A Holly Jolly Ever After

by Julie Murphy

having Sunny here was like having a tiny kitten in the office. She got into everything, squawked at inanimate objects, and sometimes fell asleep in sunbeams before bouncing awake and coming to pester him while he was trying to squint his way through the latest edition of union bylaws for his performers. She was a lot.

“It’s what’s-her-name from Christmas Notch. The mean sexy woman. Steph something.”

But it didn’t matter, did it? Michael cheated on me anyway. My parents still sided with him. And the one time I did do something for myself, something that was supposed to be fun, I ended up puking my guts out in a Texas desert, two hundred miles from a real airport. I missed the shoot for my next project, and the Hope Channel recast me, and now the entire world thinks I’m irresponsible. And I don’t have a job and I can’t repay the Hope Channel the money I owe them and everything is gone and I blew it all up myself—and it wasn’t even a regular music festival! It was UnFestival, which is an exclusive desert experience and so much more than a regular festival could ever be!”

“Steph D’Arezzo, talent manager,” she said briskly. “Nice to meet you.” Steph. Steph. The name swam hazily to the surface of my memories. “You’re Nolan Shaw’s manager,” I said. Before I got sick at UnFestival and had to be recast, the former bad boy of pop Nolan Shaw was going to be my costar in Duke the Halls.

Winnie Baker’s Fall from Grace,’” Steph said as if quoting a headline only she could see. “It’s a good story. Because saints love to hate sinners, and sinners love knowing that the saints are all secretly sinning too. Everyone clicks that headline. Everyone.” “You don’t have to tell me that,” I said as politely as I could. Steph nodded. “You’re right. I don’t.” She leaned forward, a glint coming into her eye. “Doesn’t it piss you off that he got to keep everything? The good reputation, the gigs, the moral high ground?” “Of course it does,” I said. Breathed. “All I wanted was to move on. But he wouldn’t let me.” “Because he’s a chode and chodes think small, Winnie.”

“I can’t be in a sexy movie,” I murmured as I looked back down at her business card. The idea was ludicrous. I’d never even seen a raunchy movie. I didn’t own a single sex toy, I’d never even . . . done things to myself, and I was pretty sure the only time I’d ever had an orgasm was while I was asleep and dreaming raunchy dreams that never seemed to star Michael. On the night my divorce was finalized, I’d drunk half a bottle of wine and Googled the word pornography for the first time in my entire life . . . and then I was so embarrassed by myself that I’d slammed my laptop shut and binged TikToks about spooky lakes instead.

“How was the shrink?” Addison asked, sitting back down and picking up her fork to eat her tiny square of white fish. I found a plate tented with foil on the counter and got myself a fork. “Fine. I complained about Dominic Diamond.” “He’s a fuckface,” Addison said. “Do you wanna vodka about it?” Addison’s willingness to (1) curse, (2) drink, and (3) talk about sex like we didn’t grow up having accountability partners to make sure we weren’t thinking about genitals ever at all had been really strange at first. And then it had become incredibly freeing, because I realized all the things I used to worry would make me a bad person . . . wouldn’t? Or wouldn’t necessarily? Because Addison was a lot of things, but she was also kind and loyal and a good listener, and she opened her home to me when I had no other place to go . . . and maybe when it came down to it, being a kind person was more important than having an empty swear jar.

“I predict that in two years, Wishes of Addison will be anchored enough that I can transition into the ‘I’ve just found the love of my life’ phase of my career, and then by thirty-six, I’ll start the baby phase. After that, Wishes of Addison will launch its new arm, Baby Wishes, and I’ll sell the company and take a job as the chief creative officer. And then? Hotels.” She nodded at her fork and then started digging at her fish again. “You want to own hotels one day?” “Fuck yes,” Addison said through a bite of swordfish. “Do you know how much good I could do for the world as a hotel owner? First item of business: every hotel room bathroom has a proper, working fan. Every single one. And a bidet! Second item of business—”

“Is this really my only option?” I cut in, looking down at my own plate of fish. I still hadn’t sat down yet. “Get back together with Michael unless I want to secretly live in your pool house forever?” “Girl, no,” Addison said. Now the fork was pointed at me. “I’m not telling you to be Michael’s doormat. I’m just saying that you should pretend to be in public. And then do whatever you want in private. Play the game, but still have fun.”

