The Twelve Holidates: a Sweet Christmas RomCom Novella

by Emma St Clair

  “Stay,” I whisper. It’s half command, half plea.

  I’m immediately embarrassed, feeling so vulnerable that I jerk my hand back under the covers. I can read the indecision on his face, though the expression in his eyes is not one I’ve seen before.

  Finally, he gives me a slight nod, then with a tilted grin, he roughly climbs over me, making sure to jostle and squish me into the mattress as much as possible. I giggle, though it’s all I can do not to grab him and pull him closer.

  He settles next to me, close enough that I’m aware of him, but not so close that we’re touching.

  I’m facing away from him, listening to his breathing, fully awake now. I feel like every nerve ending has been summoned for duty, all standing at attention, ready to be called into action.

  If I just turn, we’ll be face to face. It would be so easy to be brave in the darkness, with the thin veil of sleep softening everything. But I cannot make myself move. Even here, in the dark and the wee hours of the morning, I’m too frightened of the cost. Of what I might lose if Weston doesn’t want me.

  “West?” I whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  Why didn’t you kiss me back? Why didn’t you want me?

  If I kissed you now, would you respond differently?

  The words are glued inside me. Stuck. They feel too huge, and yet so simple, as simple as words scrawled on a piece of notebook paper: Do you like me? Check yes or no.

  “Goodnight,” I say, because I just can’t take the leap.

  There’s a shuffling in the bed and I feel a gentle press to my hair—a kiss. It’s so sweet that tears prick my eyes.

  “Sweet dreams, sugar plum,” West says.

  And so I lie in Weston’s bed, feeling so close and yet so far from what I want most in the world, listening as his breath deepens into sleep.

  From: Taylor556@DrLove.advice

  To: DrLove@DrLove.advice

  Dear Dr. Love

  I know you get these kinds of letters all the time, but I’m in love with my best friend. He’s everything to me, which is why I can’t tell him how I feel.

  But I can’t sit by and NOT tell him either.

  Years of friendship are at risk if I tell him and he doesn’t feel the same way. My heart is at risk whether I tell him or not.

  Is there some way to gauge how he feels? I finally think I’m ready to take the leap, but I'd really like a safety net.

  Sincerely,

  Fearful of Falling

  From: DrLove@DrLove.advice

  To: Taylor556@DrLove.advice

  Dear Fearful,

  You’re right! If I had a dollar for every message I get about secretly being in love with a friend, I’d be off living on an island somewhere, sipping a margarita.

  One reason this is so common is that lasting love can grow out of friendship. In fact, the best romantic relationships, the ones that really last, are between people who have a deep friendship, whether it came first or builds over time.

  You want a safety net? Ask yourself some questions. They might reveal how your friend is feeling.

  Does he treat you differently? Does he do special things for you? Does he remember your drink order, your birthday, your daily habits?

  Does he check out other women when you’re around? Does he seem jealous if other guys pay attention to you?

  Sometimes people hide their feelings really well. But usually they leak out, in one way or another.

  Look for the signs. Then ask yourself if it’s worth the risk to your friendship to tell him, or if it’s too risky NOT to.

  -Dr. Love

  PS- Taylor, you want to talk??

  Dates 9 & 10

  Taylor

  Sam leans a hip against the edge of my desk. “Do you want to talk about the email you sent me?”

  I expected this when I wrote Dr. Love an email from my personal account. I guess that means I want to talk about it, since I didn’t create a fake email through the website. I could have just started a conversation, but somehow it was easier to type it out. Thankfully, she didn’t start with “I told you so.”

  I put my hands over my face. “I just don’t know what to do. But I can’t keep living like this.”

  “All the time you and Weston are spending together is bringing the feelings out, huh?”

  I nod, sinking back in my chair and looking up at Sam’s deep brown eyes. My mind traces back over the past few days and all the hours I’ve spent with Weston. We see each other almost weekly, but the last time we spent this much time together was in high school.

  I’ve missed him. Missed being around him so much—the laughter, the ease of conversation, and yeah, seeing him shirtless last night wasn’t so bad either. Waking up in a cold bed with only a note from Weston … not so much.

  Last night was torture. A big fat tease of a life I could imagine. One I want so badly that my heart feels like a clenched fist in my chest.

  I woke up sometime when it was still dark to find our legs tangled together and his chest pressed against my back. I tried to stay awake just so I could savor every second, but I must have fallen back asleep. He had already gone to work by the time I woke, and it was the second most disappointing moment of my life.

  Being the thoughtful guy he was, Weston left coffee, money for a rideshare, and a quick note that said he was looking forward to tonight, holidates nine and ten. I’m not even sure I can handle being around him again.

  I sigh, looking down at my hands as I speak. “It’s like those optical illusion paintings. The ones where you have to cross your eyes and unfocus until the hidden image becomes clear. I feel like I’m staring too hard to see this clearly.”

  Sam gives me a small smile. “That’s a great analogy. What I hear you saying is that you need a little outside perspective.”

  “That’s exactly what I need. I’m too close to the situation. Too close to him. Tell me what to do, Sam. Dr. Love. Whatever.”

