The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

With love.

  With affection.

  With tenderness.

  “Being here,” he answers. “I don’t think I’ve laughed like I have since being here in a long time. There’s this lightness in my shoulders, like I’m not carrying the weight of the world on them. I feel free.”

  “You don’t think it’s all the Lebkuchen that’s making you feel that way?”

  He chuckles. “Maybe. Since I’m on such a strict diet during the season, all the sugar might be sending me into a high.” Nodding slightly, he says, “What about you, Haze? Are you content?”

  “Right now, I believe that I am.”

  “So that means you plan on drinking with me tonight?”

  “I mean, it’s required, isn’t it? According to Pops, we have to let loose?”

  “I believe so.” He reaches out and rests his hand on my hip, his palm warming the left side of my body with just one touch. “But I think I need one of those bratwursts wrapped in a pretzel before I drink anything.”

  “You saw that stall, too?” I ask, excited. “When we were walking to the bakery, I made a mental note to make sure I read that correctly. Pretzel-wrapped bratwurst.”

  “Yup.” He nods. “I need it.”

  “Then let’s get going.” I sit up and so does Crew. When he stands, he takes me by the hand and pulls me up off the bed into a hug. “What’s this for?” I ask, my cheek resting against his chest.

  “Just catching up on lost time.” He lets go and then pushes me back on the bed so I’m flat against the mattress again. “Let’s go, Twigs.”

  “Ugh, you’re such an ass,” I say while standing up.

  He laughs, throwing his new scarf around his neck and then zipping up his jacket. I join him, punching my arms through the sleeves of my jacket, and when I’m set, he reaches out and takes me by the hand. “Off to the market.”

  Hand in hand, we head out of our hotel room and into the cold, Christmas-filled air.

  “Oh wow,” I whisper in awe. This place is incredible. The intricate detail on the ancient buildings, the square lit with bright, twinkly lights that illuminate the sweet red-and-white candy-cane-striped roofs of every stall in the market. It’s magical. The Church of Our Lady serves as the backdrop of the charming town, while string bulbs travel from tall stake to tall stake, creating an ethereal border along the edge of the Markplatz. At the front desk we were told that Nuremburg is known as Christmas Town, and I can see why now.

  It’s an enchanting ambiance where you can practically taste the joy in the air.

  “I just got a huge smile on my face,” I say in a whisper.

  “Me, too.” Still holding my hand, Crew weaves me through a small crowd gathering near a beer stall and straight to the bratwurst stall, where he orders us each a bratwurst pretzel. Instead of talking while we wait for our food to be ready, we take in this remarkable city. The sound of Christmas melodies being played by a live band in the background, the laughter of children as they needle their way through the crowd of adults, and the comradery coming from those who have dipped their wallets into several cups of wine.

  When our brats are done, Crew takes both of them and nods toward a mulled wine booth. “Want to get a souvenir cup?”

  I look over at the stall and see that there’s a ceramic mug, designed especially for the Christkindlesmarkt. A combination of a beer stein and a coffee mug, it sports a wonderfully illustrated depiction of the market in all its Christmas glory, and all I can think of is if I don’t have one of those, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

  “I need one of those mugs in order to live.”

  Crew laughs out loud and hands me the brats. “I’ll grab us each one. Head toward the Ferris wheel and get in line.”

  “You want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

  “Can you think of a better way to enjoy our brats and wine?”

  “I guess not.”

  He walks toward the stall, and I weave my way to the Ferris wheel, where there’s a decent line but nothing too long. I count out the people and the chairs on the Ferris wheel, and from the looks of it, we’ll be able to ride the next round.

  The Ferris wheel is adorable—tiny, white with Christmas-themed seats. It almost feels as though it belongs in one of those ceramic Christmas villages that grandparents display on their credenzas.

  In a matter of minutes, Crew walks up to me and hands me a mug of wine while taking back his brat.

