The Holiday Honeymoon Switch

Prologue

December 16, 2016

New York City

Some things are meant to be together, especially at Christmastime—like popcorn and cranberries threaded through the boughs of a Douglas fir, or clementines studded with fragrant cloves. Stockings and fireplaces, angels and treetops, hot cocoa and marshmallows, ice skating and Rockefeller Center, mistletoe and stolen kisses, chestnuts and an open fire. The holly and the ivy.

Or, Holly and Ivy.

As in Holly Beech and Ivy Casey. The kind of best friends who finish each other’s sentences and each other’s experimental multicourse dinner party dishes. (Even the cassoulet pan.) The ones for whom those necklaces that say “best” on one side and “friends” on the other were created. Friends who have their own karaoke song (the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe,” naturally), a lexicon of inside jokes (that only get more humorous the less other people find them funny), and always say yes to randomly themed movie-marathon dates (for example, Every Movie Brad Pitt Has Ever Been In, Including and Perhaps Especially The Favor ). Taylor and Selena, Oprah and Gayle, Cameron and Drew, Bette and 50 Cent, Marissa and Summer…all of these friend duos have nothing on Holly and Ivy—who are about to meet for the first time.

Christmas break is almost here, and to mark the occasion, Phi Delta Epsilon is hosting its annual Columbia-U Christmas Kegger. Holly is already eyeing the door, though she knows her boyfriend, Matt, will, as usual, want to be Last Man Standing. (He has the T-shirt. He’s wearing it.) “Hey, sweetheart,” he slurs, pressing a red plastic Solo cup into her hand. “You gotta try the rum and eggnog.”

Holly tries to arrange her grimace into a smile as she looks into his flushed, handsome face. She accepts the cup and says, “Maybe you should stick with beer, though, Matty. Remember what happened at the Purple Jesus party.” He grins and gives her a sloppy kiss that smears across her cheek. “You’re always right. That’s why I love you, Holly McBollyface.”

He heads off in search of the beer, and she goes searching for somewhere to dump the noxious nog. She finds a windowsill and sets the cup down, longing for something slightly more palatable, knowing she won’t find it here. When she brought a nice bottle of wine to one of Matt’s fraternity-sorority mixers, she overheard two girls in the bathroom—people she had believed were, if not exactly her friends, at least friend- ly acquaintances—whispering about her. “I mean, what, is she forty?” A giggle. “Like, is she my mom ? Who brings Chablis to a toga/foam party?” Holly had tucked her feet up in the bathroom stall so she wouldn’t be spotted.

She is used to this. She has been called an “old soul” since she was five, when she begged her parents to let her stay up late and watch the Barbara Walters interview with Monica Lewinsky. Or when her nana got her a subscription to Highlights magazine when she was seven, and she asked if she could exchange it for the New Yorker . Still, she resolved never to bring wine to Matt’s frat parties thereafter unless it was in a box. She tries to fit in.

Lost in her thoughts, she stumbles over a group of partiers engaged in a bottle-flipping competition. “I did it! I landed it!” A girl with a high ponytail jumps up and down, her sleek hair bobbing along with her. Holly touches her own dark hair, which she flat-ironed for the party. The frat house is as humid as an August afternoon at the monkey hut in the Bronx Zoo, and she can feel the strands around her face and neck frizzing already.

Holly turns in another direction—and is nearly hit in the head by two people attempting to take selfies while high-fiving themselves. “2016, you are crazy ,” she whispers, backing away. But the reminder that a new year is approaching in two weeks brings a smile to her face. Despite having a festive first name, Holly has never connected with Christmas as she has with New Year’s Eve. Even thinking about the approaching blank slate of a new year causes a twang of anticipation to thrum through her body. New day planner, new set of notebooks, new goals, new dreams. On New Year’s Day, anything feels possible—and Holly has never understood why so many people end up spending such a sacred, possibility-filled twenty-four hours curled under duvets like hungover shrimp.

