Chapter 11
HOLIDAY
Three days ago, I woke up in Lucas Jolly’s bed, and the world hasn’t felt right since.
The sheets were ice-cold when I reached for him. He’d slipped out like a thief in the night and left my keys on the nightstand.
I stared at his ceiling, at the exposed beams he described when we were eighteen, while still wearing my rumpled clothes from the night before.
My lips still tingled from the kiss he didn’t return.
My body still remembered being wrapped in his arms all night with his face buried in my hair.
Our fingers tangled together like we’d never let go.
Then he left in the morning and has since pretended like it didn’t happen.
The humiliation burns worse than any hangover.
I’ve barely survived.
By this afternoon, I’m falling apart, knowing tonight we both have to be at the contest kickoff meeting.
We’ve not spoken, not texted, just exchanged stolen glances.
I’ve forgotten to eat, my hands shake, and my jeans slide down my hips even though I tightened my belt to a smaller hole.
I’m running on spite and too much coffee.
When I catch my reflection in the bakery windows, I barely recognize the hollow-eyed girl staring back.
Around three, I see him through the front windows talking to Jake. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the way he runs his hand through his messy hair like he does when he’s stressed.
I hope he’s as miserable as I am.
At four, Jake walks into the bakery carrying a cream-colored envelope embossed with gold.
“Claire and I realized you weren’t on the guest list for the wedding and wanted to give you a hand-delivered invitation.” He slides it across the counter. “Saturday after Thanksgiving. I hope you can be there.”
That’s ten days away.
“I don’t want to impose,” I tell him.
“Never, you’re basically family,” he tells me. “Please say yes.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Thank you.”
When he walks out, I open the envelope and pull out the invitation that’s written in an elegant script.
Jake Jolly that means there will be a speech. I’ll have to watch him talk about love and forever as I stand on the sidelines.
My phone buzzes with a reminder about the kickoff meeting for the baking contest that’s later.
It will be the first time I’ve been close enough to Lucas to speak to him since Saturday night. I’m already dreading it. But then again, I can do hard things.
I arrive at the community center early, hoping to find a seat in the front to avoid him.
The building is decorated like a Christmas wonderland with lights wrapped around every column, a massive tree in the lobby with ornaments made by local school kids, and twinkling lights strung across the ceiling.
The air smells like funnel cakes from the annual winter festival that’s happening right now in the town square.
Classic holiday music drifts from speakers.
Tourists fill the sidewalks, many taking photos, enchanted by the magic of Merryville.
Inside the community room, excitement buzzes. As a contestant, I have to find my name on the list and discover that Mawmaw named us Team Jolly Holiday. It makes me smile as I scribble my signature in the currently empty box.
Most are treating this like the fun small-town tradition it is. Not me. This is my ticket out of here. No one wants me here anyway.
I find a seat a few rows from the front and check my phone. My hands shake and I press them against my thighs. My nerves are getting the best of me, but I stay focused on the front podium, hoping this goes by quickly.
People trickle in. Edna sits behind me with her sisters, Melinda and Brenda.
Edna leans forward. “Not really fair that you entered this contest.”
I laugh. “Scared?”
“Honey, everyone who saw your name on that list is intimidated. Heard a few people dropped out because of you.”
I turn and look at her. “Why?”
“Because let’s get real, you can out bake them in your sleep.”
“Oh, stop gassing me up,” I tell her.
“Now you’re being humble.”
The Waverly family takes seats near the front. My parents arrive with Sammy, who stands by the back door with one of his firefighter friends. Mawmaw enters and speaks to every single person on her way to the front. She comes to me, and I stand to give her a hug.
“Doin’ good?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as she glows with Christmas cheer.
Mom catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up.
At 5:57, someone drops into the seat beside me. I don’t even have to glance over to know it’s Lucas. Freshly showered. Smelling like my past.
My heart stutters and stops.
He doesn’t look at me or speak, just sits close enough for me to feel his body warmth. Our legs touch and it drives me absolutely wild. He’s doing this on purpose.
