Faking Christmas (Christmas Escape)

by Cindy Steel

DATE: NOV 17 To: millankin@stantonhigh.edu From: oliwilson@stantonhigh.edu I sent the email to Miles. I SENT THE EMAIL TO MILES. Not YOU. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking OUT. WHAT DO I DOOOOOO?????

DATE: NOV 17 To: oliwilson@stantonhigh.edu From: millankin@stantonhigh.edu FOR THE LOVE, send me a copy of this email. I am DYING to read it. It sounds…JUICY.

DATE: NOV 17 To: oliwilson@stantonhigh.edu From: miltaylor@stantonhigh.edu Celery Stick, I was surprised to get your email. Regardless, it was a most insightful read. I was a bit shocked by all the errors, however. I thought the English Department at Stanton had a higher standard of quality. I’ve taken the liberty of pointing these out to you, for your own study. You’ll find the corrected document scanned and attached to this email. Your man with the fine pair of hams, Miles

When I reached the aisle, Miles turned and looked at me. His eyes skittered down my body, landing on my torn tights. It figured that my flaw would be the first thing he noticed. My skin flushed with his gaze, which immediately set me on edge. “Get in a fight over the Oxford comma again?” he asked, looking at me as though something amused him. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of the Oxford comma,” I replied pleasantly. “Some of us take our grammar seriously in this school, Carrot Stick.” He paused, making a face. “Nope, scratch that. I’ve tried out all the vegetables on you, but Celery Stick is just my favorite. It really rolls off the tongue.” “You haven’t tried Olive yet,” I said, sitting down warily, keeping an empty seat between us, and smoothed out my skirt so that it covered my knee. “Too on the nose.” “It’s not even a vegetable.” “And yet, it’s always on the veggie tray.”

“Out of curiosity, how much do you charge for edits?” His low voice filtered into my ear, and my defenses immediately rose. “Nothing. He’s a friend.” “Really? I had no idea you two were so close.” “Well, we are,” I clipped with a tight smile. “I’m happy to help him.” Miles rubbed his face for a moment, looking toward the stage as though contemplating something. “Listen, it’s not my business, but just so you know, that many pages of a book to an editor costs me at least a couple hundred bucks. If you’re putting in the time, I think you should definitely be charging.” “I’m so happy to have your opinion on something that’s, like you said, none of your business.” I leaned in closer to him and batted my eyes for effect. He chuckled. “You know…you’re a lot nicer to everybody else but me. Why is that?”

Since I was almost certain he had his eyes closed, I allowed my side eye to trail disdainfully across his long, folded body squished in the auditorium seat.

Alright, Olive…move along. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by forearms if they were attached to Miles Taylor. Millie would die if she found out I’d even had the thought. “Should I just take the shirt off?” Miles suddenly whispered. My breath hitched, alarmed that he was not dozing off like I had originally thought. “Excuse me?” “You looked like you were undressing me with your eyes. I could make it easier for you.”

“Now, I can’t count how many times I’ve asked Olive for writing advice over the past year. Every letter I have to send to the school board, I run it by her red pen, that’s for sure. I know she’s helped many of you, as well. Her grasp of language is unmatched, which is why we’ve deemed her the Grammar Queen!” She held the trophy up as if she had just announced the winner of the Super Bowl. My face felt like a balloon deflating. There was a collective hush in the audience before Millie began giving me a pity clap, the rest of the audience joining in soon after. Do. Not. Cry. I pinched myself hard under the elbow, hoping to shock my system into not crying. Smiling numbly, I accepted the trophy with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

"I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself." Charlotte Brontë - Jane Eyre

By this time, I had worked through a sufficient amount of my feelings by way of plunging and scrubbing. So, I looked down at the plate of crusted-over sweet-and-sour chicken in my hands and then smiled sweetly back at Miles. “Why don’t you give me your best guess.” “Taking out some deeply hidden aggression on dishes that you shouldn’t be washing.” He strode to the refrigerator and took out a small lunch cooler. I ignored the jab. “If I don’t wash them, nobody will.” “But that’s not your problem,” he said, leaning against the counter.

I shrugged. “It’s a little game I like to play. First I imagine that every dish has your face on it, and then I get to half drown it in water.” I didn’t have to look directly at Miles to know that his mouth lifted in his trademark (annoying) grin. “I knew you liked me, deep down.”

“You’re thinking about me while doing mundane tasks. I think my heart just melted.”