Matt has joined the bottle-flippers, and waves joyfully at Holly from across the room. She waves back and checks her watch: only 11:15. Too early to duck out, and besides, Matt needs someone to steer him away from the nog should he lose his way again.

Holly and Matt have been together since they were freshmen and locked eyes over a mud pit during a frosh week tug-of-war her new roommates dragged her to as a “team-building” exercise. Holly would likely have spent most of her college years at the library studying. Or in her room binge-watching nature documentaries—which she used to refer to as her “guilty pleasure” until her older brother, Ted, explained that watching documentaries about climate change and endangered species did not meet the definition of a guilty pleasure. The important thing is, Matt brings her out of her shell. Their dads went to Yale together, and their moms know each other from Vassar. Everyone is thrilled with the match, and they have their life together all planned out: graduate from Columbia, get accepted to Yale Law, move in together, secure jobs at A-list firms, get married, have kids.

Next week, Holly will see Matt’s parents at the annual Beech Family Christmas Eve Carol Sing, and she’ll be reminded of what a smart choice she’s made in her boyfriend. It will almost be enough to get her to enjoy the Christmas Eve Carol Sing—which is the opposite of the warm, welcoming gathering its name suggests. It’s a catered affair at Holly’s parents’ Brooklyn Heights town house. Musicians are hired to sing the carols; last year it was the Lumineers. Holly’s mother will stress about the caterer serving East Coast Canadian oysters when she requested West Coast. Holly’s brother—who works out of Belgium now as a chief scientist for the Environmental Defense Fund and only comes home at Christmas—will get in an argument about politics with their father, and Holly fears the 2016 political argument will be the worst one of all. Holly will find herself biting her nails to the quick, counting down the days until Christmas, with all its never-quite-met expectations, is behind her and she can start fresh in the new year, and spend at least one day feeling like she could be anyone and do anything.

She has plucked a bottle of water from a stack meant for flipping and is making a beeline for an empty couch she has just spotted in a dim corner when Matt calls out her name. “Holly! Come over here! There’s someone you have got to meet!”

Ivy Casey hates keg parties. But her current boyfriend, D’Arcy, is Phi Delta Epsilon. Ivy met him at a pub night she accidentally walked into after a life-drawing seminar. She has never dated a frat guy before and is pretty sure she isn’t going to be dating one for much longer—but she said yes to the keg party to give her roommate at Cooper Union and her visiting out-of-town boyfriend privacy. Plus, she figured if she didn’t have fun, it would be easy enough to duck out unnoticed and tell D’Arcy the next day that she was there all along; he just doesn’t remember.

She contemplates him from across the room. D’Arcy is tall, muscular, and Theo James–level handsome, complete with square jaw and cocky grin. He flips a plastic water bottle, lands it, and hugs the dark-blond, equally handsome guy beside him like he’s just scored a winning Hail Mary touchdown in the final quarter-second of the Super Bowl, complete with butt pats and Jesus-thanking hand gestures. As Ivy watches, she wonders if her latest relationship is going to make it through the night, let alone the holidays. Then she tosses her long, dark braid over one shoulder as she moves through the party, searching for somewhere to sit.

The song changes from “Work” by Rihanna to “Last Christmas” by Wham!, and half the room starts singing along. Ivy glances at her watch. 11:15. If the Christmas music lasts until midnight, she’s turning into a pumpkin and Cinderella-ing out of here. Her family doesn’t really do Christmas, and she’s never grown that attached to it. Her father sees the season as a capitalist plot designed to boost materialism, stupefy the masses with sugar and fat, and drown the planet in excess plastic packaging. Fair points. Last year, when Ivy went home to spend the holidays on her parents’ maple syrup farm in Quebec, she discovered her parents had left for Brazil to take a shaman-led ayahuasca journey in the Amazon rainforest, which was paid for by swapping farm equipment with an offbeat travel agent since her parents lead an entirely cash-free existence. Ivy wasn’t hurt—her parents have always marched to the beat of their own drum, and so has she. It just reminded her of why she doesn’t love the season. Too many expectations.