I was abruptly sick of it. Not just tired of it and not just sad about it. But sick of it. Fevered, flushed, shaking. My body readying its defenses to fight off the past that corralled me, the bleak future that beckoned. I want to define Winnie Baker for myself. That’s what I’d told Renata today. Either I meant that or I didn’t. And if I was going to mean it, then I needed to mean it. I set down my fork. “Fuck it,” I said and pulled Steph’s card out of my pocket.

If the world thinks I’m a fallen angel,” I said, dialing Steph’s number, “then at the very least I want to choose my own wings.”

I flipped my tie over my shoulder and began to thrust deeper and harder. I always liked to take my time, and I did aim to please, but just like the Slice, Slice, Baby motto said: Speedy delivery guaranteed or your next pie’s on the house!

But one day I would fall in love and I’d treat my dream girl to a new dress every day just so I could tear it to shreds every night . . . with her permission, of course. And maybe one day was today, who knew?

Back in my INK glory days, I thought I’d be living it up thanks to a long-lasting solo career after me, Nolan, and Isaac would eventually go our own ways. At the very least I’d be producing music, but here I was instead, the owner of a regional pizza chain, fucking his way through half the weddings in the greater Kansas City area.

But to be fair, we did hook up a year and a half ago at Chad and Chad’s wedding—yes, they were both named Chad. The next day, Natalie went on to catch the bouquet and then meet her newly acquired husband at the post-wedding brunch—and she turned out to be the latest in a long line of bridesmaids to find the love of her life soon after shagging me. It wouldn’t have been so bad if word hadn’t spread across the whole group of people Nolan and I had grown up with. These days, I’m the most sought-after party favor at any wedding, luckier than catching a bouquet.

Right. I nodded. The grand finale. I had to make this good. Payton was the kind of woman who left detailed ratings on Google. If I didn’t give her a mind-blowing orgasm, she’d make sure everyone we grew up with knew about it.

She readjusted her nude mesh underwear and pulled it to the side, an act of politeness and filth all at the same time. Midwesterners are nothing if not considerate.

Even though I knew I shouldn’t (if rule number one was the dress, rule number two was definitely the hair), I wrapped her locks in my fist and gently tugged.

“And that’s what I call tossing the dough,”

Not only had the sex tape made me relevant again, but for the first time, I was the hot one. I was the sexy one with the dad bod and the sexual enthusiasm of a tattooed line chef.

Just beyond our table, I watched Payton reach above her head, a laughing grin on her face as she caught Natalie’s bouquet. The tradition lived on.

“Is it obvious I’m nervous?” “Girl, you’re turning that heated seat into a vibrating seat with how much you’re shaking. Take a deep breath—and maybe an edible—and then go show the world what I already know: that you’re a sexy narcoleptic flower just waiting to blossom.” “I don’t have any edibles,” I pointed out, but I did take a deep breath. “I have some in my purse, obvi,” Addison said, but I was already waving her off and unbuckling my seat belt.

Okay. Okay, I could do this. I’d white-knuckled my way through narcoleptic episodes, through diets so brutal that gallons of coffee were the only way to stop my stomach from chewing itself apart, through long dinners with Michael where he never tore his eyes away from his phone to talk to me. If I’d made myself uncomfortable for him, for my parents, for my old agent, then why couldn’t I make myself uncomfortable for myself? For something that I wanted to do? The new Winnie Baker had herself under control. The new Winnie Baker had her shit together. And she was going to make a sexy Santa movie and show the world that she was here on her own terms, dang it.

“That would be my pickle pouch,”

I turned around to see Kallum Lieberman standing only a few feet away—and then had to tilt my head back in order to keep seeing him, because oh my God, had he always been that tall? Tall and big. Like big enough to be throwing logs at one of those Scottish competitions made up entirely of burly men in kilts.

“Because I already told Jack he’ll need to find something larger,” Kallum added. “Like a sock hat. Or a sleeping bag.”

“Winnie Baker,” I said. “It’s lovely to meet you in person.” His smile faded a little, the dimple disappearing under the beard. “You don’t remember meeting me before?” he asked. “At the Teen Choice Awards? I’m Surfboard Guy, remember?” “I thought it was more polite not to mention it,” I said delicately, and then the dimple reappeared. “You don’t ever have to be polite with me,” he said, finally taking my hand, and my stomach did the falling thing again as his hand practically swallowed mine in the handshake. It was shockingly warm in the cold room, and maybe the rest of him was that warm too. Maybe if he hugged me, it would feel like slipping into a hot bath. “I’m the kind of guy you can be yourself with.”