I kept waiting for him to ask. But he didn’t ask me anything. He just held his containers with a helpless shrug and stared imploringly at me, waiting for me to offer. “I just don’t want to leave it for two weeks like this.” “It will only take two minutes, Johnson. I’ll bet your wife would be excited to hear you were doing your dishes,” Miles said, his voice a quiet warning. “She’s already waiting for me or else I would. Listen, if you can’t get to it, no worries. Hopefully, nothing too green will grow on them while we’re gone.” I shot Miles a glance. As much as I didn’t want to play Jason’s maid, I certainly didn’t need Miles thinking he was coming to my rescue. My smile wavered only slightly, knowing Miles was watching incredulously as my hands moved to accept Jason’s dirty plates and Tupperware. “Sure. I can do that,” I found myself saying.

“Such a team player,” Miles murmured, his disappointed eyes roaming over my face. I burned hot with indignation. I wasn’t sure why it rankled more that he was disappointed in me than actually doing Johnson’s stupid dishes.

So, on a whim, I pulled out something I thought might save me…a harmless white lie. “As good as a sexy lumberjack sounds, I’ve actually been seeing somebody the past few weeks, so I think Glenn and his mom might be disappointed.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?” My hands stilled in my underwear drawer. Shoot. Who was he? I racked my brain to come up with a name. Some name. A name. There were none. NO names. I could think of no guy names. My brain was an empty sheet of paper. Men didn’t exist in this world. My life was at my school, and at school there was only… No. But suddenly my brain latched onto the name Miles and wouldn’t let go. NO. Miles. Miles. Miles. Miles. Mr. Grady! My brain detected another male human. He was in his seventies, but it was fine. I just needed a name, and his name was Ralph! Ralph. I opened my mouth to say the name, but the word refused to release its death grip on my tongue. Even though men no longer existed in my brain, I knew for certain that Ralph was not a name from my generation. “OLIVE. Spill.” “It’s Miles!”

“So, Olive, huh? That’s not one you hear too often. I’m guessing you get some interesting nicknames. Like carrot or broccoli?” The man gave me a cheeky smile. He had one of those personalities that you couldn’t help but smile along with him, even if the joke had run its course over the past twenty years. More specifically, the past nine months, but who was counting? “You could say that. Lately Celery Stick seems to be the most popular.” He laughed. “I like it.”

The week I had already been dreading for the past month just went from bad to much worse.

“I haven’t seen your boyfriend yet.” I shot her a look. “Huh?” Chloe gave me a wicked smile. “Glenn Foster.” “You’re the worst.” “He might be your boyfriend again after this trip if you don’t start spilling about Miles.”

“Hey, hot guy, 5:00,” Chloe whispered across the table. She was seated facing the buffet table behind me while I was facing the stage. “If that’s Glenn, I’m going to kill you.” “He looks like he might work here. Holy cow. He looks just like Jack. That’s got to be his son. Look at him.” “What? No! Stop being so obvious!” “Our table's out of butter.” “What?” She threw me a salty grin. “He clearly works here. I’m going to ask him for more butter. Be right back.”

From across the table, Ben nudged my foot, pulling me out of my panicked musing. “Um, is there a reason my wife has been talking to some mountain-man version of Bradley Cooper for the last five minutes?” he asked, his eyes plastered somewhere behind me. I stilled. I was tempted to ignore him as he was probably just trying to be funny. But the Bradley Cooper part had me casually scanning the room before darting a quick glance behind me by the doorway. Chloe was standing with her back to me, talking animatedly to a man wearing a flannel shirt with his arms folded. A Bradley Cooper dressed in flannel?

A gasp, quick and painful, shot out of me as I blinked my eyes a few times, wondering if I was dreaming. Because there was no way—NO WAY—this could be happening right now. The world was too big for a coincidence this horrible. And yet… The man dressed in red flannel rolled up to his forearms, jeans with just enough holes that the teenage guys would think he was one of them, and a stupid gray beanie on his head, was none other than Miles Taylor.

“That’s so crazy your name is Miles. I’m hearing that name everywhere all of a sudden.” Chloe’s muffled words drifted to my ears, and without consulting my mind, my body halted, edging closer to listen. “Oh yeah?” Miles’s voice seemed deep and friendly. “The secret’s out, I guess.” Chloe laughed. “My sister is actually dating a guy named Miles.” “I told ya, it’s a good name.” Seriously, Chloe, get off the name thing. It’s getting weird. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you alone. You just looked so much like an old friend from college I had to double-check.”

