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Fool Me Twice at Christmas
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Synopsis
There are two types of relationships: fake and real.
Chuck and Kate’s used to be real, oh-so-real. But after she broke his heart four months ago, leaving him, it became all just pretense for the sake of their entwined families.
With parents who are best friends and business partners, it’s not easy for Chuck and Kate to announce they’ve split up. But with the holidays looming over them, they can no longer keep pretending.
Chuck and Kate head home for Christmas, determined to tell the truth—and end up accidentally engaged instead. The more they try to pull apart, the more the Universe seems to push them back together, shortening the road to the altar. And when just-for-show kisses stir up forgotten feelings, things get even more complicated.
Now, with the midnight hour approaching, will Chuck and Kate’s relationship turn out to be real or fake?
Release date: September 28, 2021
Publisher: Pink Bloom Press
Print pages: 206
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Fool Me Twice at Christmas
Camilla Isley
What a beautiful, crappy day. The sun shines on a gloriously snow-lined Interstate 75 in staggering contrast to my stormy mood. On a regular day, I wouldn’t particularly enjoy driving for hours—I get motion-sick pretty easily, even if I’m at the wheel. But today I’d trade a limb, or possibly even a minor, non-vital organ, to be anywhere other than stuck in a rental car with my ex-girlfriend-turned-fake-girlfriend as we head home for the holidays.
I tap my fingertips on the steering wheel and throw a glance at the emerald numbers of the car’s digital clock—and we’ve still got two hours of sunny road ahead! Joy of joys.
Kate and I started fighting the moment I pulled up in front of our old apartment in Ann Arbor at noon to pick her up. Too late, in her opinion. A wasted half day. A totally reasonable hour for me, considering I had to pack, grab a bite to eat before the long journey, and walk to the rental office to collect the car, which of course wasn’t the right model. Toy-size, according to Kate; perfectly proportioned, according to me. Then, we argued about the dimensions of her luggage—exaggerated in my eyes, essential in hers—which also explained why she considered the car too small.
“I have presents to bring home,” she argued. “Didn’t you buy any?”
And when I said I planned to do my Christmas shopping in Bluewater Springs, she gave a theatrical eye roll. “Of course, why would you put some thought and care in choosing gifts for your loved ones? Do it last minute, like always. It’s your specialty.”
To which I didn’t respond.
But the bickering isn’t why we’re sitting so tensely in this overstuffed Nissan Versa we risk snapping in half at every bump on the road. No, we’re on pins and needles because, for the past four months, we’ve barely been in each other’s lives. Definitely not in person. Definitely not for hours at a time. And definitely not in such a confined space like the passenger compartment of a—allegedly tiny—car.
Until today, our sole communications since the end of summer break amounted to the odd, informational text about momentous happenings in our days the other should be aware of to keep up the farce. As relationships go, ours grew nice and steady over the years as we progressed from best friends to dating to living together, but then crashed alarmingly fast on the way down—a falling, vertical smear of a breakup that flat-lined into this fake-relationship sham we’re now carrying out for the sake of our families.
Anyway, now that she’s run out of criticisms, Kate is giving me the silent treatment. Which she knows I hate.
Silence is uncomfortable.
Angry silence is unbearable.
When I can’t stand the bitter muteness any longer, I give up and ask a question on the only topic that still unites us. “How do you want to tell them?”
Kate, who’s been pointedly staring out the window, her big brown eyes unwilling to meet mine even for a glimpse, turns on me. “Since you’re telling them, you can do it however you choose.”
I frown. “Why should I be the one to tell our parents?”
“Because it’s all your fault.”
“If I remember correctly, you dumped me. So, if anyone should take the blame, it’s you.”
Kate pulls a lock of her chestnut hair behind her ear and crosses her arms over her chest. “Not when you didn’t leave me any choice, with you being such an immature—”
“Save it,” I interrupt, staring at the straight, infinite road ahead. “I don’t care to listen to a list of my shortcomings again. And I sure won’t stand in front of the firing squad alone. I wouldn’t even know what to tell them.”
“Go with the truth. It’s always the best approach.”
“Which would be?”
“That we don’t love each other anymore.”
Ah.
My mouth parches as I remember the day she informed me of this fact. Needless to say, Kate’s decision to end things between us totally blindsided me. A sudden breakup with no chance of an appeal after a romance that had lasted almost a decade came to me as a real shock. A freezing-cold shower.
And, okay, maybe I wasn’t grand-gesturing her every other day, and I might’ve taken our relationship a little too much for granted. I’m man enough to admit that. But I’d always assumed we’d grow old together. She was my rock, and I was hers. Full stop.