Heat spreads through my body like wildfire. I’m hyperaware of how damn close he is. Every nerve ending screaming. After three days of nothing, this feels monumental.
Is he doing this for show? For Mawmaw?
He still hasn’t looked at me or acknowledged me at all. I keep my eyes focused forward, but my breathing grows shallow.
Exhaustion, my recent lack of food, and the constant anxiety all crash over me at once. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and I close my eyes, then rub my temple.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Don’t talk to me.”
“There’s my winning team!” Mawmaw’s voice rings out when she sees Lucas next to me.
Everyone turns to look at us. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
People smile and whisper. Someone giggles. Edna Parker and her sisters lean in, clearly delighted by this development.
Lucas shifts and wraps his arm around the back of my chair.
My breath catches. The weight of his arm is so close to my shoulders that I can feel the heat radiating from it.
Every instinct screams to lean back into him, to let myself have this, but I force myself to stay in place. Pretending this doesn’t affect me.
The room fills with the scent of hot chocolate and cookies from the refreshment table. Outside the windows, I see Main Street is lit up with thousands of lights—the lampposts wrapped in red ribbon, storefronts glowing, and couples strolling hand in hand through Merryville.
This town lives and breathes Christmas, but right now, I’m suffocating in it.
At six fifteen, Mayor Thompson takes the podium.
“Good evening, everyone! Welcome to our annual Merryville Christmas cookie contest orientation!”
Applause erupts, and when I turn to look behind me, the room is full. People are standing around the perimeter of the huge room.
“We’ve had many teams register this year.
A total of thirty-seven. This contest is a Merryville tradition, and we’ve had more tourists visit the town this year than ever before.
Word about Merryville is spreading, and we’re so excited about that.
” He grins. “Your cookies will be judged during the festival on December fourteenth, right in the town square, in front of hundreds of visitors. This is your chance to have your favorite cookie recipe shine and be inducted into the hall of fame!”
My stomach twists. Hundreds of people will watch us compete. Hundreds of people will see me fail or succeed.
The mayor walks through the rules: fifty identical cookies, baked on-site, in front of judges and festival-goers, three hours total. All ingredients are provided by contestants. Presentation, taste, and creativity are scored.
“The winning team receives five thousand dollars and the Merryville Champion Cookie Trophy, not to mention, you’ll be memorialized in the hall of fame. Many of you know the Jolly family has kept the title for twenty years running.”
More applause as people glance at Lucas and me.
The pressure feels too much. I can barely breathe under the weight of it. I think I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I count to ten, try to steady my breathing, because I need control.
“Now,” Mayor Thompson says, practically shaking with excitement, “let’s have Santa announce the judges.”
Lucas’s dad moves to the front of the room, jingling with every step. He lets out a big ho, ho, ho before thanking everyone for being here. His dad shoots me a wink, and I smile.
“Now, let’s get on with who will be helping Santa this season with this contest.”
The screen lights up with five professional headshots.
“First, we have Patty Morrison—food critic for Texas Monthly and this year’s James Beard Award winner.”
A woman with kind eyes and silver hair stands from a chair in the front and waves. Everyone gives a polite applause.
“Second, Chef Marcus Williams—owner of Williams Steakhouse in Austin. He’s been featured in Bon Appétit’s Top 50.”
He stands and nods. The crowd grows more enthusiastic.
“Third, Chef Mary Carter—award-winning pastry chef and author of Southern Sweets and Treats and Preparing the Perfect Cookie.”
A woman in her sixties with a warm smile appears. I have her cookbooks and am shocked the mayor was able to get so many professionals to judge this contest.
“Fourth, Chef Thomas Reeves—last year’s Texas Baking Champion and owner of Confetti Cupcakes in Houston.”
A young guy with tattoo sleeves appears. He can’t be any older than twenty-five.
My hands are ice-cold, despite the warm room.
“Mayor Thompson will announce the final judge,” Lucas’s dad says.
But I notice the chair is empty by the others.
Seconds later, the lights slightly dim in the room and the projector comes on.