She turned to head back to the table, and I was just about ready to breathe a sigh of relief when she stopped suddenly and turned back to Miles. “Wait. Where are you from?”

“Wait. Miles? From Stanton? That’s where my sister lives. What do you do there?” “I teach English at the high school.” My hands flew to cover my mouth in horror. I had no idea how to stop this freight train from splattering me all over the tracks. “My sister teaches English at the high school there.” There was a pause before Miles said, “Wait. Your sister is Olive Wilson?”

“Omigosh, can I please watch you surprise her? She’s going to freak out.” Chloe turned her head suddenly, her focus probably going to her confused husband and children. “Where’d she go?” Miles’s head snapped over to where she was looking. “She’s here?” Why did his voice go up two excited octaves?

“Honestly, I thought she was lying about dating you, so I was messing with her by pretending to try and set her up with somebody. I don’t think she realized it was you.” Another low chuckle. “Oh, she might have.”

I was halfway out the main door when the strap of my purse caught on the door handle. My body reared back from nearly clotheslining myself. While I was frantically trying to untangle the strap, I felt a warm body at my back, and a hand grasped my arm. Then I heard the low drawl that filled my heart with dread and my body with chills. “Hey there, Celery Stick.” My shoulders dropped, along with my head and every ounce of my dignity. The hour of reckoning for all my sins was now upon me. “Or should I say, girlfriend?”

I swallowed, bringing my gaze upward, past the annoying grin, strong cheekbones, and five o’clock shadow, until they met his eyes—brown, crinkly, and full of mischievous glee. “Did I miss something? I’ve been a boyfriend a time or two before, but I remember a lot more kissing.”

“But I mean…you did email me that romantic love note, so…” he continued.

“To stop my family from trying to set me up with an ex-boyfriend…I might have told them that I was dating somebody.” He put his hand over his mouth as though deep in thought while he nodded. “I see. Understandable. The only problem is that your sister seems to think it’s me, specifically.” I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath through my nose. It did nothing to calm me. But he wouldn’t rest until I spoke the words. “When I found out he was coming–my ex…on a whim, I told my sister...” His eyebrows raised appreciatively, waiting for me to finish the statement. With me standing there…really not wanting to. “And…” he prodded. “And when she asked who…your name came out.” “There it is.” He sighed happily.

He was silent for a moment, staring at me. “Haven’t you ever heard me talk about the lodge before?” I threw my hands up. “I must have missed it in all of our conversations.” He made a noise of disbelief before he folded his arms. “How’d you find out about this place, then?” “Millie told me⁠—" I stopped abruptly, my hands covering my face while Miles only laughed. Millie’s last text message from this morning telling me to have fun and be willing to embrace the unexpected delights in life took on a whole new meaning now. That little punk. She’d be receiving a strongly worded text from me later tonight.

Miles leaned over me, taking his time to glance out the window. “Ohhh. This must be the ex. He doesn’t look so bad. What’s the story?” I was definitely not about to get into past relationship issues with Miles Taylor, but I did need his help, so I had to give him something. “He’s just not for me.” Miles stepped up beside me, rubbing his hands together and cracking his neck as if preparing for a boxing match. “Alright, what stage of dating are we at? Hand holding? Pet names? Making out behind the barn? Not sure what you prefer. I never woke up in time to finish reading how Rochester got the job done.”

Miles leaned in closer, his warm breath a feather on the skin below my ear. “What’s it gonna be? Are you going to kiss me? Should I hold your hand? Gaze into your eyes?” I pretended to gag. “I’m not a PDA type of girl, so just stand there and keep your hands to yourself.” Just before the door opened, Miles wrapped his arm around me, pulling me tight against his body. “The first thing you need to know about your fake boyfriend is that I am definitely a PDA type of guy.”

“I teach English with Olive.” He stepped back, looking between us both before he started laughing. “Both of you? Oh geez. I’ll bet you have some crazy Friday nights, busting out Shakespeare or whatever those boring books were that Olive used to read all the time.” Miles looked as though he found something amusing—not Glenn so much, but something. Looking down at me, he said, “Sometimes she writes me love notes.” I pinched his side, and he did the same to mine. Glenn scoffed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe there are two of you.”

