24
Soft light sparkles down from above as Robbie and I stand beneath an old-fashioned wrought iron streetlamp, its post wrapped in a jaunty red ribbon and strung with twinkling lights that glow like tiny stars caught on wire.
The chilly night hums quietly around us, cool and velvety, while our bodies press close, swaying in the kind of dance that doesn’t really follow music so much as it follows our heartbeats.
His arms wrap snugly around me, strong and steady, and I burrow into his chest, rubbing my cheek against his red plaid shirt where it’s warm and safe, breathing in that familiar mix of vanilla and mint.
I tilt my chin upward, catching the curve of his smile, and my breath stumbles.
His eyes lock on mine, full of hunger and familiarity, the kind of look that both thrills me and sends a shiver tumbling down my spine.
“What are we doing?” I whisper. “You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re my MGS,” he says. His face tilts toward mine, slow enough to make my heart trip over itself.
Instinctively, I rise on my toes, pressing upward to close the last inch between us.
When our mouths finally meet, the world exhales with me.
His lips are warm and soft against mine, tasting faintly of cinnamon and vanilla.
I sigh into the kiss, my breath mingling with his, my body melting from his hands roving through my hair and down my back.
And for a heady moment it feels like some Christmas magic has suspended time, sound, the night itself—all frozen still, holding its breath just for us.
Then a bolt of light explodes behind my eyeballs.
“Ouch,” I cry, sitting up to find a gap-toothed girl in purple Christmas unicorn pajamas grinning mischievously at me.
“Morning, Tita,” she singsongs.
I gasp. Libby! My niece Libby. I pull her in for a hug as my heart leaps in my chest. I’m home.
I’m finally home! I take in my surroundings.
Soft blue walls, green-and-red plaid comforter and matching holiday curtains.
Behind me on the bed are a sea of winter-themed throw pillows that look like someone bought an entire shelf from HomeGoods. This is my mom’s guest room.
Libby squirms in my arms. “Stop, you’re ruining my test run,” she says.
“What test run?” I ask, releasing her.
“For Christmas morning. I want to make sure everyone is up and ready bright and early to open gifts tomorrow.”
I laugh. “Libby, a Christmas morning test run really isn’t a thing.”
“It’s a new tradition I’m starting,” she says.
From somewhere beside me, music begins to play. I moan hearing the familiar song. Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.
My phone sits on a wicker nightstand next to the bed, playing that infernal song. After the last time I heard this song, standing between Robbie and Jamie as it blared into the uncomfortable silence I’d created, I never want to hear this music again.
I reach for my phone but pause in complete shock. There’s a huge princess-cut rock on my left ring finger. Someone put a ring on it! I squeal with shock, staring down at the gorgeous diamond.
Then my heart stops.
As if on cue, the guest room’s en suite bathroom opens. A tall white man I’ve never seen before walks out dripping wet with big, fluffy blue robe. This must be my mystery fiancé.
“Sorry, sweetie pie, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He dries his shaggy brown hair with one of my mom’s candy cane towels.
“You didn’t wake me,” I somehow manage to say, nodding toward the door Libby slipped through.
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Did Libby come in here to do her Christmas morning test run? I told her to let you sleep a bit more.”
“Thank you.” I do my best not to gape at him. His hazel eyes sparkle at me with a warm familiarity. He’s not bad to look at, objectively attractive in a clean-shaven, lawyerly kind of way, but I still have no idea who I am looking at.
He hums to himself good-naturedly as he pulls clothes out of a drawer. I can’t stop gawking. Did he move in? Do we live in my mom’s guest room?
“Merry Christmas, my merry Mary,” he sings to himself in a terribly off-key voice. When I don’t respond, he turns and looks at me with a nervous smile. I tilt my head. My goodness he has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “You okay, honey?”
I muster a nervous smile. “Um, Merry Christmas to you, too,” I say, then bolt out of bed as fast as I can and run into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
I dash to the sink and turn on the water, splashing my face to bring some clarity. I’m clearly trapped in a Hallmark Channel–sponsored fever dream, and I need to wake up now.
Panting hard, I lean against the sink and glance around the room. This is my mom’s house, all right. The unapologetic amount of Bath & Body Works Winter Candy Apple products is a sign. She loves bath products like I love holiday lattes.