“And I’m sorry for the surfboard thing,” he added, his thick brows pulling together. “I get clumsy when I’m nervous. Well, unless I’m dancing. Which doesn’t make sense, because I’ve been plenty nervous performing before, but if I’m dancing, it never seems to matter.” I thought I knew what he was saying. “It makes sense to me. All the moves are choreographed ahead of time. You don’t have to think or make decisions or wonder if you’re doing the right thing or if people will be upset with you. All you have to do is follow the plan.” “Yeah,” he said, although the line between his brows didn’t disappear. “Something like that.” “And it’s totally okay about the Teen Choice Awards,” I said. “It’s all surfboards under the bridge.”

“I assume you are familiar with my body of work, which is of course as groundbreaking as it is extensive.” Seeing my blank look, Jack added, “Porn, Winnie Baker. I mean porn.”

“Darling, I am pornography,” Jack declared, not seeming bothered by my reaction in the least. “I’ve been redefining the medium since I was twenty, erasing boundaries and inspiring ode-like Pornhub comments for years. My oeuvre defies categories and transgresses expectations; I’ve been called ‘bold,’ ‘fearless,’ and ‘eerily limber.’ My bisexual Hoover Dam orgy has been viewed over a million times, and I’ve had not one, but two! Two toys! That were molded from my anatomy—both of which come with discreet yet stylish travel cases, by the way.”

“So the main thing I need to stress before we get started is that sex will fuck with your head sometimes. Even fake sex. Even fake sex with lots of crew members nearby holding heavy equipment. On paper, we’re all grown-ups with rational brains that recognize we’re doing a job, but in reality, lots of us are horny meatbags with easily confused limbic systems. So while much of what we do will be sneaky angles and pretending—and while we’ll have some barriers in place for when we’re not pretending—there will be times when you need to remind yourself that it’s just biology. Got it? Just. Biology.”

and then Kallum and I took turns stepping out of the room so Jack could privately go over boundaries and limits with us. When it was my turn, I told him—honestly—that I had none. The ex–porn star looked at me skeptically. His dog, Miss Crumpets, startled herself awake, barked at an empty chair, and then laid her head back down. “Are you sure?” asked Jack Hart. “I’m sure,” I said confidently. The new Winnie was excited for this. The new Winnie was ready. Jack twisted his pretty mouth but then he shrugged. “I also basically have no limits, so I get it. That said, if we get to something that doesn’t work for you, let me know.”

God, how do people have orgasms on-screen? Did they thrash around like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? Did they smack their hand against a car window and then drag it back down like Rose in Titanic?

“I just don’t know if I can be, uh, sensual. On camera.” Down, boy, I reminded myself. “Oh, there’s nothing to it,” I assured her. “A fake orgasm isn’t all that different from a real orgasm. At least, that’s what I’ve been told,” I added. “My knowledge about fake orgasms is limited, given that my only foray into adult content was one-hundred-percent real pleasure—hers included.” I gave her a wink—and oh my God, was that smarmy? That felt smarmy. “But I’ve never had an orgasm,” she blurted.

“And I’m glad you told me, because I have the perfect solution.” “You do?” she asked, full of hope. I nodded solemnly. Don’t say Sit on my face. Don’t say Sit on my face. Don’t say Sit on my face.

“I’d probably be Wiccan if I weren’t so lazy. So much work. And do you know what a bundle of sage costs in LA County these days?” Luca sized me up from the waist down, taking in what he’d be working with. “So I guess it wasn’t just the angle then,” he said.

I scooped my junk into the little pocket of fabric, but it became immediately clear that this one wouldn’t do the job. “Do these things come in sizes?” I asked. “Mind if I take a peek?” Luca asked. “Go for it.” He spun around and nodded thoughtfully. “We’re going to need a bigger boat.”

“You were my favorite.” “What?” I asked. Not because I didn’t hear him, but because I didn’t often hear those words. “God, this is so unprofessional of me,” Luca said as he dug into his Gucci backpack that was either real or a really good fake. He held out a black T-shirt and a silver fabric marker. “Could you maybe sign this for me?” I held up the shirt and recognized it immediately. “Whoa,” I said. “Talk about an artifact. I’d be honored.”