  Sam sighs, absentmindedly working her dark hair into a braid. “From everything you’ve told me, Weston seems interested. Guy friends don’t plan elaborate dates, not even to help you get over an ex.”

  Weston has been incredibly into this holidates thing. Despite the toxic s’mores, the awkward photo with Santa, and Weston’s broken fingers, these have been some of the best dates of my life.

  No. Not some of. THE best dates of my life. Because they were with Weston.

  “Let me ask you this—has he shown any possessiveness?” Sam asks. “Like, did he get jealous or upset when you’re dating other guys?”

  My heart trips over itself and falls down a steep flight of stairs.

  “No.” I can tell by Sam’s face this is bad, even though I already know. “I mean, he never really liked any of them. But the guys I dated …”

  I shrug, thinking of Chad. And Alann, whose choice to add an extra N to his name should have been a warning. Before him, it was a short list of guys who never should have made anyone’s short list.

  “They weren’t exactly winners,” Sam says.

  “That’s kind of an understatement. But no, Weston never really got possessive or jealous. That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”

  I don’t really need her to answer. I can feel the truth of it. I couldn’t stand to look any of Weston’s girlfriends in the eye. I avoided meeting them whenever possible. Always. While he was just lukewarm about my exes.

  Plus, I can’t ignore the fact that last night we slept in the same bed. Emphasis on the word slept. Not that I would have wanted Weston to make ALL the moves. But he didn’t make a single move. Not. A. One.

  Doesn’t that say it all?

  Sam looks helplessly at me. But before she can say anything, not that anything she could say would help me feel better, my phone starts ringing. It’s “The Imperial March,” my mother’s ringtone.

  “Better get this,” I say, waving my phone. “It’s the mothership.”

  “I’m sorry, Taylor.” Sam gives me a pat on the shoulder before heading ba
ck to her desk, slipping in earbuds.

  I draw in a breath and answer. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Oh, Taylor! The Christmas Eve party is ruined! You won’t believe it!”

  Oh, yes. I will. Because my mom is the queen of drama. But my chest does feel tight at the mention of the Christmas Eve party, a tradition between Weston’s family and mine. I don’t know how I’m going to be around him and around our families without them guessing that something is up.

  “What?”

  “Please, just tell me you’re still bringing Chad,” Mom says.

  I massage my forehead with my free hand, wishing I could smooth away this conversation like the furrow in my brow.

  “About that.”

  Mom groans. “I just had this feeling! Oh, Taylor. Martha has really done it this time.”

  “What did she do?”

  Usually my mom and Weston’s mom get along like gangbusters, fueled mostly by their shared desire to see Weston and me walk down the aisle. I’m not sure what this has to do with Chad.

  “She invited not one, but SEVERAL single women to the party for Weston. She’s been flashing his picture around town like she’s his pimp.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe pimp is the wrong word, but it’s just low. And if you don’t have Chad …”

  It means I’ll be dateless while Weston has a bevy of women. For once, I agree with Mom. This will ruin the Christmas party, one I always look forward to.

  After my realization that Weston’s lack of jealousy means he’s not into me, I don’t know that I can stomach watching other women throwing themselves at him. No way am I going to be a spectator in the Christmas Hunger Games with West as the prize. Nope. I think I feel the flu coming on.

  “Does, uh, Weston know? About the women?”

  He and I haven’t talked at all about the party. I just assumed we’d ride together, something we do on years we don’t bring dates. I squeeze my eyes closed.

  “Weston encouraged her to ask them. According to Martha, he told her to ask her barista. One of them is a model. Can you believe it?”

  I don’t want to believe it. But my ribs are folding in on themselves, collapsing over the hollow space in my chest where my heart used to be.

  “What happened with Chad? We can’t have you coming single. Not with all these interlopers.”

  If we were talking about anything else, I’d laugh at her use of the word interlopers. But nothing about this is funny.

  “I’m not coming.”

  “You have to come! This is family! Absolutely not!”

  “Mom,” I groan. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  She’s uncharacteristically quiet for a beat or two. Then she says quietly, “You finally figured out that you have feelings for him, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I did. And he doesn’t feel the same way.”

  “Oh, Taylor. Are you sure?”

  No. Yes. No. Yes.

  “Pretty positive.”

  She harrumphs. “That sounds like a twenty-percent positive. I can work with that. What we need to do is find you a date to make him jealous.”

  Except Weston wouldn’t be jealous. That’s exactly the thing. “Mom. A date is the last thing I need. Seriously. No.”

  “Don’t think of it like a date. It has to be someone really great though. Not like the other guys you've brought home.”

  “Did no one like any of my boyfriends?”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Now, I’ve got a few ideas. But if you find someone first, tell me. Because we aren’t turning you into the Bachelorette. I have some self-respect, unlike Martha.”

  “Clearly.”

  When I’m done with my conversation, I turn to Sam. She pulls out her earbuds.

  “So, you need a date?” she asks.

  “I thought you were listening to music,” I accuse.

  “I was listening to music. And your conversation. I can help, you know. I’ve got just the guy for the job. It will be totally platonic, but trust me--if someone was going to make Weston jealous, this is the guy.”

