She follows me to the staircase, where I step aside to let her go first. And I force myself not to ogle her legs in that dress. “It’s the room on the left,” I say when she reaches the top. I already put our bags in there.
But when I follow her into the room it looks smaller than ever. She eyes the double bed and then her eyes jump to mine.
“I’ll get Stevie to switch with us,” I whisper. “I’ll tell him…” I pause. “Okay, I have no idea what I’ll tell him. I’ll think of something.”
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers back. “I’m winning this thing, even if you snore like a freight train.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t.”
“How do you know?” she counters, smiling fiercely.
“I guess you’ll tell me, then. And I promise to be a gentleman.”
“Right,” she says crisply. And maybe I’m imagining it, but she actually looks disappointed for a split second. She turns and unzips her weekend bag, pulling out a makeup kit. “Let the games begin.”
A couple hours later, after a movie in front of the fire with my fake girlfriend, it’s time to leave for the party. So my brother and I flip a coin to decide who’s the designated driver tonight.
And I lose. Of course I do.
“You’re not even legal to drink,” I whine.
“At my own sister’s party? Please. Who’s going to card me? Not Uncle Jerry. He gave me a beer for my twelfth birthday.”
“I can be the driver,” Abbi volunteers. “I don’t mind.”
“No,” I say quickly. “You spend enough nights watching other people have fun.”
“How’s that?” Stevie asks.
“I’m a waitress at the hockey bar,” Abbi explains. Then she slips her arm around my waist. “That’s where we met. I memorized his order.”
“That’s so romantic,” Stevie says with a smirk and an eye roll. He’s not buying what Abbi has to sell. But it’s not Abbi’s fault. She has no idea how down on love we’ve all been these past couple of years.
In fact, last Christmas, after my parents had a shouting match on the steps of the church during the holiday service, my brother and I literally sat around asking each other questions like: Would you rather get married or have all of your fingers chewed off by a rabid dingo?
And we both picked the dingo.
“All right, guys,” my father says, entering the mud room. “Let’s get this shit show over with.”
“Dad,” I say, stopping him as he grabs his jacket. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Abbi slips out the door then, and Stevie does the same.
“What?” my dad bellows. “We’ll be late.”
I let out a sigh. “What if you didn’t go? You clearly don’t want to. Lauren isn’t throwing a ‘shit show’ on purpose, you know.”
“She’s not throwing this thing at all,” he grumbles. “It was your mother’s dumb idea.”
“So you think Lauren should just cancel her party? Or, wait, cancel her whole wedding so that you don’t have to feel uncomfortable?”
“Did I say that?” he carps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Now he’s glaring at me. All I wanted him to do was check his attitude.
Shit.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say as lightly as I can. Then I hustle outside because Abbi is in the cold waiting for us. And she deserves better.
The party is held at the Norwich Inn, which is a turn-of-the-prior-century farmhouse-style hotel on the main drag of a classy town across the river from Hanover, New Hampshire. When we arrive, I watch Abbi take in the crackling fire and the two dozen people milling about eating party food and sipping cocktails while Christmas music plays over the sound system.
It’s objectively a nice party. And I thaw a little when my sister flounces over with a happy smile and offers her hand to Abbi. “So you’re Weston’s date for Christmas! I’ve been dying to meet the woman who would voluntarily put up with him over the holidays.”
“I’m getting that a lot,” Abbi says cheerfully. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you!” My sister’s eyes dance. “Let’s get you both a drink. There’s, um, a special one named after me. But we also have beer, wine, and soda. And lots of food.”
“Don’t worry about us,” I tell my sister, folding her into a hug. “Just enjoy your party while it’s going smoothly.”
“Don’t jinx me.” She sneaks a nervous look toward my father, who has planted himself at the precise opposite end of the room as his brother. Dad is standing there, hands jammed in his pockets, looking vexed. “I was kind of hoping he’d sit this out if it made him so uncomfortable.”
“He’s stubborn,” I whisper.
“I noticed.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I say, squeezing my sister’s arm. “Abbi and I will corner him and tell him bad jokes until he gets bored enough to leave.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Lauren sneaks another look toward Dad. “I just wish I didn’t have to.”
Abbi and I get some food, and I bring a plate to Dad. I also bring him a beer.
Then I forget about him for a few minutes and introduce Abbi to my extended family. First there’s my mom. “Weston! Hello, lovely boy! And you brought a date to meet your family! This is like a Christmas miracle.”
Abbi gives me a helpless look before she’s swept up into a hug by my mother.
Yikes. I’m going to owe Abbi after this, no matter who wins our bet. My fake girlfriend is gracious about all this weird attention, though. She chats politely with my mom and takes it all in stride.
Then I introduce her to Aunt Mercedes and a bunch of my cousins. They’re all like Switzerland, somehow staying neutral in World War Griggs.
The last person I introduce Abbi to is Uncle Jerry. He’s set up his mixology table at one end of the room, with a signboard propped onto the table announcing the night’s special cocktail: The Lauren.
“What’s in The Lauren?” Abbi asks gamely.
“I’m so glad you asked,” Jerry says, dropping ice into his pretentious crystal shaker with the titanium lid. “Kentucky bourbon, fresh Meyer lemon juice, simple syrup, and a float of red wine.”
“Isn’t all bourbon from Kentucky?” Abbi asks. And I have to hold back my snicker.
“Smart girl,” Jerry says with a cheesy smile. “Not everybody knows that. This is a special bourbon, too—Knob Creek Reserve. Very round-flavored, with notes of plum and caramel.”
Abbi indulges him, watching as he squeezes the lemons and shakes up the juice with syrup and bourbon.
Meanwhile, my dad glowers at us from across the room. He can’t stand it that I’m standing this close to my stepfuncle.
Jerry pours the mixture over ice. “And now for the grand finale,” he says, lifting a bottle of wine with a flourish. “Watch this.” He holds a spoon inverted over Abbi’s glass and pours an ounce or two of the red liquid into the golden cocktail. “The wine is suspended there, like a cloud,” he says.