Only, she had different plans. Plans that involved a new, shinier, half-Cuban rock.
No, she didn’t cheat on me, I’m positive. Kate just moved on painfully and humiliatingly fast. I don’t know the details—I haven’t asked—but we still have enough friends in common for the news to reach me that she has a new boyfriend. Marco Guerra.
His Instagram account, where he delights his followers with daily sweaty videos of himself working out at the gym, has given me enough insight into this guy’s life to know he’s the complete opposite of my nerdy, computer-rat self.
Marco is a stud, but, other than that, what do they talk about when they’re together? How many pounds he can bench press?
Admittedly, the dude’s not all brawn. He must have some brain, considering he teaches Latin American and Caribbean Art to undergrads at the University of Michigan. That must be it: his knowledge of the arts provides him enough savoir faire and catchphrases to hoodwink women. Kate must feel oh-so-sophisticated for dating a professor.
I keep my focus on the road ahead and don’t contradict her declaration that our love is over. Instead, I move on to the last practical step needed to put an official end to my first and only relationship: how to tell our families.
It would have been easier if our parents were just old friends who’d always dreamed about their offspring getting married and merging the bloodlines. But no, the Warrens and the Roses do nothing in half measures. Our parents are not only the best of friends, but also business partners and co-owners, with a twenty-five percent share each, of The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company.
Bluewater Springs is renowned in America for exactly two things: our stunning fall foliage, and our delicious chocolates. The factory is the only industry in our hometown, a small village on Lake Michigan about fifteen minutes north of Traverse City, which makes us basically celebrities there. Big fish in a small pond, as that notoriety doesn’t extend much past the town’s borders.
Our parents founded the business as newlyweds fresh out of college, and they’ve grown the organization for thirty years, turning The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company into an international corporation that distributes to over forty countries worldwide.
But the company isn’t just a business for us; it’s a dream we all share and want to keep expanding moving forward. My very first memories growing up are within the factory halls, back when both our families used to live in the twin attic apartments above the original production facilities. The apartments no longer exist, and have long since been turned into office spaces, but my entire childhood is crammed into that building.
But I digress. The main side effect of our parents’ success and unbreakable friendship is the way they’ve been invested in my relationship with Kate since we started dating in high school.
Now that I think about it, the familial pressure probably didn’t help us make things work. It might have even been a wedge driving us apart. The sense of entrapment. The obligations and expectations that our parents and the town put on us as heirs to the chocolate kingdom. And the unwillingness we had to disappoint them.
I sigh, trying to find some middle ground, now, between us. “Why don’t I tell my mom and dad, and you tell yours?” I propose. “It’s only fair.”
Kate pouts in that way that is not a ‘yes,’ but not a definite ‘no’ either. I’ll mark it down as a victory and interpret her silence as tacit consent.
A small triumph.
So why do I still feel like the biggest loser?
Two
Kate
Frozen gravel crunches under the tires as Chuck pulls up in front of my parents’ house. The sky should be dark at five p.m. in the dead of winter, but the snow blanketing the garden amplifies the porch lamps and the light streaming through the windows, creating a daylight illusion that brightens the night with a widespread yellow glow.
Chuck kills the engine and turns to me with a heavy sigh. All he does lately is sigh. He’s been doing it nonstop for the past four hours, and I’m already fed up with him constantly playing the martyr. I pulled the trigger on us, true, but our relationship had been crumbling for months when I called it quits. It was only waiting for someone to bring it behind the barn and shoot it. And that person had to be me, same as for everything else in our lives.
Decide where to go on vacation? Kate, you pick, I’m fine with whatever you choose.
Book the hotel? Kate, you know you’re better at this stuff than I am. If I do it, we’d just end up in a dump or paying double.
Go out to dinner? Kate, I don’t care what we eat, whatever works.
He didn’t bat a lash even when I brought him to a hard-core vegan restaurant that served only raw foods and kombucha-fermented cocktails. I was trying to shake things up. Not that he noticed.
Chuck, would you rather play the latest Final Fantasy three millionth game, or the new Halo?
Now, that would open up a debate.
I can’t even remember a time when he didn’t pay more attention to his stupid PlayStation than me.
Once, I even tried that silly drop-the-towel internet challenge to grab his attention. I snuck up on him while he was playing, dropped my towel to the floor, and sauntered to the bathroom naked, saying, “I’m going to take a shower.”
Chuck kept pushing buttons on his stupid controller, eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah, yeah, Honey. Later.”
