Chapter 14
Holden
The community center looks like Christmas threw up and then someone bedazzled the vomit. There are approximately seventeen thousand twinkle lights, enough garland to strangle a small army, and what appears to be a life-sized nativity scene made entirely of gingerbread.
"Is that supposed to be edible?" I ask Finn, who's wearing a tuxedo that's definitely seen better decades.
"Giuseppe made it," he explains. "So technically yes, but probably not a good idea."
"How is something like that not edible?" I ask.
"The health department issued a warning the last five years," he says. "Something about structural frosting and load-bearing candy canes."
I adjust my 2024 suit. The suit fits differently now—probably because I've been eating Giuseppe's questionably legal food for weeks and my body has adapted to survive on chaos and carbohydrates.
"You clean up well for an heir to a few billion dollars," June observes, appearing with a notepad because she's covering the gala for the newspaper.
"Former heir," I correct. "Currently, I'm just a guy with one callus and a suit that will have to last the next few decades."
The band plays what might be "Silent Night" or might be a cry for help. It's hard to tell with the acoustic situation in here. Teddy's on drums, which explains the concerning tempo changes.
"Have you seen Wren?" I ask, scanning the crowd.
"She's in the bathroom with the committee ladies," Finn says. "Emergency flask distribution."
"Giuseppe really made chocolate flasks?" I ask.
"Five different flavors," he confirms. "Courage, Confidence, Chaos, Chocolate, and one he won't identify."
"That's concerning," I observe.
"Welcome to Giuseppe's world," he shrugs.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, if the Red Sea was made of small-town gossips in formal wear, and Malcolm appears. He's wearing a tuxedo that probably costs more than my former inheritance and a smile that makes me want to punch things. Specifically, him.
"You must be the mechanic," he says, offering a handshake that's definitely trying to establish dominance.
"You must be the guy with the tiny yacht," I respond, matching his grip.
His smile falters slightly. "I don't believe we've met."
"Holden Clark," I say. "Wren's boyfriend."
"Malcolm Conway," he replies. "Wren's future."
"Presumptuous much?" I note.
"I have confidence," he corrects. "Something you develop when you have a yacht."
"Or when you pretend your fishing boat is a yacht," I suggest. “Don’t you have a date?”
His face does something interesting—like he's trying to smile and scowl simultaneously. “Just a minor detail.” He looks around the room. "Anastasia!" he calls, and a woman who looks like she was assembled by an Instagram algorithm appears. "This is the mechanic I mentioned."
"Oh, the one who can't afford a boat?" she asks sweetly, and I understand immediately why Malcolm chose her. They're perfectly matched in their awfulness.
"The one who doesn't need a boat to compensate for anything," I clarify.
"What exactly are you implying?" Malcolm asks.
"Nothing," I say innocently. "Just that some of us are secure enough without maritime props."
Before he can respond, the bathroom door opens, and the committee emerges in what can only be described as tactical formation.
Delia leads, carrying a clipboard and wearing a dress that could probably stop bullets.
Mrs. Patterson follows with what appears to be a purse full of flasks.
Giuseppe brings up the rear, already slightly swaying.
And then there's Wren.
She's wearing a green dress that makes her look like a Christmas angel who's considering arson. Her hair is up in some complicated arrangement that probably required engineering degrees, and she's clutching a chocolate flask like it contains the antidote to this entire evening.
"Wren!" Malcolm calls out. "You look... adequate."
"Adequate?" June whispers, scribbling furiously. "He said adequate?"
"His version of a compliment," Wren says, approaching our group. "Last year he told me I looked 'not entirely unfortunate.'"
"How romantic," I mutter.
"Holden," she acknowledges me with a nod that's trying very hard to be professional.
"Wren," I reply. "You look beautiful."
"Excessive," Malcolm counters. "Beauty should be understated."
"Like your yacht?" I ask innocently.
"My yacht is perfectly stated," he says defensively.
"Is that what we're calling small now?" Giuseppe asks loudly. "Perfectly stated?"
"Who told you it was small?" Malcolm demands.
"The photos where you use the same angle to hide the actual size," I explain. "Very clever composition. Photography 101."
"Size doesn't matter," Anastasia interjects. "It's about the journey."
"Classic small boat defense," Mrs. Patterson observes.
"It's not small!" Malcolm protests. "It's... efficiently designed."
"Now you're just making it worse," Teddy adds helpfully from behind his drums.
Malcolm's face is turning an interesting shade of red that clashes with his bow tie.
The band launches into what's definitely not "Jingle Bells" but has similar energy. Couples start moving to the dance floor with varying degrees of success.
