23
Robbie rubs imaginary sweat off his forehead. “Phew, I’m glad you’re in because I don’t know the real lyrics to Christmas songs.” He grabs the mic and launches into song: “Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer… drank too much tequila last night—”
“Shhhh.” I yank the mic away from him, tapping it to ensure that it wasn’t on and that we didn’t just traumatize the children of Piney Junction.
But he keeps going, undeterred: “Jingle bells, vodka smells, Santa’s passed out cold—”
“You win, stop.” I bite back a laugh, covering my smirk with my hand.
“See?” He’s laughing now. “That’s why I need you.”
The words zip something through me. But I know they’re just nerves. I can handle nerves.
The festival coordinator hurries up to us, two limp and deflated costumes hanging over her arms.
“This is all I could find, unless one of you wants to be the Christmas tree—”
“We don’t want to take anything else from that poor guy,” Robbie says, receiving what looks like an elf costume from her and glancing backstage where the musician is sitting drooped over his deceased guitar. The guy lifts his head up like he feels us watching and gives us a weak thumbs-up.
“Here.” The festival coordinator thrusts my costume into my hands. “Get changed. Santa’s coming in three minutes.”
I swallow hard and look down at the lump of fabric in my hand. An antler and a red nose peek out from the pile.
Reindeer onesie, we meet again.
I heave the biggest breath I can and tug my reindeer onesie over my head. Then, from the safety of my Rudolph costume, I glance at the crowd. My heart races seeing an audience full of Santa hats, sequined snowflakes, and eager faces brimming with holiday cheer. I don’t want to let them down.
The coordinator pops back onstage to flash us a signal—one minute until showtime.
I take a deep breath and lift my eyes to the sky, which is an overcast gray quickly fading into a deep evening blue.
The glittering strings of light strung across the square wink to life and illuminate the bright red banner above the crowd, where Piney Junction Christmas Festival is written in festive gold letters.
Toward the back of the crowd, I spot a familiar set of faces. The Moraleses. Jamie’s got his hands up in a big V like he’s just scored a touchdown. I read his lips and see he’s chanting my name. His sister’s holding her phone up recording me.
I should feel nothing but white-hot panic, but something about seeing their cheerful faces is making me excited. It’s so helpful seeing friendly faces in the crowd.
“You ready?” Robbie asks. His voice is low, but I can hear it over the din of my rushing heart and the excited murmurs of the crowd.
I turn to look at him where he’s standing behind his keyboard. His face is as bright as a Christmas tree. I gulp in a big breath of air.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m ready.”
I flick the switch on the mic then close my eyes as Robbie strikes the familiar opening chords on his keyboard of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” the jazzy Michael Bublé version. My microphone rises on instinct, and before I can stop myself, I’m belting out the first verse.
I sway as the words pour out of me, Robbie’s keyboard notes perfectly in sync with mine, giving me confidence.
We feel like flawless complements, a harmony I didn’t know I needed.
I’m barely aware of the crowd, barely aware of Santa himself strolling onto the stage. All I can feel is the music—and Robbie.
When I hit the final note, my arm lifts and I point up at the stars. The applause is thunderous. They loved us. They loved our music.
I glance back at Robbie. His grin is wide, his eyes shining with pride as he slides seamlessly into “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” I channel the Kelly Clarkson version. The crowd goes wild.
I lean in to the beats, let the melody carry me instead of fighting it. My shoulders loosen. My breath deepens. By the second verse, I’m soaring.
Singing feels like slipping on an old favorite sweater—soft, familiar, exactly the right weight. I’d forgotten how much I love this. I feel generous. I feel brave. I feel alive.
Meanwhile, dancers dressed as Santa’s elves twirl and leap across the center of the stage, their bells jingling in time with the music.
Mrs. Claus joins them with a cheerful wave, her red dress glittering under the stage lights.
The bubbly event coordinator flashes me the high sign to cue the lighting, and I step forward.
“All right, everyone,” I say, words rolling out of me automatically. I can feel my smile so big it’s going to split my face. “Let’s count down from ten to help Santa and Mrs. Claus light the tree!”