She spots an empty couch and starts toward it. She hears D’Arcy’s voice. “There you are!” He grabs her from behind and kisses her ear, then her neck. Ivy feels a small shiver of the attraction that made her notice D’Arcy in the first place. Maybe he’s just as tired of this party as she is and is about to suggest they go back to his room and do the one thing she is definitely sure she likes about him: he’s inventively great in bed and surprisingly generous for a total bro.

But no such luck.

“Isn’t this the sickest party?” he says. “And there’s someone I need you to meet. My best buddy, Matt—remember, I’ve told you all about him?” Ivy nods vaguely. “You’ve got to meet his girlfriend! Trust me, it’s a Christmas miracle! Come on, come on.” Pressing his body against hers from behind, he shuttles her through the room. The dark-blond guy D’Arcy was celebrating his bottle-flip with earlier is waving at them.

“This is Matt!” D’Arcy says with a flourish. Matt then pulls a pretty brunette with wide-set dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, gently frizzing hair, and a shy smile into their little semicircle. Matt and D’Arcy look like kids on Christmas morning. What is going on here?

“Ta-da!” Matt exclaims.

“Umm. Hi?” Ivy extends a hand to the young woman, who looks just as confused as she does.

“I’m Holly,” she says.

Realization dawns.

She winces. “I’m Ivy.”

“Oh, great,” Holly says, just as Matt and D’Arcy break into an intoxicated version of the carol “The Holly and the Ivy”—except they don’t know the words because no one does, so they mostly just shout-sing “The holly and the ivy! The holly and the ivy! Dadadadadadaaaaa! ”

“And!” D’Arcy says. “Look at you two. You’re like…” He searches for the right word and finally finds it. Sort of. “Doppelbangers.”

“I think you mean doppel- g?ngers ,” Holly murmurs.

“You both look just like Summer on The O.C. ,” Matt chimes in. “You two are like…twins! Twins who are also triplets with Rachel Bilson!”

“It’s a freaking Christmas miracle,” D’Arcy says, and the two bump chests before Matt stares into his empty cup and says, “Think we’ve earned a refill,” then pulls D’Arcy with him toward the back of the keg line. “We’ll leave you two to get acquainted!” Matt calls out over his shoulder.

Holly and Ivy stand staring at each other like two shy girls on a playdate their moms set up for them. Ivy isn’t usually socially awkward, but feels suddenly nervous. She studies Holly and has to admit there is a similarity between them. Same thick eyebrows, wide mouths, and pointed chins. Same carob-brown shade of hair.

“I really hate keg parties,” she says—at the exact moment Holly says the same thing. They both laugh. The ice is broken.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, care for an ice-cold glass of sauv blanc, would you?” Ivy asks, shaking the vacuum-sealed metal water bottle she’s carrying.

Holly’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding me? That is precisely, exactly what I would care for.”

They head for the empty couch, grabbing Solo cups along the way. When they’re settled, Ivy fills Holly’s cup, then her own. Holly takes a sip and closes her eyes.

“This is so good . Thank you.”

“My dad’s friend owns a winery in the Loire Valley, and my dad trades him a case of maple syrup for a case of this every year. My parents’ preferred libations are cannabis cocktails and hard kombucha, so he gives it to me. I usually save it for special occasions, but the new year is almost here.” Ivy can’t help it; she grins at the thought. “And I still had one bottle left, so…” She taps her cup against Holly’s. “ Santé. ”

“Trading for maple syrup, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that technique for getting good wine. Most people I know just buy it.”

“My parents live completely cash-free, and after the Great Maple Syrup Heist of 2011, my dad realized maple syrup is like liquid gold. So he and my mom traded their yoga-and-meditation chalet in the Laurentian Mountains of Quebec, where I mostly grew up, for a large maple tree acreage nearby, and now that’s what they do.”