  I sigh, my breath thin and raspy. “Okay.”

  Sam grins wickedly, a look I don’t like at all. “You won’t regret this.”

  The problem is, I already do.

  “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Weston asks, maybe for the fifth time.

  What a loaded question. I’m quite sure that everything is wrong. Not the least of which is the foundation of our gingerbread house, which has a distinct lean. The structural soundness is something I can fix, so I focus on that. Not the weird awkwardness between me and Weston.

  “Piping bag,” I say, holding out my hand.

  Weston holds out the bag, then yanks it back. His fierce eyes pin me in place. “Tell me,” he demands. “Is it me? Did I do something? Is it Chad?”

  He grimaces as he says Chad’s name. But it’s not jealousy, I remind myself. It’s just plain old dislike. Because Weston doesn’t feel the same way I do.

  “Is someone being a Chad?” Weston is trying another tactic, joking with me since serious and scary isn’t working.

  I roll my eyes and grab the bag of icing. “You’re being a Chad.”

  “Our gingerbread house is being a Chad. How long until they disqualify us, do you think?”

  For date nine, Weston entered us in a gingerbread house challenge put on by a local culinary school. Which means that our basic rectangular house is competing against the Frank Lloyd Wrights of gingerbread architecture.

  I’m not even sure how he got us into this event, which definitely looks like the kind to have had an entrance fee. More than one judge in a white chef’s coat has stopped by our work station, stared in disbelief at our crooked attempt, then glared at us before moving on. I wish we could blame Weston’s broken fingers, but this sad attempt is all on me.

  I straighten up the back wall, not ready to give up yet. At least, not on this. We won’t win, not even close, but our house will not collapse on my watch. I pipe out another thin layer of icing, then prop the wall up at a ninety-degree angle.

  “Gumdrop,” I say, holding out my hand like I’m a surgeon, asking for a scalpel.

  Weston drops a red one in my palm. There’s a bite missing.

  “West,” I groan. “Why did you even enter us in this if you were going to sabotage our efforts?”

  He gives me an unrepentant grin and pops the whole gumdrop in his mouth. I grab another one from the pile.

  Weston waits so long to answer that I almost forget I’ve asked a question. “It’s for charity,” he says.

  Nudging my shoulder and directing my attention toward a sign that bears the name of the one nonprofit I support year after year, a home for women and their children who have escaped domestic abuse.

  The tip of my piping bag stops in the line of shingles I was drawing on the roof. It trembles in my hand.

  “This is actually dates nine and ten,” West says. “Nine—build a gingerbread house. And ten—give to someone less fortunate.”

  “That wasn’t on the list,” I say, trying to force back the tears in my eyes by the sheer force of my will.

  “I added it,” he says. “The dates were all a little self-centered anyway. Giving felt right.”

  “That’s really nice,” I say. “How much was it to enter? I can contribute too.” I sniff.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to put an arm around my shoulders. I pull away and set the piping bag down, before pulling out my phone.

  Less than a minute later, I’ve got the website pulled up for this event. Five hundred dollars. That’s how much Weston paid to enter us in the competition. That’s how much will go to the nonprofit, because all the other expenses like the materials, the space, and the judges’ time were donated.

  Why does he have to be so perfect? So nice, so fun, so thoughtful?

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Weston reaches for my hand. It feels s
o good to be touched by him. I should pull away, but I can’t.

  “Say you’ll go with me tomorrow night to the Christmas Eve party,” he says.

  My head swings to his as he keeps talking. He squeezes my hand, and it’s like a direct line to my heart.

  “Come with me as my date.”

  Did I just say he was thoughtful? Nice? Nah. Forget that. The man is a terrorist dictator of some small country. I yank my hand away.

  I hold his gaze, hoping he can see the fury. “I thought you had a date. Or was it two? Something about a barista and a model. What’s one more for good measure?”

  I want to see surprise on his face. Confusion. Because a part of me hoped that he didn’t know about the dates his mom set up. I wanted Mom to be wrong. Instead of confusion, Weston blinks at me steadily, looking wary and resigned.

  “Don’t worry about them. My mom set it up. I don’t know any of them.”

  “So, there are other women coming to be your date? And you still thought you’d ask me. As what--your backup?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It seems that way to me.”

  His eyes flash with anger, or maybe determination. “Taylor--”

  The big clock in front of all the work stations finally reaches zero and an alarm goes off. Time is up. I stand, not even bothering to take off my apron. We lost. What does it matter?

  “I already have a date,” I tell him, grabbing my bag as I head for the door. All I can think about is getting out, getting air, getting some distance between Weston and me.

  “Taylor, wait!”

  Weston reaches me when I’m almost to my car, his long legs eating up the distance between us. I’m so thankful that this place was close to my work. I wouldn’t have been able to handle a ride home with him right now.

  “Taylor!”

  I pause, facing my driver’s side door. I can see his reflection in the window in front of me, distorted in the curved glass. He runs his good hand through his hair, then shoves it in the pocket of his jeans. He must have left his coat inside.