers I keep under my desk. “We’re getting photos with Santa.”

  Sam laughs. “The mall Santa?”

  “I guess. I didn’t ask. West set it up. It’s funny. I don’t know what I was thinking. Chad would never have done any of these things with me.”

  “Good thing you’ve got Weston.”

  I can hear the tone in Sam’s voice. “As friends,” I say.

  She holds up both hands. “I didn’t say anything. Have fun with St. Nick. And your good buddy.”

  “I will,” I say, knowing that I’ll have a blast.

  Even though Sam’s questions have me thinking, for the first time in a long time, about possibilities I stopped considering years ago with Weston. I probably shouldn’t start thinking about them again now, wondering about what ifs.

  But now that the door has cracked open, it’s not going to be easy to close it again.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this?” I whisper to Weston, glancing around the line at the sea of families, all of whom have little children.

  He smirks. “Hey. It was your list.”

  I shove him lightly, remembering too late how solid he is. I basically bounce off. “I got the list from a blog. We should have burned it last night,” I grumble.

  “Aw, where’s your sense of Christmas adventure?”

  Weston gives the end of my hair a light tug, then lifts the strand to his nose. I swat him away.

  “Did you change your shampoo?” he asks.

  I flush, because Weston noticed my shampoo??

  “I threw out the stuff Chad gave me. It was some kind of green tea organic something or other. Made my hair smell like dirty feet.”

  Weston snorts. “I like this. Smells more like you.”

  He takes another long sniff before stepping away. I try to tell my sprinting pulse that there’s no cause for excitement. Weston has known me forever. Of course, he’s familiar with the scent of my hair. That’s normal for friends. Right? Sure.

  I mean, I know West’s scent. There isn’t a name for it. It’s partly that spicy, manly smell that some guys seem lucky enough to have seeping from their pores. Then there’s his cologne, which I think must be the same one he’s been wearing since junior high because he smells so familiar. So much like home.

  “Keep the line moving,” a woman calls out from behind us.

  I hadn’t realized people had started to move again. I turn and give her a smile as Weston and I move forward. “Sorry!”

  She doesn’t smile back. Neither do her twin girls, who I swear look like they’re straight out of The Shining. I turn back around, grabbing Weston’s arm in a vise grip.

  “Whoa, cowgirl,”
Weston says. “Where’s the fire?”

  I shift closer to whisper, but he still has to lean down because he’s so much taller than me. “Potential demon spawn behind us. Don’t turn around.”

  Weston is laughing silently. I can feel him shaking against me. “What?”

  “Twin girls from The Shining at our six. Don’t look! They might steal your soul.”

  “You’re not still watching horror movies, are you? You know you can’t take it.”

  Not without someone to hold onto. And Chad never wanted to volunteer. Weston never minded.

  “No way.” I pause, and for just a moment, sadness overcomes me. “Chad loved war movies and documentaries. He said they were educational.”

  Weston makes a humming noise but doesn’t say anything. He’s probably sick of hearing about Chad. And all my exes. It seems like I’m always the one coming to him with my problems. His relationships tend to fizzle out before they get too far. Honestly, I can’t be all that sad about it. I’ve hated every woman he dated on sight. Even before sight, in some cases. Just knowing he was dating someone was enough reason to hate them. Clearly, Weston didn’t have that problem, because he’s let me cry on his shoulder so many times. My chest feels tight at the thought.

  “Are you still with me?” Weston knocks his shoulder into mine.

  I give him a smile that’s all on the surface. Because deep down, I’m feeling a creeping sadness. Maybe it’s losing Chad. Or the way the Christmas season reminds me of the people who will be missing from our table this year. Like my grandma, who passed last March. And, of course, I won’t have a date with me for the Christmas Eve party with Weston’s and my families. I’ll be alone. Again.

  “Tay?” Weston’s looking at me with concern.

  “I’m here,” I tell him.

  “Good. Because this is supposed to be fun. Remember?”

  I nod. Right. Fun. Because sitting on Santa’s lap as a twenty-three-year-old is fun.

  “West, maybe we should—”

  “Next!” a voice calls. Too late to turn back now. A little boy is moving forward to sit on Santa’s lap and now we’re at the front of the line.

  “Time to find out if you’ve been naughty or nice,” Weston teases, gently pushing me forward to the red velvet rope at the edge of the decorated workshop.