This specific shirt though was from the merch run from our second stadium tour. Across the top in a neon-green font were the words: kallum nation. Beneath that, I stood with my arms crossed and my legs spread in a wide stance. Despite the tough pose, there was a smirk on my face. It was definitely you-can-trust-me-because-I’m-the-fat-funny-one energy. Anytime we had individual merch for INK, like T-shirts with our faces on them, my print run was always lower than Nolan’s and Isaac’s. But I didn’t let it get to me. How could I? I was on top of the world with my two best friends.

“I’ve got a whole trunk full of Kallum Lieberman merch, I’ll have you know. You, former ice-skating princess Emily Albright, and Martha Stewart. My holy celeb trinity.” “Well, bring the whole collection next time,” I told him, my chest puffing with a little bit of pride. Luca’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.” I chuckled. This guy was intense, but I liked it. “I mean it. See you in Vermont?” “With bells on,” Luca sang.

No, I wasn’t going to go there. I deserved better than that kind of talk about myself, even if it was from myself, and I was too old to pretend I didn’t know the difference between pushing myself and punishing myself.

along with a very dramatic costume designer named Luca—but

ponte pants

days.” I thought about that for a minute. “Actually, to be honest, my skin care game didn’t really kick it up a notch until we got that Neutrogena deal the next year. I wash my face a lot more now.” “Well, whatever you’re doing these days, keep it up.” I held a hand to my cheek. “This is what I call pizza oven heat therapy . . . and big beard energy.” “Which is closely related to his big dick energy,” Jack said with a whistle as he breezed past us. “I don’t think that sort of language coming from our intimacy coordinator creates a safe work environment,” Gretchen called after him in her best I’m-trying-to-be-chill-but-you-make-me-feel-not-chill voice.

“The script is great,” I said as we all quieted down. Pearl held her chin. “Is it? I’ve been toying with the last page . . .” Gretchen took a half step behind Pearl and opened her eyes as wide as they would go as she slid her hand across her neck and then made a heart with her hands. “No!” I shouted, slowly putting the pieces together. Pearl jumped with a delighted, yet alarmed squeal, like she loved for the universe to surprise her. Gretchen wound her hand in a quick circle, encouraging me to continue. “I love the last page,” Winnie blurted. “Yes,” I said firmly, looking at Winnie as I nodded along with her. “We both do. We were just talking about it last night, how the last page is the best part. It’s the shining beacon of the whole script! It’s your magnum opus.” Gretchen held a hand up to let me know I could slow my roll a bit. “Oh,” Pearl said, her voice just a little smug. “Well, if you insist.”

“Cut!” Gretchen called. “The power of Christ compels you!” some tall, old dude at the props table said with a chuckle. Gretchen whirled around on him. “Off my set! Now.” Winnie’s brow furrowed as she looked up to me. “Am I supposed to know what that means?” “It’s from The Exorcist,” Pearl said in an airy voice as she joined us. “Personally, my favorite line is ‘Your mother sucks cocks in hell,’” Jack said as he approached the sled.

I felt bad for Winnie. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to make it better. I wanted to make her laugh. But I was also really fucking angry at Michael Bacher. What kind of guy has the honor of marrying Winnie Baker and doesn’t even take the time to learn how to pleasure her? If I ever had someone like Winnie, I’d memorize their body from head to toe. I’d learn every little thing that made them gasp and plead. Fuck. If Winnie Baker were mine, I’d have a goddamn PhD in making her come. Paging Dr. Lieberman.

“He-e-ey,” Pearl said, coming to stand in front of me, her already large eyes getting even larger. “Your aura has just gone really murky.” “It has?” Pearl nodded at me, like a wise and concerned aura doctor, and gently touched my face. “And I don’t have any obsidian or selenite with me, so I need you to push through this, sweet Winnie.”

“You stop it right now,” Pearl said, with more firmness than I would have thought her capable of. “Everyone—and I mean everyone—who likes having sex is still learning new things about how they like to have sex. For example, I was today years old when I learned I wanted a dragon dildo, even if it’s made of”—she made a face—“Silicone.” “Is silicone bad?” “Glass is best. Rose quartz too. I have this quartz egg—” She stopped herself. “My point is, there’s no age when people stop learning about their bodies. Maybe you got a later start than some, but you’re still in the same wonderful race.”

I had a crush on the man’s hands. Like a hand perv.