A gust of wind rattles the windows, a reminder of the blizzard raging outside, but I’m more worried about what will happen inside after I come clean to my parents about Mr. Barrington and they realize I don’t have a boyfriend.
I take a deep breath, hoping I can calm myself. If anything, my anxiety ramps higher.
I lead him into the living room, where our fake Christmas tree stands proudly, if a bit lopsided, in the corner. Mishmash ornaments, each one a time capsule of family memories and questionable craft projects, grace the sagging branches. My eyes land on the glittery pinecone I made in kindergarten, hanging by a literal thread that used to be a red ribbon. I cringe, wondering if I could knock it off without anyone noticing and hide it under the couch.
Next to it dangles a delicate glass angel that’s survived countless holiday seasons and at least three cat attacks. I swear that thing has more lives than Powerfluff. Speaking of which, I don’t have to worry about my furry friend scaling the tree, ready to claim her spot as the living, breathing tree topper tonight. She usually hides under the bed in my old room the first day she’s here. Like me, she knows where she’s not wanted, but by the second day, unlike me, she doesn’t care.
“What should I do with Powerfluff?” Mr. Barrington asks as if reading my mind.
I open the crate’s door, and my cat jumps out and bolts upstairs. “She prefers adjusting to being here in my room.”
I glance at him, trying to figure out what he thinks of my parents’ house. Is he judging our DIY ornaments and the fact that half the lights are burnt out? Or is he secretly planning a company-wide memo onHow Not to Decorate for the Holidays: A Cautionary Tale?
As I’m about to launch into a self-deprecating joke about our tree, I spot the ornament my sister made when she was five—a clothespin reindeer with googly eyes that are permanently crossed. It’s the one thing Rachel has made that wasn’t perfect. I can’t stop myself from giggling, the tension melting away as I point it out to John.
“And here we have Rudolph’s less famous cousin, Derpy the Red-Nosed Nightmare,” I say, grinning. “Legend has it, he leads Santa’s sleigh, but only when Santa has drank too much eggnog.”
He laughs. “Nice tree.”
“Thanks. It’s not exactly a department store window, but—”
“It’s perfect.” He smiles genuinely. “You can feel the history in each ornament.”
I’m taken aback by his sincerity. Is this the same Mr. Barrington who once made me rewrite a report three times because the font was “too whimsical”? At least I didn’t use Comic Sans.
As I ponder this new version of my boss, Mom carries in a tray of steaming mugs. “Here we go. Hot cocoa with extra marshmallows for the happy couple.”
I cringe at the wordcouplebut gratefully accept the mug. The warmth seeps into my hands. I’m still cold from the walk from the car to the front door, not to mention the chilly reception I’ll get once Rachel arrives.
Mr. Barrington takes his mug with a polite, “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair,” and I swear my mother swoons.
“So, John.” Dad settles into his recliner. “How did you and Abby get together?”
I nearly choke on my cocoa. “Dad, really, we’re not—”
“Oh, it’s quite a tale,” my boss cuts in smoothly, shooting me a look that saystrust meas if I have any other choice. “You see, it all started with a broken copy machine…”
He launches into an elaborate, completely fictional account of our office romance, and weaves a tale of secret glances over cubicle walls—spoiler alert: we each have our own offices, though others work in cubicles—shared lunches in the break room that turned into heartfelt conversations, and a dramatic moment when he realized he couldn’t live without me during a company dinner.
I sit there, slack-jawed, as my boss paints a picture of a relationship so sweet and romantic it could give the Hallmark Channel a run for its money. Part of me wants to interrupt, to set the record straight, but another part…well, another part is oddly moved by the story he creates. Is it sad I’d love a romance like that to really happen to me?
“…and that’s when I knew”—Mr. Barrington’s intense gaze makes my heart skip a beat—“Abby was the one, the only one, for me.”
Now my knees are going weak. He has a way with words. Even my parents are touched, given Mom dabs at her eyes with a tissue, and Dad looks misty-eyed.
“That’s beautiful.” Mom sniffles. “Oh, Abby, why didn’t you tell us?”
As I part my lips, unsure what I’ll say, the front door opens. Rachel and Jake enter, brushing the snow off. My stomach does a somersault, and I’m happy I skipped lunch, though I’m regretting the extra thumbprint cookies.
“We made it.” Rachel’s gaze lands on John, and her nose crinkles. “Who is this?”
“This is John,” Mom gushes, practically vibrating with excitement. “Abby’s boyfriend!”
Rachel’s eyes widen, and something flickers—surprise or disappointment, I can’t really tell—over her face. “Boyfriend? Keeping secrets, are we, Sis?”
The edge to her voice makes me want to crawl under the Christmas tree and hide among the presents. Instead, I force a smile that’s as brittle as an icicle.
Jake, ever the charmer, smiles. “Nice to meet you, man.”