“Great Maple Syrup Heist?”

“Maybe you have to be Canadian to have heard of that one.” Ivy shrugs. “Although I’m a dual citizen, actually. I was born unexpectedly in a yurt at a New Mexico silence retreat. But here I am, talking too much about myself and not asking about you. Tell me about yourself, Holly. I want to know everything.”

“Oh, I’m not nearly as interesting. Born in New York City, live in New York City, probably will forever.”

“Not a bad thing, New York City is the best . Which part?”

“Brooklyn Heights. But seriously, enough about me. I can see why D’Arcy’s so crazy about you. You’re fascinating! Tell me more about growing up at a yoga retreat, then a tree farm.”

Ivy bites her lip and decides to be honest. “Listen, I don’t think I’m really…very well matched with D’Arcy. I know he’s your boyfriend’s best friend, but I already like you and I can’t lie to you about this. I’m pretty sure I’m leaving this party tonight without him and may not see him again.” She tilts her head. “I’m sorry, that sounds cold. I’m not really a romantic. I try—but I haven’t met the right guy yet, maybe. Is it too mean to break up with someone at this time of year?”

Holly looks stunned for a moment, and Ivy wonders if her honesty has been too much. But then she says, “Wow, that was refreshingly truthful,” and Ivy is so relieved she hasn’t scared Holly off that she grasps her new friend’s arm.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Holly says. “D’Arcy is…well, he’s a good friend to Matt. They’re like brothers. But I personally could not imagine dating him. Plus, he has the attention span of a fruit fly. As much as he likes you, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Ivy decides not to go overboard on the honesty and blurt out that she thinks Holly is dating an alternate version of D’Arcy and that she couldn’t imagine dating Matt, either—and instead says, “Matt seems great. How long have you two been together?” She refills their cups as Holly briefly details their two-year relationship, which sounds to Ivy like it ticks a lot of boxes.

“Do you love him?”

Holly seems surprised at the question, but then smiles and looks down at her lap. “I do. We were meant to be. We have our life all planned out. I feel lucky I found him because I’m not exactly a social butterfly, but he gets me out of my comfort zone.” The song has switched to “My Only Wish (This Year)” by Britney Spears, and half the people at the party start singing along again. Ivy and Holly both roll their eyes at the same time.

“Even Britney doing Christmas isn’t enough to get me in the spirit tonight,” Ivy says.

“Me neither! I could seriously skip right over Christmas and straight to New Year’s Eve.” Holly’s eyes are wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that.”

“You’ve come to the right place. My parents don’t celebrate Christmas because they say it’s an empty, materialistic holiday designed for the sole purpose of fueling the economy and bolstering capitalism—”

“ Whoa. ”

“Yeah. Sharon and Ron are a lot, but I love and accept them for who they are. Anyway, when I was a kid, I just sort of glommed on to New Year’s. Shouldn’t that be the big event of the holidays? The moment when everything resets and we all get to start fresh? How exciting is that?”

“ So exciting. It’s like you’re reading my mind. My parents make it seem like if we don’t have a perfect Christmas every single year, our lives are ruined, but the result has always been the same. Something inevitably goes wrong. It’s always a letdown. But I am never disappointed by New Year’s Eve because no matter what, you get to wake up the next day with something brand-new and all your own. A whole new year. And, if you’ve thought ahead, a new day planner, too.”

Ivy is grinning. “I’m so glad I didn’t sneak out of this party early.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, too. If you had left and never seen D’Arcy again, I never would have had the chance to meet you.”

Ivy sighs. “I do feel bad, okay? I’m not totally heartless. He’s a sweet guy. I want to feel a spark, I really do. I’ve just never…been swept away by anyone, you know? I mean, aside from my high school boyfriend, who I was madly in love with. But that was seventy-five percent hormones and twenty-five percent proximity, and everyone has to have their heart smashed to smithereens at least once, so I’m just glad I got it out of the way early.”