But who is the guy?
I sit down on the fluffy Frosty the Snowman toilet seat cover as I stare at the gold ring on my finger. It’s stunning, but I thought I would have preferred a platinum ring and emerald cut.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No, Mary, stop. This engagement ring isn’t real. This stranger out there can’t possibly be the love of your life. You have no idea who he is.
I grab my phone for any clues about this man and our relationship. My home screen picture is the two of us. Me and Mr. Smiley at a beach somewhere, embracing as I show off the ring. We look in love. Or like a generic couple on one of those pharmaceutical ads celebrating a fake milestone.
I check the date on my phone again—it’s still a year in the future.
So, I’m once again in one of Madam Lunas’s time loops, but this man is someone I’ve never dated.
Or if I have, it must have been one unforgettable date or I was really, really drunk.
Or maybe he was my eighth-grade dance date and he’s just grown up a heck of a lot?
I study the photo. That bright smile looks vaguely familiar…
“Did you fall into the toilet?” the man jokes outside the door. His squeaky laugh reminds me of the sound a dog toy makes.
I gasp. That’s it. That laugh. That megawatt smile that would put the Las Vegas strip to shame! That man is Leo the dentist without his glasses and bushy beard. I cover my mouth to muffle my reaction.
“Sorry, must’ve been something I ate last night,” I shout.
But the words “last night” just bring a fresh wave of memories of Robbie. Our amazing performance. His confession. Jamie appearing. How I hurt both of them.
I lean forward and put my head in my hands. How am I going to escape these cycles?
“I’m going to head downstairs, Marybells,” Leo says through the door. Seriously, I hate that nickname. “Gonna help your mom with the cooking.”
“I’ll see you down there,” I croak, but I can’t seem to get myself to move.
Instead I flip through the photos on my phone.
There’s one from last night of me and Leo in front of Mom’s Christmas tree.
A recent date at a fancy restaurant. Us at a dog shelter event.
Photos from our summer vacation, including a whole set of him down on one knee proposing to me on a beach while the photographer hid behind a dune to take photos.
I crack up laughing when I swipe to the next one and find a selfie Juliet’s taken giving a sneaky thumbs-up as she waits for him to pop the question.
Then I keep scrolling to find the first time Leo appears in my pictures—January, a couple of weeks after our disastrous date at Olivia’s party.
I frown. This entire time I thought the person whom Madam Lunas said would be the love of my life was someone I’d dated somewhat seriously or slept with regularly. But now it looks like someone I “have history” with has a much more liberal definition.
My stomach flips with this revelation. If that’s true… then wouldn’t Robbie count as someone I have history with? We never dated officially, but still…
The smell of cinnamon buns carries all the way upstairs and through the bathroom door, jolting me back to reality. My mouth salivates. I love my mom’s rolls. I’m going downstairs immediately to enjoy those little frosting-covered buns of joy.
I might not understand what Madam Lunas’s cycles mean or how to break them, but I do know one thing: I am home for the first time in days, and I am going to make the most of it.
My heart warms thinking about my family downstairs preparing for our Christmas Eve traditions, laughing and joking with one another.
I’m brimming with happiness walking down my childhood home’s familiar hallway with Mom’s red runner underfoot.
I wistfully enjoy the walls full of Silva family memories.
Awkward school portraits, family vacations, and celebrations like graduations and anniversaries.
I pass my brother’s room with the Jurassic Park poster still plastered on the door.
A picture of RBG still adorns Wit Wit’s door.
My old bedroom was rudely turned into a workout room for Mom’s yoga—I never did come home after college like my siblings did—but during the holidays it’s used as a kids’ room.
I dash down the garland-trimmed staircase and around a corner to the family room. I bask in the loving and chaotic scene. The kids are jumping on the couch in festive Christmas pj’s and chasing one another with sparkling slime. Christmas socks swing over the roaring fireplace.
In the kitchen, Wit Wit and Manny are still in their pj’s and squabbling at the island over a bowl of batter mix and a measuring cup. I wince as my sister wields a wooden spoon in my brother’s direction. I’m okay staying out of that one.
Tita Pinky is bustling about prepping her tangy kaldereta dish for tonight’s Christmas Eve feast. Meanwhile, Lisa is on breakfast duty as she finishes frying the eggs.
