16
I surprise myself when I start to sing “Last Christmas” as I work.
And why not? That song is now like my anthem or my curse.
I’m halfway through the song before I notice I’m confident, relaxed, almost happy.
A tiny laugh slips from my mouth. What is happening to me?
The words from the Cobra Nest spring to mind—I smile, recalling Chuck, Sherry, and Roxanne at Dale’s holiday party.
They’ve always told me they loved my voice. It was a nice boost of confidence. For the first time in a long while, music doesn’t feel like something I failed at.
Letting the notes roll through me reminds me of the version of this song that Robbie and I were writing together, called “This Christmas.” He did the music, I did the lyrics.
Though I had come up with a few verses, I never did finish the song.
I smile and try to remember a couple of the lines. In the last timeline, Robbie mentioned us working together on music. I check my phone. Maybe he’s free to chat while I prep for the party.
But my smile fades as I scroll through my contacts. Robbie’s not listed. And I don’t see a “bestie” number either. I swallow hard, trying to keep my sadness down. What happened? Are we not friends in this timeline?
“The house looks amazing,” Anthony exclaims. Over the Christmas tunes I’ve been blasting, I didn’t hear him come in. He swoops down for a quick kiss, then drops a bag full of ingredients onto the island. “You’re the best.”
As he holds me there, I have to admit I’m not hating being in this space. Especially once I hung up some decorations, it’s starting to feel like home. He pulls back, his brown eyes glowing.
My cheeks heat with pleasure.
“I did what I could.” A few wreaths, garland, and some strategic candles placed throughout. It’s minimalist but still charming. There was, however, one thing missing regarding decorations. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Are you going to put up a Christmas tree?” I ask.
Anthony does a double take. “I thought we agreed that those trees really promote consumerism, and we weren’t going to celebrate that?”
The high I’d been riding from decorating all morning deflates a little. “We did? But we used other Christmas decorations. Why not a tree?”
He raises a brow, like the answer should be obvious. “Because presents go under a tree.” He nods, satisfied.
I’m too stunned to speak, unsure whether it’s his logic or his total earnestness that’s rubbing me the wrong way. Of course, no presents begs another question. “So are we not exchanging gifts?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Well… I know we agreed on acts of kindness, so I got you something that is technically an object but qualifies as an act,” he says, his eyes gleaming. I hold my breath as he continues. “But I’m going to wait until the party to show you.”
“I’m intrigued,” I say.
He waggles his brows. “You should be.”
“But, as another act of kindness, and I think could be fun—I’m going to teach you how to bake ensaymada rolls.”
I give a little cheer. “Wow, two gifts?”
My mouth waters thinking about those pillowy-soft, buttery ensaymada brioche rolls topped with creamy buttercream and grated cheese. A Filipino dessert that is peak comfort food.
He starts getting his pans and mixing bowls and measuring his ingredients with the ease of an experienced cook. I can totally see him doing this professionally.
“I can’t believe you’re opening your own restaurant,” I say as he expertly cracks eggs into a bowl.
“Really?” He grins at me. “You’re the one who’s inspired me to open my own place. If not for you, I don’t think I would’ve had the courage to open my own restaurant. We’re going to put East Meets Feast on the map. And now… I hope I do the same for your passion.”
The air feels lighter after his high praise, but that second part? I’m at a loss as to what he’s referring to. Surely he doesn’t mean singing? “That’s so sweet of you, Anthony,” I say in response, then change the subject. “Here, let me help mix those ingredients.”
He grins. “Let’s get to work.”
As Anthony reviews all the ingredients, which we measure and prep, I start to think about it.
Singing. It was such an important part of my life, and I do admit not having it in my heart has created a hole that I haven’t been able to fill, but the idea of actually doing it in front of a crowd feels so difficult. And scary.
I steal a glance at Anthony, working away to help me cook this dish from our shared heritage—maybe I should take a page out of his book and follow my passion. Maybe I should try singing again.
And maybe that’s what this time loop is teaching me.
It’s not about being in a music-adjacent career, or even being with a guy who is super rich and flashy.
It’s about someone I can make a home with.
Someone who puts my interests at the same level as his.
Someone who is there to encourage me when I need it most.
After creating the bread dough, Anthony helps me with the rest of the to-do chores list while it rests.
I’m amazed at how warm and cozy I feel even doing dishes with him.
When the dough has proofed, Anthony hollers for me to join him in the kitchen. “See how it’s doubled in size,” he says proudly.
He dusts flour onto the counter and puts the dough atop. Then he steps behind me and shows me how to knead the dough properly. His hands gently guide mine.
I inhale deeply, feeling super aware of how his chest brushes my back, his breath warm on my neck. I bite my lip. Focus on the brioche, Marygrace, not the boy. Still, I love how the dough softens under our combined touch—and how my heart softens, too.
When the dough is finally placed in cute brioche molds and in the oven, I bend to look inside as they bake.
Anthony sinks down next to me and we watch the oven together.
“Feels… right, doesn’t it?” he asks.
I turn to him and melt at the proud twinkle in his eyes. He leans close, and because our lips are just an inch apart, I close the distance. My chest tightens in the sweetest way as we kiss, like my heart is expanding to make room for something new.
“Wow.” He pulls away, and I absolutely adore the red flush on his cheeks. “Actually,” he says, nodding at my phone. “How about we set the camera so we can take a photo of us kissing in front of the oven again?” He smiles shyly. “I think that would look good on the feed.”
I laugh. He’s not wrong, but social media was the last thing on my mind during that kiss. After we pose a few times and I’m happy with the shot, I’m eager to open Instagram and post to my account. I already have a cute caption in mind: holiday baking + us = perfection.
He gets busy pulling out other ingredients, and I pour myself a Bloody Mary and prop myself on a barstool at the kitchen island.
When I open Instagram, it immediately loads Anthony’s profile. I frown. Why do I have his profile on my phone?
I scroll through it, brows lifting at his fifty thousand followers. His grid is filled with posts promoting his up-and-coming restaurant East Meets Feast with adorable photos of his food, reels of him cooking, and a few posts with us together.
“MG, I’m going to make your fave chicken adobo dish next,” Anthony says as he chops some garlic.
“You know how to treat me,” I say, stomach rumbling already for the tangy dish.
Then a timer rings, announcing our bread is ready.
“Time to get back to the brioche!” I exclaim, putting my phone down. I’ll post our picture later. From cute foodie pictures to delicious meals, I love what’s cooking between me and Anthony.