11. Merry Christmas, Abbi

CHAPTER 11

MERRY CHRISTMAS, ABBI

ABBI

“Okay, Abbi. Now we’re going to put these boots into the bindings.”

We’re standing outside in the snow together. It’s a crisp, sunny day, and I’m decked out in borrowed cross-country ski gear. Weston had asked me if I wanted to try it. In a moment of foolish bravery, I said yes.

This could go poorly. But what does it matter, right? There’s nobody around to see me fall.

Except for the hottest guy at Moo U.

He kneels down in the snow. We’re wearing matching LL Bean snow pants from the Griggs family stash. “Put your toe right here.” Weston lifts one of my boots in gentle hands and guides it onto a cross-country ski.

But naturally, I begin to wobble. And my choices are to either grab Weston’s head or fall over in the snow.

I choose Weston’s head. He chuckles as I put him in some kind of new wrestling hold in order to remain vertical. But he carries on, setting my other foot into the other ski, while I cling to him like a doofus.

“You said this was easy,” I accuse, finally letting go of his head. I can’t help but notice how soft his hair is. I want to sift my fingers through it .

He stands up and smiles at me. “It is easy. Just stand there a second while I put my skis on.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m regretting all my life choices right now.”

Weston had asked me whether I wanted to ice skate—which I can do, but not as well as he can—or try cross country. Foolishly, I picked this. And now there are slidey boards stuck to the bottom of my feet.

“Almost there,” he says, stepping effortlessly into his own skis. Then he hands me a set of poles with straps on them. “Put your whole wrist through that loop—upward—and then grab the pole.”

“Got it. Thanks. If I fall down and break something, we can use these to drag my body back to the house.”

Weston cracks up. “C’mon, Abbi. You got this. We’re just going to shuffle forward. The track is just over there.” He points with a pole toward the trees. “Follow me.” Then he scoots off in that direction.

I try to mimic his stride, with each pole alternating sides with my skis. And it’s…doable, I guess. I’m shuffling along behind him with tiny little strides, taking care not to fall down.

When we reach the tree line, I see the track. It’s a flattened path in the snow. And off to the side there’s a set of two grooves through the snow, side by side. “Is that where we put our skis?”

“Yup,” he says. “You don’t even have to steer. Let the track do the work. Go on. Try it.”

Gingerly, I slide in, one awkward ski at a time. When Weston leads me forward again, though, it’s definitely easier. I scoot each ski forward in a rhythm, poling with my hands to propel me along.

“Yesssss!” he shouts. “That’s it!”

I move forward on the perfect white snow, pine trees on either side of me. There’s a brilliant blue sky overhead. “Okay, this is almost fun.”

“Almost?” he snickers.

“Well, I’m slow,” I admit. “I could probably walk faster than I’m skiing right now.”

“With all of five minutes’ experience, I really would have expected better from you.”

“I know, right? ”

He leaves the track and glides up next to me on the path. “Do me a favor and try to ski like a gorilla.”

Still striding, I throw him a quick glance. “Why? So you can blackmail me with the pictures later?”

“Thanks for that brilliant idea, but all I was trying to do was lengthen your stride.”

“Show me,” I demand, stopping midstride.

“Sure thing. Look. I’m bending my knees a little bit, reaching my arms out, my upper body tilted forward. And…” He starts to move. “Hoo hoo hoo hee hee,” he says, pursing his lips like a gorilla.

I can’t help it. I giggle just like his female fan club at the Biscuit after a game.

“Hoo hoo hoo,” he says, striding forward. And—fine—I can see how the posture assists his skiing. He circles back, the gorilla noises growing louder. He doesn’t even stop when a man skis by him with a tiny kid in a pack on his back.

Yup. I’m a little more in love with him than I was already. Any hot guy who will voluntarily humiliate himself to teach you to ski has got to be a keeper.

“Your turn.” He stands up straight and smiles at me.

“All right,” I agree. “But only because you’re a really good sport.”

“Nah,” he says. “That title goes to you this weekend. Now let’s see it. Show me some gorilla, Abbi.”

I skip the noises. But I lean forward and start skiing again.

“Yeah! There you go.” He glides forward and ignores the track in favor of skiing next to me. We press on as the path turns around the lake. I can see skaters out in the center, and steam rising from the little metal chimneys on several of the ice fishing huts.

“You do any fishing?”

“Nope,” he says. “Too boring. Ice fishing is for old guys with beer guts. They just sit in there and drink all day.”

