Every Ex on Christmas Eve

1

Whoever’s in charge of Christmas miracles, take note: I’m standing next to my dream holiday date.

The scene: the sunlight-drenched storefront of Hopewell Crossing Bakery decorated with cozy gingerbread houses displayed under glass domes, trays of glistening sugar cookies atop garland-wrapped countertops, and a jazzy version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” playing softly over the speakers.

And my date: this man in a snuggly holiday plaid sweater that emphasizes his strong jaw and broad shoulders, paired with hip-hugging slacks that show off his other generous assets. He basically screams Hey, bae, I’ll keep you warm these cold winter nights.

And as if my mouth weren’t already watering, in one hand he’s holding a gleaming chocolate ganache cupcake topped with the most adorable little Christmas elves, and in the other, a holiday-red coffee cup crowned with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream and red and green sprinkles. Absolute perfection.

I inhale the toasty, cinnamon-and-sugar-spiced air and get a whiff of his musky, vanilla-scented cologne.

As he looks me up and down, tingles radiate all over my body. Our eyes meet.

“Excuse me,” he says with a shy smile. “Could you, uh, refill the creamer?”

I blink. “Creamer?” I echo. Is that code for something risqué?

His brow furrows. “Yeah, creamer for your coffee station?”

I follow his gaze toward a counter with napkins and glass jars full of sugar. “But I—I don’t work here,” I stammer, then curse as the large tray in my hands wobbles from the mountain of pastries, cookies, and cakes I’ve piled on it.

His brown eyes widen as he takes in my tray.

“I thought you were restocking,” he says. “My mistake, I’m so sorry.”

I blow a strand of dark hair off my face as it hits me: This smokeshow of a guy saw my tray and mistook me for a bakery employee.

Great. I cringe. He’s actually caught me in the middle of my post-break-up self-care ritual—the one where I head to an Asian-French self-service bakery café, park myself at a table with bottomless coffee and a steamy book, and grab two of everything from the glass displays.

Two mochi jelly donuts. Two hazelnut croissants. Two pecan tarts. And so on.

My tray is the Noah’s ark of baked goods.

And it’s not even my first helping, either.

Sure, the guy I was seeing wasn’t anything serious or long-term—we got together after drinking shots of something called Trick-or-Tequila at a Halloween party—but the rejection still requires pastries.

Especially since I spent Thanksgiving with his family and Mom made it no secret she was excited I was finally bringing someone home for Christmas.

Heck, I was excited to be finally bringing someone home for Christmas, too, until his text popped up on my phone this morning right before he was scheduled to arrive in Hopewell Crossing:

Luke: Hey… So I can’t make it, I’m sick.

Marygrace: Oh no! I can bring you some soup to help you feel better! And we can get to mom’s a day later so you have a chance to rest up.

Luke: … Listen, I was just trying to let you down easy. I don’t think this is going to work out.

Marygrace: What? What am I going to tell everyone? They’re expecting you at Noche Buena.

Luke: Tell them I have tinselitis or something, I don’t care.

Yeah… I’m pretty sure tinselitis is a fake illness.

Meanwhile, Coffee Cream Guy winces and repeats his apology. “I’m very sorry. You just really look like you work here, and I thought you were restocking the shelves.”

I glance down at my mostly black attire and, unfortunately, understand how he made that mistake.

Being dumped right before the holidays doesn’t inspire the best fashion, and I’m in what I would call my couch potato aesthetic: black leggings, a cozy black oversized sweater, and red Christmas Crocs, which apparently screams “bakery employee” in addition to “existential crisis.”

“Just because she’s wearing black,” a familiar, self-assured voice says from behind me, “doesn’t automatically make her ‘the help.’”

I stiffen. Brooke Basco, the queen of my high school, has entered the chat.

I’ve only been in Hopewell Crossing since late last night—and less than ten hours later I’m already running into old high school acquaintances. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised since it’s a small town and everyone’s home for the holidays.

Good thing Brooke’s never been one of those cliché mean girls. Nope, Brooke’s perfectionism makes her intimidating in other ways, and if it weren’t for Olivia, I’m not sure we’d even be friends. She always had the best grades, the best hair, the best everything—and now the best boyfriend.

Her cherry-red nails rest lightly on Coffee Cream Guy’s shoulder. “Marygrace, it’s so good to see you,” she says, looking effortlessly chic in a Burberry scarf and fitted jacket.

Meanwhile, I’ve shown up dressed like the before picture in a makeover montage.