  “Oh, this is so freaking cute. I think I might be in love with a souvenir mug.”

  “To each their own.” He chuckles and takes a sip of the wine. His eyes widen as he smacks his lips together. “Oh, shit, this is dangerous.”

  “Good?” I ask.

  He nods. “Really fucking good.”

  I lift the mug and take a sip. A wave of cinnamon, citrus, and cloves hits my tongue as the smooth, warm liquid trickles down my throat. “Oh, wow. That’s dangerously good.” I laugh. “Uh-oh. If we’re not careful, I think this could be the death of us tonight.” This is especially potent, given I’m still feeling jetlagged.

  He clinks his brat with mine and says, “Then we better eat up.”

  Just then the line moves, and we’re the last ones to hop into a red chair. The attendant locks the safety bar in place and steps aside, and we slowly start rotating toward the midnight sky. The ride isn’t very fast—actually almost at a snail’s pace—which gives us enough time to take in the sights while we eat our brats.

  “Look,” I say, after swallowing this delicious concoction. “Isn’t that the fountain we’re supposed to visit?”

  “What? That’s a fountain? It looks like a mini cathedral,” Crew says.

  “I know. I was looking at pictures of it on our drive here. I wanted to make sure we knew what we were looking for. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Very. I was worried we wouldn’t be able to find the rings, but from the look of it, there’s a little line off to the side. I bet that’s where you spin the gold rings.”

  “Most likely.” I take a sip of my wine and then inhale in a sharp, cold breath. “I feel like getting lost under the twinkle lights tonight.”

  “Then let’s do it. That’s what we’re here for—to get lost.”

  “And drunk, right?”

  “Of course, drunk.” He holds up his mug. “To Pops.”

  I hold up mine as well and we clink our mugs together. “To Pops.”

  * * *

  “Do we make a wish?” I ask Crew as we move closer in line to the gold rings.

  “I don’t think so. Pops just said it’s supposed to give you good luck if you spin them.”

  “Want to spin it together?” I lift my mug to my lips. We’re both on our second cup of mulled wine, which has kept us fairly warm on this cold winter night.

  “I thought that’s what we were doing,” he says, wrapping his arm around me and holding me close.

  God, I love being wrapped up in his arms, this close to him. It reminds me of warm summer days, of carefree days. It reminds me that I’m not alone—that at least for a short period of time, I’m not alone.

  When it’s our turn, we step up to the fountain and I realize that I can barely reach the gold ring. Crew laughs, and without even thinking about it, turns around so I can climb up on is back. He hands his phone to the person in line behind us, and together, we reach out and touch the gold ring, smiling at the camera. Then we turn it together, one full loop.

  Whispering, Crew says, “That was for Pops. Now one full turn for us.”

  Smiling, we turn it one more time and then collect our mugs and phone.

  We stand to the side and take a look at the picture. Behind us in the picture is a light orb from one of the bulbs strung along the stalls, but I can’t help but think how it might be Pops, joining us.

  “Another keeper,” Crew says before pocketing his phone.

  “Make sure you send me these photos, Hollywood.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Of course I will, Twigs. Can’t have you missin
g out on my handsome self in your phone.”

  I laugh. “Ass.”

  Bringing his mug up to his lips, he asks, “What should we do next?”

  “I think it’s time to get lost.”

  “Then let’s get lost together.”

  Once again, he takes my hand in his, and we walk into the thick of the Christkindlesmarkt stalls.

  * * *

  “Crew,” I whisper and laugh at the same time.

  “Hmm?”

  “Look at that stall over there.” I point to the left.

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “Where?”

  Laughing, I grab him by the chin and force him to look where I’m pointing. Four mugs of mulled wine in and we’re starting to feel the effects.

  “Look at the dolls with no pants playing instruments.”

  He blinks a few times. “Are you sure they’re not wearing pants?”

  “Positive. See, that tuba player has a carved bum.”