We ski side by side, and I start to get the hang of it. But it’s work. I’m puffing along now, and a light breeze sends snow glittering from the pine boughs down onto the path. “How long is this trail, anyway?”

“Oh, not long. About ten miles.”

“Omigod,” I squeak, and he laughs .

“It’s two miles, tops, Abbster. I’m just teasing you. And we can turn around anytime you want.”

“Good to know.”

“Of course, then we’ll go skating,” he says.

“Uh-oh.”

“You’ll love it. I’ll bring hot chocolate.”

“Oooh. Okay!”

He laughs.

It’s a really good day.

No, it’s a great day. We ski, we skate, and we hang out in the sunshine drinking cocoa. I feel like I’m on a vacation from my real life. There are no shifts at the bar, and there’s no homework.

There’s no grabby step-stepbrother.

That night’s dinner is another charcuterie fest in front of the fire, this one featuring—alongside the cheese—slices of ham and vegetables and dip.

“This is really decadent,” I gush, swirling a little glass of red wine that Weston has poured for me. I help myself to another French olive. I feel fat and happy staring into the fire.

“Save room for dessert,” Weston’s dad says. “I got a B?che de No?l. But here’s a question—do you want to do presents tonight, or tomorrow morning? I’m happy to adhere to tradition, but you all seem to enjoy sleeping in.”

“We’re all here now, right?” Stevie says. “Let’s do it.”

“Sure, Dad,” Weston agrees, patting his stomach. “I need a spacer before dessert, anyway.” He pushes up, off the couch. “Let me get my stash of gifts.”

I get up too, retrieving a shopping bag that I’d hidden in the mud room.

Weston returns a couple of minutes later with three gifts: one for his dad, one for his brother, and a big squishy one with a gift tag in the shape of a polar bear. It says Abbi on it in red marker, with a smiley face.

And I know my reaction is dumb, because presents don't really matter. I'd give up presents forever if I could spend one more day with my mom. But just seeing my name in Weston's cheerful scrawl does something to me anyway. It gives me an unexpected zap of optimism. It reminds me that life can still deliver surprises when you least expect them.

Weston sits beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Merry Christmas, Abbster,” he murmurs. “Such as it is.”

It is merry, though. I could be sitting alone in my apartment right now, shivering under the comforter because my landlady won't turn up the heat. But I’m here in front of this crackling fire with a cute guy who likes polar bear gift tags.

Life really could be worse.

Mr. Griggs has given each of his sons a pair of very pricey headphones for Christmas, and they are well-received. And both Weston and Stevie produce thoughtful presents for their dad, too, of the manly variety. Weston gives Mickey a leather fireproof glove for tending that wood stove we're sitting in front of. “So you can stop singeing off your arm hair," my fake boyfriend explains.

And Steve gives him a set of drafting pens from Japan. "It's what all the new kids are using," he says. "You might like them, old man."

Mickey smiles indulgently and gives his son a one-armed man hug.

Then the big moment arrives. I place my carefully wrapped gift in Weston's lap. “This is for you, Westie. I hope you like them.”

“I’m sure I will, baby. You know me so well.”

Across from us, Stevie actually rolls his eyes.

Damn Stevie . I've only got a few hours left of this holiday visit to convince him.

Meanwhile, Weston tears the paper off his gift like, well, an overgrown kid on Christmas Eve. And when he lifts the lid, he chuckles. "Cute, honey.” He lifts a pair of super soft black flannel sleep pants from the box. They're printed with an adorable white dog in profile, who’s wearing a cheery red collar.

"Those are supposed to be West Highland Terriers," I explain. "But most people call them?—”

"Westies,” he says with a laugh. "Aren't you clever?"

Smiling, he drops the flannel in his lap. And then our eyes meet, and we both seem to hesitate at the same time, because couples don’t just shake hands when they’re exchanging gifts. There’s often a thank-you kiss.

And now there’s a frozen look in Weston's eyes. Then he seems to shake off his hesitation. He moves, opening his arms.

Now, in my defense, I'm trying to be a better fake girlfriend today than I managed to be yesterday. So I open my arms, too, rotating toward him…

But I'm a beat late, and Weston is already in motion. The result is much more like a collision than a hug and kiss. My lips hit his throat as his face sideswipes my forehead. And I elbow his chest and he sort of crunches me against his collarbone.

At least my yelp of pain is buried in his clavicle. That’s the only saving grace to The World’s Most Awkward Hug Ever.

“Sorry,” we both murmur in unison, pulling back, matching sheepish expressions on both our faces.