Maybe it’s memories of high school, when all I wanted was to impress girls like Brooke. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just been dumped right before Christmas. Either way, I’m full-on panicking like I’ve been caught red-handed.

My crime? Eating my feelings.

I lower my baked-good-laden tray like somehow that will hide the evidence.

“I’m going to a party and made a quick pit stop for goodies,” I blurt, then immediately regret it.

If I’m attending any party, it’s a pity party of one.

But I’ve stepped in it now with a white lie, so I might as well double down.

“I’m actually late, so I should go,” I add with a high-pitched giggle that does nothing to hide my discomfort as I angle my tray toward the cash register.

Brooke’s brows pinch in gentle concern, but before anyone can say anything else, a girl dressed in all black with a red apron joins us.

“Excuse me, miss,” she says excitedly to me. “You’re in luck! We found a slice of Black Forest cake in the back. Do you want me to put it on your table?”

She nods toward my table in the corner—piled with empty plates, a half-full coffee mug, and the latest Yuletide Court romantasy novel open and face down. It was one of the books I scooped off the stack I’d brought with me on this trip.

Both Brooke’s and Coffee Cream Guy’s eyebrows lift. That table doesn’t scream “on my way to a party.” It screams “this girl is about to hibernate here until spring.” So much for my quick “pit stop” story.

Brooke’s boyfriend covers his mouth to hide his smirk.

I wish the bakery’s floor would just open and swallow me whole into a doughy, fondant-covered pit of shame.

But Brooke, being the ever-gracious person she’s always been, steps smoothly into the awkward silence and goes along with my lie.

“Could you please get a box for the rest of her tray?” she asks the server kindly. “She doesn’t want to be late for her party.”

I’m not sure why this small act of kindness has me on the verge of tears, yet here we are.

The server nods—still looking a little confused—and heads into the back.

“Well, I’ll let you get to your party,” Brooke says, giving my arm a light squeeze. “You’re still coming tonight, right?”

My belly flutters at the reminder of our friend Olivia’s bachelorette party this evening. Leave it to a spotlight queen like Olivia to have her bachelorette party on December 23 and her wedding day on December 26—then again, everyone’s in town for the holidays, so I get it.

Brooke’s eyes alight. “Oh! I heard you have a plus-one! I can’t wait to meet your date.” She looks around like my date is in the bakery.

And now I die. I groan inwardly, recalling how excited I was to update my wedding RSVP with an actual honest-to-goodness plus-one.

And now that Luke has bailed on me, I’m going to let down my mom—again—and I’ll be solo for Olivia’s wedding.

Maybe I can opt out of the wedding due to a strong case of tinselitis.

And since I’m already on Santa’s naughty list for lying about my pastries, I don’t reveal to Brooke that I no longer have a date for Olivia’s wedding. I’ve already embarrassed myself twice this morning—a third time would surely result in some kind of fine or penalty from the universe.

“Can’t wait!” I say as enthusiastically as a mall Santa on Christmas Eve.

With one more arm squeeze, Brooke sashays away with her walking Pinterest board of a boyfriend, and I brace against a counter and take a few deep breaths.

Rationally, I know it’s not the end of the world being caught wallowing in misery by someone like Brooke Basco, but emotionally I’m a mess, and my feelings are gut-punching my brain at the moment.

Just once. Just once I would’ve liked to bring someone home for Christmas. Just once I’d like to fit in with the rest of my perfect siblings. Is that too much to ask, Universe? But since I don’t expect the universe to answer my questions, I whip out my phone to text my cousin SOS instead.

“Marygrace?” a new but equally familiar voice asks from behind me. “Is that you?”

I pause. It’s like I heard a record scratch and time stands still—seems I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today. Whoever’s in charge of Christmas miracles clearly has the worst sense of humor. I swallow and spin around.

My ex–best friend stands tall and smiling like he’s genuinely happy to see me—though there’s a careful edge to it, just enough to remind me we’re not pretending the past never happened.

“Robbie,” I manage, trying to control the wobble in my voice. I look around nervously, wondering who else from high school is in the bakery. Mrs. Pham, my English teacher? Or maybe Mr. Anderson, my choir director? Robbie and I spent a lot of time with him, so that would track.

I inhale deeply and force a smile at someone I haven’t seen in person in years. Someone who I used to spend almost every waking moment with.

Someone who insisted he wanted to help me, and instead made me feel inadequate.

As my shock wears off, my head tilts with appreciation. Wow, those years have been extra kind to him.