Chapter 7
Wren
My apartment looks like a romance novel exploded and nobody called the cleanup crew.
There are candles everywhere, which is a fire hazard, wine glasses on the coffee table even though I don't drink wine, and I've somehow acquired throw pillows I don't remember buying which could have been stress purchases.
"This is a lot," Holden observes from the doorway, still covered in snow.
"I was creating ambiance," I defend myself as I look around. He’s not wrong, though.
"For what? A séance?" he asks, stepping carefully around a cluster of tea lights.
"For practice. Couples have ambiance," I explain, though now that I say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.
"Do they? I thought they just had Netflix and arguments about whose turn it is to take out the trash," he says.
"That comes later. First, ambiance. Then comfortable silence. Then trash arguments," I inform him with false authority.
"You've really thought this through," he notes, picking up one of the wine glasses. "Is this apple juice?"
"Wine stains," I explain. "Also, I don't actually have wine. But apple juice looks sophisticated in the right lighting."
"Nothing about apple juice is sophisticated," he says, but takes a sip anyway.
"We need to work on our story," I announce, pulling out my now-laminated timeline. Yes, I laminated more things. It's a coping mechanism.
"Our story is that we met and started dating," Holden says simply.
"That's not a story; that's a sentence. We need details. Specifics. Memorable moments that make people go 'aww,'" I insist.
"People don't actually say 'aww,'" he argues.
"Teddy literally said 'aww' sixteen times during the committee meeting today," I counter.
"Teddy thinks he’s Santa Claus," he concedes.
I unfold the timeline on the coffee table, pushing aside the fake wine and genuine anxiety. "Okay, so we met at the tree lighting—"
"Where I was lurking in the shadows," he adds.
"Observing," I correct. "You were observing. It sounds less creepy."
"I was definitely lurking," he laughs.
"Fine. You were lurking. I was struggling with a box. You helped. It was magical," I narrate.
"It was practical. You were going to drop it," he says.
"Romance is about perception, not reality," I inform him.
"That explains a lot about romance," he mutters.
"Moving on. Our first date was—" I check my notes.
"We haven't had a first date," he interrupts.
"I know that. But they don't know that. So, our first date was at Giuseppe's." I say.
"Did we like what we ate?" he asks.
"Does it matter?"
"Delia will ask. She probably has the entire Giuseppe's entire menu memorized," he points out.
He's right. This is exhausting. “And I didn’t think any of this matters, but apparently…”
"Okay. The special. We always say the special. Nobody remembers what the special actually was," I decide.
"Smart," he approves. "What about our first kiss?"
"The one at Giuseppe's today?" I ask, my face heating up at the memory.
"That was our first public kiss. When was our first private kiss?" he clarifies.
"Oh. Um." I hadn't thought about this. "Under the mistletoe? It's seasonal."
"Which mistletoe? This town has mistletoe everywhere. It's like a mistletoe infestation," he observes.
"The one at... the shop?" I suggest.
"Your shop has seventeen mistletoe bunches. I counted," he says.
"Why did you count my mistletoe?" I ask.
"I was calculating the fire hazard risk," he explains.
"That's the least romantic thing anyone's ever said about mistletoe," I tell him.
"Would you prefer I say I was overwhelmed by their beauty and had to number them like stars in the sky?" he offers in a lofty, fake voice.
"That's worse. Much worse," I laugh.
"I'm not good at romantic," he admits.
"You said that at Giuseppe's. Right before you kissed me and made my knees stop working," I say without thinking.
Silence fills the room. Even the candles seem to flicker more quietly.
"Your knees stopped working?" he asks softly.
"Temporarily. I got better," I babble. "Fully functional knees now. See?" I stand up and immediately knock over the apple juice.
"Very functional," he agrees, helping me mop up the spill with paper towels I thankfully overstocked.
"We should practice," I announce desperately.
"Practice what?" he asks.
"Being couple-y. Sitting together. Casual touching. Inside jokes," I list.
"How do you practice inside jokes?" he asks.
"I don't know. We make outside jokes and bring them in?" I suggest weakly.
"That's not how jokes work," he says.
"Nothing about this is how things work," I point out.
"Fair point." He sits on my couch, patting the spot next to him. "Come practice being couple-y."
I sit, leaving a careful six inches between us.
"Couples don't sit like they're afraid of catching something," he observes.
"I'm not afraid—" I start.
He pulls me against his side, and suddenly I'm very aware of how solid he is. And warm. And he smells like motor oil and whatever soap he uses, which shouldn't be attractive but apparently my standards have gotten very specific.