I hear a painful snort and turn to see Stevie, who’s dying of laughter. His face is red and his body is shaking.

Weston, also red faced, puts my gift in my lap. “Open this. I’ve been dying to know what you’ll think.” He winks at me, like we’re sharing a joke. “It could really go either way.”

“Okay!” I say, grateful for the distraction. I remove the polar bear and set it beside me. I don’t even know why I like it so much. Then I rip the paper off what turns out to be a hunter green Moo U hockey zip-up sweatshirt with a wonderful piled fleece interior. “Ooh! Cozy,” I say. I’ve seen these before but they’re spendy, so I don’t own one.

“Don’t miss the back,” Weston says with a sly grin.

I flip over the shirt. And there it says GRIGGS in block letters right over his jersey number.

I laugh. Loudly. “So I’m supposed to parade around campus with your name on the back of my shirt?”

“Wouldn’t that be an honor?” Stevie asks, his voice a challenge. “I mean—rumor has it that you’ve taken the most eligible bachelor in Burlington off the market. Unless I’m wrong about that?”

“Oh, you’re right,” I say quickly. “But this isn’t 1965. These days a girl likes to stake her claim with a tattoo. I mean, it doesn’t really say love unless you bleed for it, am I right? ”

Weston and his dad both crack up. Mr. Griggs gets up, pulls on his new fireproof glove, and feeds a log to the fire.

And that reminds me. “I have something for you, Mickey.”

“You do?” He straightens up, a look of surprise on his face.

“Absolutely. It’s right here.” I pull out my other wrapped gift. “My mother was big on hostess gifts. She never stopped by anyone’s house without a complete set of dishtowels, or a handmade candle.” I’m babbling now, because I can’t seem to shut up when I’m talking to Mr. Griggs. “So I wanted to bring you a thank-you gift, and the company where I did my internship makes nice stuff.” I hand over a wrapped present. “It’s just a little thing.”

Mickey gives me a funny smile and rips off the paper to find a pair of wool flannel slippers inside. “Thank you, Abbi. These are great.”

He’s not wrong. They’re charcoal gray with blue stitching, because Vermont Tartan makes snazzy things, especially for the forty and older set. “I’m glad you like them. It’s a nice local company, and I hope they’re around forever.”

“Well…” He sets the slippers down on the floor and slips his feet right into them. “As it happens, I have a little gift for you, too.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” I feel my face heat, because I never meant to put him in this position. And now I’m bracing myself for whatever emergency thing he’s just thought of to hand me.

“I know,” he says. “But this is for you, because I bet you could use it.” From beside his chair he pulls a shiny gift bag, with tissue paper sticking up from the top. He stands and hands it to me.

To my surprise, there’s a gift card tied to the handle reading Abbi .

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Wow.”

“Go on,” he says quietly. “Open it.”

Nervously, I pluck the tissue paper off the top. And when I reach inside, my hand collides with buttery leather. I pull out a gorgeous new satchel, large enough for a laptop computer. It’s cut in a curvy, feminine style, in cognac leather.

I don’t know if I’ve ever held such a gorgeous bag. And when I flip open the top, there’s even a padded laptop pocket inside. “This is…wow.” I babble. “So fancy . It even has that new bag smell. ”

He gives a startled chuckle.

“Way to upstage me, Dad,” Weston jokes.

“Well, Abbi,” his father says. “I gave one of these to my daughter the year she graduated from college. She needed an upgrade from her book bag, to look more professional. And I thought you could use one, too. Especially…” He clears his throat. “If you don’t have a parent handy who can give you one.”

“Oh,” I say, looking up suddenly. And he’s watching me with a father’s compassion in his eyes. “Thank you,” I say, but I choke on the words. It’s such a generous thing to do, and for such a lovely reason. And—oh shit. Tears have sprung into my eyes.

I look back down at this gorgeous piece of craftsmanship and try to hold it together. But my next breath comes out as a sob. Because it’s Christmas. And I’m graduating this spring. And my mom won’t be there to congratulate me at all.

“Oh nooo!” Weston croons. He drops an arm around my shoulders, and this time he manages to pull me into a hug without violence. “You broke my girlfriend on Christmas . Quick! Someone put on a funny movie.”

I laugh and cry at the same time, and Weston pats my back.

“Th-thank you,” I stammer at Mr. Griggs when I’m able. “It’s just gorgeous.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, looking a little uncomfortable at the mess he’s created of me. He gets up to find a box of tissues, which I need, badly.

And then Stevie puts on Home Alone 2 , and we all watch it.

Somehow, I end the evening smiling.