  “I’m going to need a better look at these.” He walks up to the stall and I follow closely behind him, giggling the entire time, because that’s the maturity level I’m at right now. Crew picks up the tuba player and examines it. “Huh, no pants. Look at his little butt crack.” Crew runs his finger along the seam and says, “Smooth.”

  “Uh, you’re fingering the bare butt of a pant-less tuba player, I think you need to check yourself.”

  He pauses and watches how his finger is moving up and down. “You know, I really am. And for some reason, I’m still doing it.”

  “Is your finger short-circuiting?”

  “I think it is.”

  To save him from the humiliation of butt-fingering a ceramic doll, I pull the figurine from his hand and set it back down on the table.

  “Thanks,” he says in relief.

  “Of course. I really think that was uncomfortable for everyone.”

  “Were people watching?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m afraid to look around,” I whisper now, keeping my eyes trained on him.

  Leaning closer, he asks, “Are we drunk?”

  I dab my finger on my tongue and then hold it up to the chilly night air. I pause, letting the wind whip around my finger, and then I nod. “Yup, we’re drunk.”

  Crew clutches his heart and lets out a sigh of relief. “Shit, I feel accomplished.”

  “Me, too,” I say with pride, my chest puffing. “We did it. We got drunk and we’re not passed out in our bed.”

  “Some might say we’re killing this whole vacation thing.”

  “Some might say that.” I slowly nod. “Oh, look. This one is playing the violin.” I hold up another figurine and Crew takes it from my hands to examine it.

  “Why do they have the Ken-doll crotch? And look at their faces, they’re all cherub-like. Is this supposed to be a pant-less child playing music? If so, are all these figurines prodigies? I don’t know much about kids, but what I do know is that they’re not great at playing instruments unless they’re prodigies. But could there really be that many child prodigies all in one area?”

  “Maybe it’s a convention? Maybe all these pant-less, cherubic children are at a convention for the musically gifted.”

  Crew thinks on that. “Is the uniform shirts only?”

  “I mean, if we were to assess the scene properly, I would say, yeah, it’s a shirts-only convention.”

  “But they have shoes,” Crew points out, a crease in his brow. “And socks. Tube sucks. They have shoes and tube sock and no pants.” Whispering, he says, “Where are their goddamn pants?”

  “Honestly, I have—”

  “Kann ich dir helfen?” the stall owner asks as he comes over to us.

  Startled, Crew holds up the figurine and says, “I’ll take two.”

  “What?” I try not to laugh.

  He grabs the tuba player and hands it and the violinist to the owner.

  “These are awesome. Love the no-pants angle.”

  The owner gives him a weird look but walks over to the bagging area and starts wrapping up the figurines.

  “What the hell are you going to do with two of those?”

  He shrugs. “Give them to River and Hollis.” And then, as if a lightbulb goes off in his head, he says, “Oh, shit, can I get one more? Hutton needs one of these as well.” Crew picks up another figurine, but this one is playing the flute.

  I stand there next to him, giggling the entire time, trying not to be disrespectful, but honestly, he’s about to give his friends pant-less, instrument-playing cherubs with Ken-doll crotches. I would love to be a fly on the wall when they open those gifts. After paying and receiving a carefully wrapped paper bag, we head down the aisle of stalls, arm in arm.

  “I know about Hutton, especially since he came to the farm that one summer.”

  “Oh, yeah, you were so jealous at first.”

  “Was not.” I sway.

  “To hell you weren’t. You were so mad you had to share time with me, but he was only there for a week before he went home. You changed your tune after that.”

  “You just surprised me, that’s all. I was expecting Crew, and instead, I got the California twins. Yeah, I might have felt a little left out.”

  “Ah, see? You were jealous.”

  Rolling my eyes even though he can’t see me, I say, “So, tell me about River and Hollis. Are they hot? Want to introduce me to them?”

  Crew stops and turns to face me. “Excuse me?”

  I laugh. “What? You don’t want to play matchmaker with your friends?”