I folded my arms and tried to seem nonchalant with my praise, but my heart was pounding. “Miles is an author, actually. He was just picked up by a big publisher to finish out his series. He’s also quite the adventurer–rock climbing in the summer and skiing black diamonds in the winter.” I should have stopped there, but all reason left me and I kept going. “And he still finds time to write me love notes.” Glenn raised his eyebrows. “I thought you wrote him love notes.” When I had the nerve to actually look at Miles, he had a grin on his face. “I help her find the right words, so they’re actually from both of us by the time we finish.” He pulled me closer and kissed me on the temple before I could blink.

“Well, thanks for…that. I’m really sorry for this whole weird mess. I’ll figure out something to tell my family tonight.” “What are you going to say?” I shrugged, still finding the floor fascinating. “I’ll just tell everyone we broke up.” He snorted. “No way.” My eyes flitted up to his. “Why not?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re gonna let them think I broke up with my girlfriend a week before Christmas? No. I’m not gonna be that guy.”

“Nope. I say we’re in it for the whole week.”

“I think this one’s a keeper, Olive,” she said, bringing me back to the conversation. He draped his arm once again across my shoulders, squeezing me in extra tight. “I keep trying to convince your daughter of that.”

“Just a peck on the cheek?” Chloe smiled daggers at me. “After such a romantic gesture?” My nose flared slightly, but I managed to keep my smile bright as I regarded my horrible sister. “I’ve already thanked him plenty. Besides, I’m not into PDA.” “I am, though,” Miles said, turning to face me, pure devilish mischief on his face. “I don’t mind you thanking me again.”

I turned to face Miles. “Alright, let’s do this.” His lips broke into a smile. “So romantic,” he murmured. “Shut up,” I whispered just before I grabbed the collar of his flannel shirt, pulled him down to where I could reach, and pressed my mouth against his. I hadn’t realized how cold my lips were until they were touching his. How were men always so warm?

We said our goodbyes, and they all turned to go. To me, he whispered, “Should I call her Mom?” I elbowed his stomach. “Why does it seem like you’re overly thrilled about this?” Warm puffs of air hit my ear as his lips moved dangerously close to me. “Because now you owe me. Big time.”

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Miles. I am hypothetically throwing rocks at your window. ME: Why are you doing that? ME: And how did you get this number? UNKNOWN NUMBER: I have the numbers of all my fake girlfriends. Come outside.

but I also read and taught books for a living. I knew what happened in every fake-dating storyline. Lots of unnecessary touching and confusion and somebody professing love and real feelings. Not on my watch. From our brief interaction tonight, we had already kissed once on the lips (although I used the term kiss very loosely), along with a cheek kiss and a kiss on my temple. Which was too much kissing for two people who didn’t like each other. Saying no was responsible.

When I was a few yards from him, he stopped and stood tall, stretching his back. Though he was covered up to ward off the chill, my eyes couldn’t help but admire the way the old pair of Levis snugly fit his frame. Turning, he spotted me almost upon him and smiled. My breath caught. That smile was unexpected. It seemed genuine and didn’t look like he was about to tease me or⁠— “Morning, Celery Stick.”

“There was a mistletoe kiss on that card. No way.” The grin on his face immediately set my heart pounding. “I promise I’ll make it good.” My cheeks flushed annoyingly while I tamped down some runaway butterflies. “We’ve already kissed,” I said, attempting to gain back an ounce of control. “We can just count that one.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “My grandma could have kissed me better than that. And besides, there wasn’t any mistletoe.”

“Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?” “You started this whole thing. I’m just giving it a better ending.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “I’ll pick you up in an hour to take you to your cabin, Celery Stick.”

MILLIE: Have you forgiven me yet? ME: That’s a strong no. MILLIE: Well, have you two at least kissed? It’s been almost twenty-four hours.

“Number one. No unnecessary touching. Obviously.” I ticked the rule off with my finger, ready to add another when his voice stopped me. “Nope.” My startled eyes flew to his. “What?” A tiny smile quirked at the side of his mouth. “Veto. I disagree.” My brow furrowed in confusion. “No…that’s…not up for debate. No unnecessary touching.” He leaned forward and met my gaze unabashed. “If I’m going to be dating you this week⁠—" “Fake dating,” I broke in. He went on, unfazed, “I can’t work under those kinds of restraints.” I shook my head, irritated that he always had to find a way to get under my skin. This wasn’t even a hard rule. This was an obvious rule.

“So…what book have you read where fake dating worked as planned? Should I take a quick peek into your Kindle?” He cocked his head to the side, a smile playing on his lips, his brown eyes diving into mine.