"Wren," Malcolm says, offering his hand. "Shall we dance?"
"Actually—" she starts.
"She promised me the first dance," I interrupt.
"I did?" she asks, then catches my eye. "I did. Earlier. When we were... discussing dancing."
"You were discussing dancing?" Malcolm asks suspiciously.
"Extensively," I confirm. "We discuss all kinds of things. Dancing, ceiling stains, anxiety alphabetization."
"Anxiety alphabetization?" Anastasia asks. "Is that a Vermont thing?"
"It's a Wren thing," I say, offering her my hand. "Shall we?"
She takes it, and I can feel her trembling slightly. Or maybe that's the floor vibrating from Teddy's enthusiastic drumming.
"I don't actually remember promising you a dance," she whispers as I lead her onto the floor.
"You didn't," I admit. "But I couldn't let you suffer through dancing with him." I say, pulling her into position.
She laughs, and suddenly we're dancing. Not the awkward, committee-scored dancing from practice, but actual dancing. The kind where you forget other people exist.
"You're good at this," she breathes.
"You're easy to dance with," I reply. "When you're not trying to alphabetize your steps."
"I wasn't alphabetizing," she protests. "I was chronologically ordering."
"Even worse," I inform her.
"More efficient," she argues.
"Dancing isn't supposed to be efficient," I say, spinning her.
"Tell that to Malcolm," she says, nodding toward where he's attempting to dance with Anastasia while apparently explaining optimal arm positions.
"Is he giving her instructions?" I ask.
"He always gives instructions," she confirms. "Last year he made dance cards with suggested tempo notations."
"He needs therapy," I observe.
"With Malcolm, there's no difference between normal and needing therapy," she corrects.
The song ends, but I don't let go. Neither does she.
"We should probably stop," she says.
"Eventually," I agree, pulling her closer for the next song.
"People are watching," she points out.
"Let them," I say. “I don’t care.”
"The committee is scoring us," she warns.
"Then we better give them something worth scoring," I suggest, dipping her dramatically.
She laughs again, and I realize this is the first time since Sterling's revelation that she's seemed actually happy.
"Why did you really come tonight?" she asks quietly.
"To see you in that dress," I answer honestly.
"Holden—"
"And to make sure Malcolm doesn't convince you that adequate is a compliment," I add. "And to prove that even without the Pierce name or money or Sterling's corporate backing, I'm still the guy who wants to dance with you."
"You're also the guy who lied to me," she reminds me.
"Yes," I agree. "I'm that guy too. But I'm trying to be better."
"By stalking Malcolm's Instagram account?" she asks.
"By protecting you from him," I correct. "It's basically a public service."
"ATTENTION EVERYONE!" Delia's voice booms through the sound system. "It's time for the traditional gala activities!"
"There are traditional activities?" I ask Wren.
"Oh no," she mutters. "I forgot about the activities."
"What activities?" I ask suddenly nervous.
"Competitive carol singing, three-legged gift wrapping, and..." she pauses, looking horrified. "The mistletoe gauntlet."
"The what now?" I ask.
"Every couple has to walk through the mistletoe tunnel," Teddy explains, appearing beside us with his drums strapped to his back for mobility. "It's tradition."
"Sounds like forced intimacy to me," I point out.
"Same thing in Snowfall Creek," he says cheerfully.
"I need a flask," Wren announces.
"Which flavor?" Mrs. Patterson asks, appearing with her purse arsenal. "I recommend Courage with a splash of Chaos."
"Just give me whatever will help me survive the next hour," Wren says.
"That would be the unmarked one," Giuseppe says, swaying slightly. "But I don't recommend it."
"Why not?" she asks.
"I can't remember what I put in it," he admits. "But it's either very good or very dangerous."
"With your cooking, there's no difference," June points out.
"Exactly!" Giuseppe says proudly.
"First up," Delia announces, "competitive carol singing! Each couple must perform one verse of a traditional carol with interpretive dance!"
"I'm leaving," Malcolm announces.
"Participation is mandatory," Delia informs him. "It's in the bylaws."
"Since when?" he demands.
"Since you showed up at a social event," she says firmly.
I look at Wren. "Partners?"
She looks at me, then at Malcolm, who's trying to convince Anastasia that interpretive dance is beneath them, then back at me.
"Fine," she says. "But if we're doing this, we're winning."
"Winning carol karaoke?" I ask.
"It's not karaoke if there's no machine," she corrects. "It's just public humiliation with melody."
"Even better," I say. "What's our strategy?"
"Chaos," she decides. "Pure chaos."