  “You’re not available.”

  “Oh, I’m not? Since when?”

  “Since we’re friends again. Friends don’t date each other’s friends. You’re off limits unless I approve.”

  Hope falls for a second in my foggy brain. For a second there, I thought I was off limits because he was claiming me.

  Silly, silly drunk girl.

  “You don’t approve of your own friends?”

  “Uh, no.” He shakes his head as we walk past yet another Lebkuchen stall. I think that’s the fifth one we’ve seen tonight. And yet, every time, I’m tempted to buy more.

  “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” plays in the background, and a light dusting of snow starts to fall over us, but thanks to the wine, we’re warm, feeling good, and have no need to retire to the hotel just yet.

  I stop us both and look up toward the sky, letting a snowflake fall on my cheek. I take a deep breath and relish in the moment. We’re in Germany, in a famous Christmas market, surrounded by joy and laughter, music serenading us while it snows. I don’t think this moment could be more perfect. Well, unless Pops was here with us.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking in the moment,” I answer. I look up at him and smile.

  He smiles back and then shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re definitely not available.”

  With that, he continues to walk me down the aisle, and a little part of me does believe that he means that in a more romantic way. That he might be seeing me a little differently. It might be the booze talking, but that shared gaze, his words—they make me feel . . . all warm and fuzzy inside.

  “Hollis and River are the reason I made it through this last season,” Crew says, quietly. “It was a shitty season, but without them, I never would have gotten through it.”

  “Because of Pops?”

  He nods. “Yeah. They carried me through the semester. They made sure I woke up and got out of bed to train, to hit up my classes, to continue moving forward even though I didn’t want to.” He taps his bag. “This is a thank-you for all of that.”

  I laugh out loud, and he chuckles too. “What a wonderful thank you gift.”

  “I’ll be sure to write a passionate card to go with the figurines so they think I’m serious and, therefore, they’re obligated to keep the figurines as a token of my appreciation.”

  “Maybe you should add something in there like, ‘This reminds me of that
one special time we shared together,’ but don’t be specific, so they’re truly confused.”

  Crew laughs a little harder. “Hell, that’s perfect. Yes, I’m going to do that. We can send them out tomorrow before we take off again. Maybe they’ll get them before Christmas if we pay extra.” He sighs. “In all seriousness, I’m glad they’re in my life for many reasons, but one of the biggest ones was having them this past semester.”

  “I’m glad they were there for you,” I say. “I wish you’d have let me be there for you too.”

  “I know.” He holds me a little tighter and then stops. “What’s that?”

  I turn to the right to spy a wave of fire erupt from a stall while the people around it clap with exuberance.

  Oooh . . . fire.

  “I don’t know, but I need to find out.”

  Entranced, we walk over to the stall and watch as a man hovers over a giant cauldron, pouring what seems to be liquid over a spicket of sugar and fire. On the side of the stall, I see a sign and read aloud, “Fire tongs punch.”

  “What’s that?”

  I pull out my phone and type it into my web browser. I click on the first thing I see and read it to him. “A traditional German drink during Christmas and New Year’s. It’s a rum soaked sugar loaf set on fire that drips into mulled wine.”

  “Oh damn. Mulled wine and rum—should we?”

  I hold up my empty mug and say, “I am thirsty.”

  He holds up his as well. “Me too.” He clinks his mug to mine.

  “Then I think we have our answer.”

  “Rum and wine, the perfect combination.”

  * * *

  “Oh my God, Crew, get up,” I say, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.

  “These hallways are so small. How am I supposed to logroll to our room if I can’t fit in them?”

  Crew is lying on the ground, in a fetal position, trying to roll down the hallway, but keeps bumping into wall after wall while I hold all the things we bought at the Christmas market, including the cherubs, our mugs, and some more Lebkuchen, because there were heart-shaped ones the size of my head and I needed it.

  “Try a somersault.”