My cousin Juliet hums to herself as she washes sippy cups.
I don’t even have to fake a smile when I find my “fiancé” drinking coffee in the kitchen, wearing gray sweats and a matching sweatshirt that bears an image of a monthlong calendar, except every day on the calendar says Dec. 25.
Ugh. Too soon.
My mom emerges from the pantry. I run to her and hug her from behind. She cries out and drops a bottle of Hopewell Farms syrup. “Mom, I missed you,” I say, inhaling her jasmine and gingerbread scent.
I pick up the syrup and wrap her back up in the hug. She mutters something in Tagalog and pats my back in a “that’s nice, now get off me” way. But I’m not buying it. I squeeze tighter.
“Marybells!” Leo greets me while I’m still hugging Mom. “Are you feeling, okay, honey?”
“Were you not feeling well?” my mom asks, pulling back, eyes wide, less out of concern and more out of excitement. Oh no…
“It was nothing,” I say. My mom getting her hopes up for grandkids is the last thing I need to worry about right now.
“If you say so.” She mutters to herself before turning and pointing at the counter. “Look at where I put the gift Leo got us! See, it’s perfect!”
I squint at a ceramic object on the counter. It’s a cookie jar.
A plain boring cookie jar that’s not the Butt Crack Santa jar from Robbie. Not the one my dad loved so much. As I look at the impostor cookie jar, the warmth and joy of the whole room fizzle.
“Such a thoughtful housewarming gift,” my mom is saying.
Leo beams. “And it’s filled with sugar-free treats.”
Mom claps as he opens the lid and shows off the contents.
“Rough night?” Juliet whispers in my ear as she pulls me in for a side hug, a reindeer towel in her hand as she dries a tree-shaped cake pan. I look at Juliet, wondering if she knows how horrible the past few days have been.
“Why do you ask?”
She waggles her brows. “I heard you and Leo Pace finally picking up the pace last night in your room,” she teases.
I groan in embarrassment. “Gross!” I say. Then I gasp. “Hang on. Is my name going to be Marygrace Pace?”
“Marygrace Silva-Pace,” she corrects with a snort. “Don’t you remember? We had this whole conversation when he proposed back in July.”
Nope, I don’t remember, so I shrug in response.
“Look what’s engraved in the lid!” my mother practically shouts.
I turn to find her and Leo standing over the cookie jar.
“I got your family name engraved in the lid,” Leo is saying, showing the inside of the ceramic jar to everyone else in the kitchen. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“I liked the Butt Crack jar better,” I blurt out, sounding more sour than I mean to.
Everyone stops talking for a moment.
“Well, you should have thought about that before you broke it after throwing a tantrum last year,” Wit Wit deadpans.
“Good thing you did, though,” Leo says awkwardly into the pressing silence.
“Since it’s the key to our origin story, Marybells.
If that cookie jar didn’t break, then the scone little Ryan bit into wouldn’t have been stale enough to chip his tooth, and I wouldn’t have spent Christmas Day with you and the family. ”
My head feels woozy. So that’s how we ended up together. I force a little laugh and duck away from the kiss he tries to peck on my cheek. Instead, I head to a cabinet to get a mug for coffee.
Juliet is watching me from the other side of the kitchen, eyes narrowed like she doesn’t recognize me, or she’s putting together some pieces of information. It makes me squirm. She knows me too well, and I’m more than positive she can tell something is off.
“Let me help you with that.” Leo appears at my shoulder again like a persistent fly, lifting the coffee carafe and pouring it for me. Why does it feel like he’s more a part of this family than I am? “You always put too much sugar in your coffee, pumpkin. You don’t want cavities, do you?”
I’m about to snap at him that maybe I do want cavities, when Tita Pinky claps her hands.
“Everyone,” she shouts. “Kain tayo! Let’s eat!”
A collective cheer rises in the kitchen and little feet come thudding in from the living room.
The floor shakes. I close my eyes, forcing myself to sip my disgusting sugar-free coffee, while I revel in the warm and familiar energy in the house.
At least I’m home, I chant to myself. After several Christmas Eve mornings away from them, I’m so grateful to be here with my family.
Except there’s only one thing missing. Or rather, one very important person missing.