Holly is nodding. “I get it. Swept away. Like in that Brad Pitt movie, the one where he’s the grim reaper.”

“Yes! Meet Joe Black ! The scene where Anthony Hopkins tells Claire Forlani she and her boyfriend have as much passion for each other as…”

“A pair of titmice!”

“Yes! And then he says he wants her to get swept away .”

“ Levitate. ”

Ivy raises her hands in the air. “ Sing with rapture and dance like a dervish. Anyway, I’m happy you have that with Matt.”

Just then, Matt jumps up on a chair and starts gyrating his hips, Elvis-style, along to Britney Spears’s voice. Holly gazes at him, an inscrutable expression on her face.

“Do you think it’s fair to titmice to say they lack passion?” she finally says, looking away from Matt. “Maybe titmice are quite passionate.”

“Entirely possible. I mean, they have the word ‘tit’ in their name.”

Holly laughs, but then grows serious again. “I’m not sure Matt has ever made me levitate or dance like a dervish—and I’m pretty sure the only thing that makes him feel that way are keg parties. But we’re still good together. I don’t think movies always provide the most accurate depiction of true love.”

“You mean I should not be taking dating advice from a movie where Brad Pitt plays the grim reaper?”

Holly smiles. “Definitely not. But maybe 2017 will be the year you find rapturous, passionate love. Who knows?”

“Or titmouse love. Either one. Meanwhile, I’m ready to say goodbye to 2016 and see what’s next.”

For the next hour, they sit on the couch, drinking Ivy’s wine and making a list of all the things they’re looking forward to saying goodbye to once 2016 draws to a close.

“Bottle-flipping,” Ivy says.

“Dabbing,” Holly adds.

“The rainbow-food trend. I do not want a rainbow burger!”

Ivy groans. “Or a rainbow bagel!”

“No more rainbow food, full stop!”

“Avocado on everything. Please, no more avocado on everything .”

“The ‘is it a puppy or is it a bagel’ meme trend.”

Ivy nearly spits out her wine laughing. “And the ‘is it a baby or is it a bread roll’ one!”

They keep volleying back and forth, giggling—or sometimes getting serious, and still agreeing on everything—until the wine is almost gone and their cheeks and sides hurt from laughing.

“Okay, but there must have been something good about 2016, right?” Ivy pours the last of the wine into Holly’s cup and folds her legs underneath herself.

Holly thinks for a moment. “Beyonce’s Lemonade ?”

“ Yes. And I think I read somewhere there are more tigers now.”

“And more solar power.”

“Jackie Chan won an Oscar.”

“Meghan Markle started dating Prince Harry this year.”

Ivy sighs. “Yeah, but that means he’s no longer available for me to date.”

“You’d want to date Prince Harry?” Holly asks.

“Sure, for a couple of weeks. I’d date anyone for a couple of weeks. Especially a prince.”

“I have no idea what that’s like, serial dating. Is it so fun?”

“You’re a serial monogamist. Correct read?”

Holly ducks her head. “Correct. I dated the same guy all through high school, and Matt and I met during frosh week. So…yeah. You’ve got me pegged.”

“Well, chacun à son go?t ,” Ivy says. “I promise. I’ll never judge you.”

“I promise I’ll never judge you, either.” They lock eyes for a moment and the promise is sealed.

“And we’ll always be honest, the way you were with me about D’Arcy.”

Ivy rustles around in her woven bag. She takes out a hair elastic and hands it to her new friend. “Your hair,” she says. “It’s getting a little…”

“ Thank you. ” Holly grabs the elastic. “Bad night to choose to straighten my hair. It’s so humid in here! I’m a frizzball.”

“That’s why I went with a braid.”

“Same curly, wavy, doesn’t-really-know-what-it-is hair?”

“The very same.”

“Want to know one good thing about 2016, Ivy? Us meeting.” Holly smiles as she ties back her hair, and Ivy smiles back—and they both agree for years to come that the night they met was the most fun they’ve ever had at a Christmas party.