Amanda looks up at me, and she doesn’t have to say a word. The question is obvious.We’re in this together, so whose family do we both stand by?
Something shifted the minute I slipped it on her finger at Raoul’s shop.
I don’t believe in soulmates. I think love is hard work and some people are better at it than others. I think you have to be good at communicating and forgiveness if you’re going to make it work. I think we all change over time, and you can never know what life will throw at you.
But when I took Amanda’s hand and slid that ring onto her finger, it was like something off-kilter in my life fixed itself.
It makes zero sense. There’s no logic to it.
This isn’t real.
She wants to be my friend. Nothing more. And I’ll never tell her how much of a crush I had on her in high school.
Not if I want to maintain any of my dignity.
But without any discussion, we link hands again, then both turn to our respective families.
“Dane and I are staying in the middle,” she calls to her mom as I report to my dad, “We’re good here, thanks.”
Silence settles over the square.
Some people look at Amanda and me. Some subtly shift farther from us. Some angle closer. Some look at our families.
Even the fake snowmen seem to be gaping at us, waiting for whatever will come next.
“Whoopsies,” Amanda says. “We forgot to ask how much popcorn we’d need for this. Can we get this picture show on the road? My makeup is melting off, and I have a hot date tonight.”
The tension breaks as other families—not our own—crowd around us and echo the calls for the photographer to get started.
It’s hot. It’s sticky. My hand is sweating, but Amanda doesn’t let go.
If anything, she holds on tighter.
We’re both taking a massive risk of being disowned, and I don’t think I realized the full implications until just now.
There’s a rustling in the crowd around us, and it takes me a minute to realize why.
Lorelei and Esme are pushing through.
“We’re with you,” Lorelei says as they reach us.
Amanda sucks in a loud breath, then launches herself at my sister and hugs her tight.
Esme punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Doing Santa’s work here. I’m proud of you.”
“Squish in closer,” the photographer says over his megaphone. “Quit changing spots, but squish closer.”
Esme hands me a fruitcake hat.
Amanda lunges for it and puts it on her own head before I can take it, and then she smiles at me. “I love fruitcake.”
“You can keep it.”
She links her hand in mine once more and squeezes.
It’s hot. It’s humid. There are too many bodies crowded around. I want to go take another dip in the lake.
We don’t have a solution to her Gingerbread House problem yet.