The crowd chants with me, voices rising higher with each number. At “One!” Santa and Mrs. Claus slam their hands onto a giant red button.
The Christmas tree behind us bursts to life in a dazzling blaze, its branches winking with thousands of tiny lights that make playful spirals all the way to the top.
The vibrant ornaments catch the glow and shimmer like a treasure chest tipped open under the night sky.
Silver and gold tinsel garlands ripple and sway, tossing reflections across the square.
A wave of delighted gasps rises from the crowd, followed by thunderous applause like a drumbeat of joy.
Children clap their mittened hands, couples lean a little closer together, and I bet even the grumpiest bah-humbug bystander can’t resist a smile.
The tree glows so brilliantly it rivals the early evening stars. It’s absolutely magical.
I glance sideways and catch Robbie looking at me—his face lit with pure delight, his eyes shining with pride. “You’re amazing,” he mouths.
As he does, he hits the opening notes of one of our favorite Christmas songs: “Christmastime” by the Smashing Pumpkins. I move out of the spotlight to stand by him so he can sing harmony.
My heart swells. The melody carries me back to when we used to perform together, how natural it felt to let our voices intermingle into one harmony. I get closer, our sound fusing into the song’s soft, aching beauty—a mix of love, nostalgia, and quiet magic.
I’ve never felt more alive. More free than on the stage now. Time loop be damned. Even if none of this is real, this moment is everything. And I’m going to keep it with me like the best Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten.
I open my eyes at the final note. The square is silent. Even Santa has stopped mid-wave, staring at me wide-eyed. A shiver prickles down my spine. Did I do something wrong?
I glance at Robbie. His jaw is hanging open.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“You killed it. You—” His words are cut off as the crowd erupts in applause and piercing whistles, the noise crashing over me like a spotlight I never knew I needed.
I think I can hear Jamie wolf whistling.
Phones shoot up, glowing like tiny lanterns, and though part of me straightens with pride, another part wants to duck and hide.
But Robbie doesn’t let me. He steps forward, grinning, and bows beside me.
Then—like he’s done at every recital since we were five—he steps back and points straight at me, gesturing for the audience to cheer louder. “You sing lead,” he says.
“You’ll be my backup,” I say with a knowing grin. It was like our childhood phrase was made for this moment. My heart swells. I’m so happy Robbie made me do this.
He leans close, voice low just for me. “How about one more?”
He winks as he jumps behind his keyboard.
“Remember this one?” The instant I hear the notes, my body tenses. Robbie is playing my original Christmas song, “This Christmas.”
My eyes widen. It’s one thing to sing a classic carol everyone knows, but an unfinished original? A song no one’s ever heard, with lyrics I haven’t fully worked out yet? It would be impossible and irresponsible to play that song tonight.
His fingers keep moving on the keys. I’m floored that Robbie remembers the melody.
It’s been years. He grins and his tune melts into another song.
A rush of relief fills me. He isn’t suggesting we sing my unfinished song.
Instead, I recognize the melody and break into a wide grin.
It’s a duet we used to perform as kids, when I was a hardcore Belieber, purple wardrobe and all.
For the duet version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” I would sing the part of the Queen of Christmas herself, Mariah Carey, and Robbie would take Justin’s part.
My belly flips with excitement. This is a fun one to perform.
I squeeze in extra tight so the microphone is next to him. Suddenly I’m very conscious how close our mouths are, and soon we’re swept away by the energy of our singing, our bodies swaying side by side, and the crowd joining in.
Singing with Robbie feels like coming home after a long journey, Christmas morning, and warm chocolate chip brownies. Cozy, exciting, and delicious.
My body tingles like it’s going to explode when his hand touches mine as we hold the microphone together. As we take turns singing harmony, it’s a rush of adrenaline as our words and bodies mix and mingle.
Soon it’s just the microphone in between us, our faces turned to one another only inches apart. The joy in his eyes, in his body is magnetic.
“Kiss her!” someone from the crowd screams. I blush as others in the crowd hoot and catcall.
