Fake it ‘Til Christmas

Prologue

Winnifred

I don’t have anything against Christmas unless I’m in Winterberry Cove at my parents’ home. That’s when everything turns from merry and bright to—what’s the opposite? Oh, right. Holiday hellscape.

My mother insists on dressing the dogs in matching velvet bowties, my father starts spiking the eggnog at breakfast, and my siblings revert to the emotional maturity of sock-stealing toddlers.

Add in unsolicited questions about my nonexistent love life, the annual rewatch of The Family Stone, where I’m expected to cry at the same moments, and the cursed mistletoe ambushes from my matchmaking aunts.

Yeah. Cue Kelly Clarkson’s Have a Not So Bitter Christmas—it would fit. Yes, I know, I know, that’s not even a song with that name, but wouldn’t it be delightful if it were?

All I have left is the shrill sound of my sanity unraveling.

I lost Christmas again.

Next year, I’ll be the one gliding into the holidays like a walking holiday catalog. I’ll have a boyfriend who wears plaid shirts because he owns an axe, not because it’s a trend. He’ll know how to string lights without turning it into a five-stage meltdown.

I’ll show up with perfectly wrapped gifts, not a single bow mangled in transit. I’ll radiate the effortless joy of someone who did not cry in the public restroom at the gas station just outside town because her nerves were shot right before arriving at her parents.

But for now?

I’m alone, dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel, leaving Winterberry Freaking Cove while the local carolers across the street launch into a five-part harmony like it’s opening night.

Do I want to yell, “It’s not Christmas anymore”?

Sure, but if I do, it will get back to my parents.

You know, small towns communicate telepathically.

I can’t find any other explanation as to how you play hooky, and two seconds later, your mother is dragging you back home like you’re a delinquent.

And I’m the Grinch. Not the redeemed one. The full-cape, sneering-on-the-mountain version. I’m heading back to Colorado and won’t come back . . . until next year, of course.

It’s fine. Totally fine.

Next year, I’m winning Christmas.