“Dr. Weston Griggs has a nice ring to it. What specialty?”
“Pediatrics,” he says. “You get to talk to kids for a living.” He shrugs, like this is obvious. And, yup, Weston just gets hotter by the minute. “Am I doing this right?” He rolls the silverware up tidily inside the napkin. Then he wraps one of the green tapes around it.
“Looks good to me. But, if I may ask, why are you rolling silverware with me instead of drinking with your friends?”
“Oh, I’m done for the night. My party shift is over. But I had a favor I needed to ask you. Remember how I told you I had this big, fun family, and Thanksgiving was always a blast?”
“Yes.” I roll another napkin and wait to hear where this is going.
“Well, it used to be true. But my parents got this really ugly divorce a couple of years ago. And now the holidays are murder.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “There’s nothing like a little tension during the holidays.”
“Yeah.” He laughs awkwardly. “I know you understand. But here’s the thing—if you told your stepfamily you were going out of town for Christmas with me, then you wouldn’t have to see them, right? Free pass?”
“Well, sure. I was thinking about telling them that exact thing.” After the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Do I sound like I’m pretending he’s really my boyfriend?
He sets down another finished silverware roll, and looks me right in the eye. “What if it were true, though? It’s me who could use a buffer this time. My sister is having an engagement party on the twenty-third, which means that my mom and dad have to be in the same room together. You could, uh, come with me.” He swallows uncomfortably.
“Really? How would that help?”
“They, uh, like to yell at each other. But if I bring home a new girlfriend, my father will be on his best holiday behavior all weekend.”
I think about this for a second. “Their own daughter’s engagement party isn’t reason enough to behave?”
“Well…” He bites his lip.
Before now, I’d imagined Weston Griggs to be the kind of guy who was always comfortable in his skin. But maybe nobody on earth is ever so lucky. I guess he’s just human like the rest of us, because he looks plenty uncomfortable right now.
“Look, Christmas is going to be super awkward. My mom is throwing this party with her new man. That’s never happened before. So my father knows he has to show up and be civil, even though he can’t stand it.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, it’s been three years, but sometimes it’s like his anger is all that keeps him warm, you know? I’m making him sound like a dick right now, but he really isn’t. He is a super nice guy whose wife left him in the worst possible way. And if you spend the weekend with us, he won’t complain to my brother and me the whole time. He’ll have to smile and make waffles and small talk. It would be a nice break.”
“Oh.” I think this over for a moment. “Well, I don’t really have plans for Christmas.”
Weston beams. “And this would put you out of Price’s reach, right? You could just skip the whole sorry holiday.”
“I could. But, Weston…” I don’t quite know how to ask this question without sounding like a self-centered freak. “This isn’t just a ploy so you don’t have to worry about me, right? I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
He takes another napkin and smooths it onto the table. “Abbi, I promise you that I’m truly a guy in need of a date. You should know that there are Swedish meatballs in it for you. My sister made me listen to the entire party menu. I can also promise tiny eggrolls, pigs in blankets, and fancy cocktails. Oh, and hopefully waffles on the morning of Christmas Eve.”
That does sound promising. “Is the maple syrup real?” I ask sweetly.
“That’s my girl!” He cackles. “It’s real, I promise. They throw you out of Vermont if you serve the fake shit on Christmas Eve.”
“Well okay, Weston.” His smile makes me feel fluttery inside. Spending a weekend with Weston isn’t the smartest idea. My crush will only grow stronger. But even so, I hear myself say, “You’ve got yourself a date.”
Six
Can You Drive a Stick?
Weston
On Christmas Eve-Eve, I meet Abbi at noon outside the Vermont Tartan Flannel Factory. She comes bouncing out of the building right at noon, and stops short when she sees me leaning against the driver’s side of her car. Her eyes widen.
“Hey, sister. Something the matter?”
She blinks. “Nope. Not at all. Thank you for meeting me here. You look nice.”
“Thanks. You too.” In fact, I’m glad I put on nice slacks and a V-neck cashmere sweater. Because my fake girlfriend is wearing a dark red velour dress that my sister would describe as artsy. It looks soft and fluid, like red wine in a fabric form. There’s just a hint of cleavage at the top. Just enough of a peek that I’d like to put my face right there and kiss the skin above the neckline of that dress.
She looks delectable.
Abbi opens the hatchback and tosses in a duffel bag and her winter coat. I snap out of it and follow her back there to do the same thing. “You mind if I drive?” I ask. “Since I know where we’re going?”
“Sure thing.” She holds up the keys. “But it’s a manual transmission. Can you drive a stick?”
I snort. “That’s like asking a man if his dick works.”
“Well, does it?”
I grab the keys out of her hand. “I’ll show you,” I growl.
She snickers. But the truth is I’d like to show her more than my driving capabilities.
Down, boy. I unlock the car and get behind the wheel, scooting the seat back about eight inches so I can get my legs into the car. In fact, I drove this car once before. But Abbi was so rattled, she doesn’t remember.
She’s not rattled now, though. She slides into the passenger seat, humming to herself. “I’m so happy to have a couple of days away from school and work. I will go anywhere with you this weekend, so long as it does not involve serving fried food to drunk people.”
“You won’t have to serve any food,” I say as her old engine roars to life. “And hopefully there won’t be many drunk people.” Honestly, drunk people are fine. Unless we’re talking about my father.
In this situation, that could be problematic.
I pull out of the parking spot at the flannel factory. It’s in an old brick building on the Winooski River. “What do you do at this place, anyway? How many jobs do you have?”
“This was my fun job,” she insists. “My internship here is just ending, and I got course credit instead of pay.”
“Cool. Which kind of business major are you?” I head for the highway. Abbi’s car is a little sluggish. I wonder if she’s gotten it serviced lately.
“I’m doing two concentrations—finance and marketing. I want to work on product development, but when I look at job openings for next year, most of them are in marketing.”