What question he thought he was answering, I’ll never know. But if I needed any more proof we were over, that was it. Still, it was easier to stick to my I’ve-made-the-right-choice convictions when I didn’t have to see him or be so close to him that I can smell his aftershave—a sensual, oriental, woody seduction elixir I’ve never been able to resist. Same as I haven’t been able to resist his deep blue eyes or midnight black hair ever since hitting puberty. Chuck is hot in a goofy, skinny, nerdy kind of way. And, apparently, four months apart haven’t immunized me. Yet. But I’ll get there in time.
“I guess I’ll help you unload your stuff,” Chuck says, turning his head toward the over-packed back of the car that took us an hour to sandwich together in a real-life Tetris game. “Then go home to see my parents.” Another sigh. Good thing he keeps annoying me with all the sighing; otherwise, I’d be losing my mind—and my will to keep him in the past—right now. “When do you want to toss the grenade?”
“Right away,” I say without hesitation. “The sooner we can stop lying, the better.”
We started the ruse back in September because we thought the shock would be lessened if we told our parents in person—then chickened out and skipped on Thanksgiving to avoid facing them. But now that we’re finally here, I’m starting to wish we’d just texted them four months ago and gotten it over with. Anyway, no point crying over spilled chocolate, this is the last push and the nightmare will be over.
“You want to tell them now?” Chuck protests. As always, we’re on completely different wavelengths. “Kate, I’m tired. I just drove four hours. Can’t we give it a rest, at least for tonight?”
“No. Waiting will only make things harder. I say we go in there and rip the Band-Aid—”
“THEY’RE HERE!” A scream rips through the night, cutting me off.
My mom runs down the porch steps in her pink Uggs, a white wool cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders to shield her against the winter wind. Dad follows close on her heels. Then Chuck’s mom and dad, too.
Ah, a full welcome committee! We should’ve known.
Chuck and I have barely exited the car when the parents descend upon us. The dads kiss us briefly before unloading the Nissan. The moms hug us and fuss.
“How was the journey?”
“We were expecting you hours ago!”
“You look tired, is everything okay?”
“Come, come inside, it’s freezing out here.”
The questions come in such a whirlwind I can’t tell which mom asks what or who hugs me tighter.
I’m carried into the house on a tidal wave of more kisses, squeezes, and jostled suitcases, and wash ashore in the living room. Logs crackle in the fireplace, warming the main room of my parents’ cabin-like home—a nice contrast to the chill of the outdoors.
My pops, Teddy, and Chuck’s nana, Fern, are also waiting for us inside. The elderly are more restrained in their welcomes, mostly because old age doesn’t allow them to grab us as quickly or forcefully as our parents, but the enthusiasm is just as boisterous. We’ve only been away for a few months, but they all act like we’re soldiers coming back from the front.
Admittedly, us skipping Thanksgiving was an unprecedented act. We justified our absence inventing a fake romantic trip to Niagara Falls.
I went with Marco.
I don’t know what Chuck did. Probably took part in a virtual fried turkey competition on his PlayStation.
But our absence must’ve been felt more than we imagined.
While Mom puts the finishing touches on dinner, the rest of us scatter across the living room.
At once, I’m bombarded with the usual million coming-back-home questions. How’s school? How did you do on your finals? Are you eating enough? Did you lose weight, dear?
Chuck’s nana always asks me if I’ve lost weight, but this time I’ve actually shed a few pounds since Marco convinced me to pick up running. Nana Fern probably wouldn’t approve. She’s already saddled with a skimpy grandson, and I’ve always been her chubby consolation prize.
But, thankfully, I don’t have to admit the slim sin to Nana Fern as Mom comes into the room clapping to get our attention. “Come, everyone, sit down, dinner is ready.”
I take a deep breath. Maybe having both families under the same roof isn’t a bad thing. We can break the news to them all at once. And, this way, I’ll also be able to control the narrative so Chuck can’t portray me as a heartless bitch who dumped him for no reason.
I give my ex-boyfriend a loaded nod, then follow the others into the dining room.
The rectangular table is laid for eight, with three plates on each of the long sides and the other two at the near end. An honorific spot for me and Chuck, I assume. At the opposite end of the table, a lumpy shape covered in a deep-burgundy satin veil looms over the room.
“What’s that?” I ask no one in particular.
“A surprise,” Abigail, Chuck’s mom, replies as she squeezes my hand.
“Ah.”
Sounds ominous.
“Sit, sit,” my mom urges as she disappears into the kitchen.
She comes back a minute later, holding a dish in each hand. Turkey casserole for Chuck, and the Warren family secret recipe meatloaf for me.
“Your favorite, Love.” She places the casserole in front of Chuck and the meatloaf before me. “And yours also, Honeybun.”