"Better?" he asks.
"Different," I manage.
"Your heart is racing," he notes.
"How can you tell?" I ask.
"I can feel your pulse where you're pressed against me," he explains.
"That's very observant," I say.
"Or you're having a cardiac event," he suggests.
"It's probably the apple juice. Very stimulating, apple juice," I babble.
"We should work on your nervous talking," he says.
"I don't nervous talk," I protest nervously, talking.
"You're doing it right now," he points out.
"This is regular talking. Normal speed talking. Very standard talking," I continue, proving his point.
"Wren," he whispers.
"Yes?"
"Breathe."
I take a deep breath. Then another. The third one gets stuck because he's running his fingers through my hair, and my brain short-circuits.
"What are you doing?" I squeak.
"Practicing casual touching. Couples play with each other's hair," he explains, like he's conducting a science experiment.
"They do?"
"According to the internet, yes," he says.
"You researched couple behavior?" I ask.
"I researched convincing relationship indicators. There were charts," he admits. “Delia would be impressed.”
"You found charts about relationships?" I'm genuinely impressed.
"I made charts about relationships," he corrects.
"You made—that's the most you think I've ever heard," I laugh.
"Is that good or bad?" he asks.
"It's perfect. You're perfect," I say without thinking again, then immediately want to crawl under the couch. "I mean, perfectly weird. Normally weird. The right amount of weird for fake dating."
"You're nervous talking again," he observes.
"It's a gift," I mutter.
His phone buzzes, and he frowns at the screen. "Sterling."
"Are you going to answer?"
"No," he says, declining the call. And then the second call right after. Then the third.
"He seems persistent," I observe.
"He's professionally persistent. It's his entire personality," Holden says in disgust.
"How do you know him?" I ask.
"We used to work together," he says carefully.
"Doing what?"
"Things I'm not proud of," he admits.
"Illegal things?" I ask.
"Legal but morally questionable things," he corrects.
"Like?" I press.
"Like destroying people's dreams for profit," he says quietly.
The weight of that statement settles over us like a heavy blanket.
"But you stopped," I say.
"Did I? I'm here lying to an entire town," he points out.
"To help me. That's different," I insist.
"Is it? I'm still deceiving people," he says.
"For a good cause," I argue.
"The ends justify the means?" he asks.
"Sometimes," I say firmly. "When the means are holding hands and eating Giuseppe's questionable food, yes."
"You have very specific ethical standards," he observes.
"I'm very specifically ethical," I agree.
He laughs, and the tension breaks. "We should probably figure out Christmas gift preferences."
"For each other?" I ask.
"Couples know what each other want for Christmas," he explains.
"I want my shop to survive," I say immediately.
"Besides that," he breathes.
"That's all I want. That's all I've wanted since Grandma died. Just to keep the one thing she left me," I admit, feeling tears threaten.
"Hey," he says softly, pulling me closer. "We're going to save it."
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"Because I'm very good at getting what I want," he says.
"What do you want?" I ask.
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then, "I want to be someone worth saving."
"Well, you are," I tell him.
"You don't know me," he says.
"I know enough," I insist.
We sit in silence; the candles flickering around us like tiny judgmental flames. This is getting too real, too close to actual feelings.
"We should practice kissing," I blurt out, immediately regretting everything. Why can I not shut up?
"What?" He looks startled.
"For the gala. We'll probably have to kiss. Under mistletoe or during a slow dance or something. We should practice so it looks natural," I explain, my words tumbling over each other.
"Our kiss at Giuseppe's looked pretty natural," he points out.
"That was spontaneous. The gala will be planned. Observed. Judged," I explain.
"So, you want to practice planned kissing?" he clarifies.
"Yes. No. Maybe?" I'm spiraling.
"Okay," he says simply.
"Okay?" I repeat.
"Okay, we'll practice." He turns to face me fully. "How do you want to do this?"
"I don't know. I've never practiced kissing before. Do people practice kissing? Is that a thing?" I babble.
"Wren," he says patiently.
"Yes?"
"Stop thinking."
"I can't stop thinking. Thinking is what I do. I think professionally. I'm a professional thinker," I ramble.
He cups my face gently, like he did at Giuseppe's. "Stop. Thinking."
"Okay," I whisper.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to panic, reconsider, possibly flee to Canada. Instead, I meet him halfway, and our lips touch softly. It's gentle, careful, nothing like the desperate kisses in movies. It's better. It's real.