“This must be how it feels to be caught on a kiss cam,” Robbie jokes and immediately steps away from me.
I wince and remember with a bolt that my “boyfriend” and his whole family are out in the audience.
I scan the crowd for Jamie, but can’t find him. But amid the sea of red and green I see a flash of midnight blue. My blood freezes, and I squint into the sea of onlookers with rising nerves. It’s quick but I spot Madam Lunas smiling at me before disappearing among the throngs of people.
A gentle pressure squeezes my arm. “Deep breath,” Robbie says. “We did it!”
He lifts my hand above our heads in a final bow.
“Now we make an elegant exit,” he says through a smile. “Give them one more wave.”
I still feel a little like my soul has left my body, but he guides me gently off the stage.
“Most people get stage fright before their performance,” he says once we’re behind the platform.
Prerecorded, piped-in music has begun to play as the crowd disperses.
I try to shake off the feeling of dread that’s chilling me to the bone after seeing Madam Lunas in the crowd.
Surely it means I’m going to be knocked out again, but I’m not ready to go yet.
“You did amazing, Marygrace,” Robbie says, “but I get it. Sometimes the rush of adrenaline can be too much.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “For everything.”
“Of course.” He grins. “Glad we got the band back together after all.”
I can’t help myself as I lean my head under his neck and he wraps me in a hug and rocks me back and forth.
All these cycles, I’ve felt so lost and confused, except for my time with Robbie.
He’s been here for me every time. He rubs my back, and all I want to do is stay there against his plaid jacket and hard chest, which is as cozy and comforting as the stocking-decorated fireplace at my mom’s house.
I wonder if I told him about Madam Lunas, if he’d believe me.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask.
“I think I can guess what you’re going to say,” he says, then his cheeks turn pink. “I’ve always had a thing for you, too, MGS.”
“What?” Suddenly I can’t breathe. I step away in shock.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says quickly. “But it’s just, being with you tonight… it’s like fate.”
I freeze. Did he say fate?
“Sugar!” Suddenly strong arms are lifting me up off the ground from behind. “That was amazing!”
Jamie sets me down and spins me around to show me a post on his phone. “My followers are obsessed with you after that performance!”
Jamie’s parents and sister jog up behind him, bright smiles on their faces.
“You were incredible!” Eliza says, jumping up and down on her toes. “Why didn’t you tell me you could sing like that?”
“And who is your friend?” Mrs. Morales asks, peering over my shoulder. “He was excellent!”
I spin to find Robbie staring at the Morales family, his cheeks gone pale.
“Robbie,” I say uselessly. “This is Robbie. My friend from childhood.”
“Jamie.” Jamie sticks his hand out. “You might know me as MoraLifts.”
Robbie’s words are still ringing in my ears. I’ve always had a thing for you. It’s like fate.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You’re here at the festival with your boyfriend?” His voice sounds empty and ragged.
“He’s more of a… holidate,” I mutter.
“Sugar, we’ve been together for almost a year,” Jamie says with a frown. “I’m more than just your holidate.”
Robbie’s eyes dart across my face like he’s searching for the truth.
“So it’s serious?” he asks, nearly a whisper.
“No,” I say so softly it’s nearly drowned out by Jamie’s loud “Yes.”
The three of us stand there in silence, just as a synth pop beat filters in through the music system. My stomach plummets as George Michael starts to sing.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, eyes darting between both Jamie and Robbie.
Both men I hurt. But how can I explain without telling them about the time loop?
How do I tell Jamie that even though he thinks we’ve been together for almost a year and that we are blowing up the internet with our #couplegoals, I’ve never even met his mom in the timeline that I’m from?
And how do I tell Robbie that even though I’m here with Jamie, I think I’ve also just realized that I’ve got the same feelings for him that he does for me?
That even though Madam Lunas told me I was supposed to be in love with one of my exes, that this evening has also felt like… fate?
I open my mouth to start to speak when someone starts shouting from behind us.
“Watch out!”
I turn just in time to see a rogue Skee-Ball flying right toward my face.
Then everything goes black.