She disappears into the kitchen again and is soon back with a tray of Duck à l’Orange. She’s cooked three ducks in total, all perfectly crispy and honey-gold glazed. See, my mom is a brilliant chef, and she’s found her cooking soulmate in Chuck’s dad. Mom and Bud are head chocolatiers at The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company, while my dad and Abigail are in charge of the business side of things. Finance, Dad, and marketing, Chuck’s mom. The four of them together are a perfect partnership, both in the professional sphere and in their personal lives as spouses and best friends.
And they have so many hopes pinned on Chuck and me and our relationship that I’m sure tonight’s revelation will break their hearts. But the charade has to end. Now. The constant lying has drained me, and I don’t want to lead them on anymore.
When all bellies are full, I nudge Chuck under the table with a knee and clear my throat. Since no one notices my attempt to speak, I stand up and clink my fork on my glass until everyone quiets down.
“Can I have everyone’s attention for a minute, please? Chuck and I would like to make an announcement.”
The moms exchange a complicit stare while Nana Fern places a hand over her heart. Oh, gosh, now they’re probably expecting us to announce we’re getting married.
Wrong move, Kate.
Much as I hate to admit it, Chuck was right. We should’ve broken the news to them separately—divide and conquer. Well, no turning back now.
“We… we…” Sweat pools under my armpits, and I swallow. I beckon Chuck to stand up next to me, and when he doesn’t, I kick him under the table until he joins me.
“Wait!” my dad shouts, jumping to his feet. “Let me go get the champagne.”
Before I can stop him, he rushes into the kitchen and comes back with a magnum bottle of bubbly in his hands. But as he excitedly walks past the lumpy shape near the door, fidgeting to remove the metal cage covering the champagne cork, the wire catches on the mystery object, pulling off the covering to reveal…
I gasp in horror at the life-sized standee of me and Chuck. In the photo, we’re looking into each other’s eyes, smiling, clearly head over heels in love.
“What’s that?” Chuck asks, sounding as shocked as I feel.
Abigail playfully swats my dad’s arm. “You’ve ruined the surprise, Mick.” Then, pointing at the standee, she adds, “Tah-dah! We’ve made you kids brand ambassadors.” And before any of us can comment, she rambles on, “This year’s Valentine’s Day campaign will be based on you two and your love story. We’re launching a whole new line of chocolates, new boxes, and packaging all with your faces on it. You’re going to be famous.”
The standee is actually a display holder, from which Abigail retrieves a heart-shaped box. “I present you Bluewater Springs’ newest raspberry and dark chocolate bonbon, the Chucokate.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
They’ve combined our names as if we were a celebrity couple, and named the new product after us?
My heart sinks as Chuck’s mom goes on. “And we’ve hired an Instagram expert to help make the campaign successful—Josiane Masson. She’s a pretty big deal in the industry, and she’ll be following you two around during the holidays. We’ve asked her to collect enough shots of you two turtle-doves to feed our social media accounts throughout February. And…” With a hand, she gestures at my dad. “Mick.”
Dad smiles. “The projections for the Chucokate line are off the charts. All focus groups’ polls came back enthusiastic. This rebranding will finally allow us to become a major player in the adult chocolate market.”
A general round of applause greets this declaration. I can barely keep upright and fake-smiling. Chuck is as speechless as I am.
When the excitement marginally dies over, my mom turns to me. “But, Honeybun, what was it you wanted to tell us?”
I glance at the standee, trying to gauge how much money they’ve already sunk into the new campaign and how much the company stands to lose if we publicly break up and ruin the Chucokate love story.
I don’t know. A lot, most likely. But my brain is too tired to draw estimates right now.
Okay, Chuck, you win this round. The breakup announcement can wait until tomorrow.
“Nothing, Mom,” I say. Sagging back in my chair, I point at the standee. “The Chucokate is excitement enough for one night.”
More than a few disappointed looks cross the table. They were really hoping for a wedding announcement, weren’t they? I suppose it’d make the Chucokate story that much sweeter.
Dad is the quickest to recover. “Oh, well.” He pops the champagne cork. “To the Chucokate, then!”
The name is such a monstrosity it makes me wish the floor would open and swallow me whole. On my right, Chuck’s expression mirrors the same despair. Hard as it might’ve been to confess we’ve broken up before, now the situation has gone nuclear. Why didn’t we come clean four months ago?
Oh, gosh, Marco is going to kill me. I’d sworn I’d tell my parents as soon as I got home. He’s been getting sick and tired of having to listen to my calls with them where we talk about this fictional life where I’m still happily living with Chuck.
I’m so screwed.
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