You Can't Ruin Christmas Read online

  Did I just drunkenly rant about my ex to his brother? Did I just gratuitously spill all my fondest hopes and dreams and fears? Wow. Real classy, Mary. Really cool.

  You know what would be even cooler? Just copy-and-pasting everything I just said onto my Tinder profile. That would definitely attract the gentlemen. Especially if it was 1946, the year this movie was made, and possibly the last time in history that my dating skills were relevant. I try to bury my face so deeply in my hands to hide my embarrassment and tears that my hands end up pressed against my knees, and soon I am crying into my hands and my knees. I feel so humiliated that I am quite certain I should never show my face in public again.

  Did I mention I’m also emotionally about as graceful as a hippopotamus?

  But to my surprise, Sven doesn’t awkwardly go running away. Instead I feel his hand on the back of my hair, comforting me. I feel him caressing my back, in a reassuring and protective manner.

  “Do you want me to kick his ass?” Sven asks. “I’ll whoop his ass so hard that he won’t be able to sit down until next December.”

  This only makes me cry harder. I hate that I’m crying in front of him. I hate it. But hell, it does really suck that I have lost a chunk of my life loving someone who didn’t love me back. It’s really fresh, really raw. Like a wound that is going to keep opening up and bleeding until it closes. And my greatest fear, that I can’t even say out loud, is what if it takes me so long to have kids that it’s too late for them to even meet their grandparents? Or what if my parents are too old and sick to really spend time with them? What if my kids are too young to get to know and remember the amazing people their grandparents are, before they are gone? What if we never get to spend a single magical Christmas together in Snowflake Creek as a family. What if losing these years has set me back so far that everything I hoped for has been ruined forever?

  Sven does something then that blows my mind.

  He slides one hand under my knees, and with the other hand around my waist, he easily uses those massive muscles to lift me into his lap. Like I’m a sack of feathers. I guess those arms are not just for show, and they are pretty capable, too. So, I find myself sitting there, with my bottom nestled against his gargantuan steel thighs, which somehow feels more like resting on a cloud of bliss than the concrete I would have imagined.

  He wraps his arms around me and holds me against his chest.

  He is giving me a fucking hug.

  It takes my mind a second to process what is even happening, because the tears are still coming at full force, and making my shoulders shake. But my sadness eventually begins to subside. It takes a moment for me to relax against him, but when I do, I completely sink against his body as though I have no bones and I am made of Jello. His embrace is warm, and I feel like I desperately needed this human affection.

  The breakup may have officially happened today, but I haven’t seen Sebastian in three months. Three months of barely hearing from him, watching his hockey games from afar, watching him cozy up to other girls on social media, and fearing the worst. Three months of mostly being isolated alone in my recording studio, or alone in my room surrounded by Sebastian’s belongings and going insane wondering if he would ever reply to my texts.

  I didn’t realize how lonely I was. Thousands of miles away from my family and closest friends. Hanging on the ghost of a boyfriend past. Refusing to admit to myself that he was in the past.

  But I don’t feel alone anymore.

  I feel like Sven is my friend. And maybe he cares.

  It is hard not to feel that way with how perfectly he is holding me.

  Somehow, I feel more safe and protected than I have since I was a child. I allow my cheek to rest against his chest, which feels strangely more like a pillow in this moment than unyielding hardwood floors. It’s astonishing how a man who looks so muscled and powerful can actually be impossibly tender. I let myself be enveloped by his scent of cinnamon and whiskey, which gives me a heady feeling, like being hit by several strong cocktails, all at once.

  “You haven’t wasted any years,” he says against my hair. “You’ve lived and loved, and that’s the best any of us can hope to do. Don’t worry, Mary. You’re going to have a wonderful life. Just like the movie.”

  I think it’s possibly the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me. It’s so sweet, uplifting, and heartwarming that I don’t know how to respond. I hold my breath, wondering if this is a dream I’m going to wake up from. Just a drunken, feverish, sugar-induced dream. It would be easier to believe in Santa Claus than someone being this nice to me. Is Sven even real? Or is he a guardian angel, sent down to save me from diabetes and give me buns of steel?

  I only know one thing for certain: sitting on Santa’s lap never felt this good.

  Chapter Three

  When I wake up in the middle of the night, I am groggy and disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out whether I am on the couch or the bed. My arms fumble around in the darkness, hoping to collide with the warmth of Sven’s body. I know I fell asleep with him holding me on the couch. That was the most comfortable I’ve ever been in my entire life, and there was no way I was going to move.

  A fire alarm couldn’t have made me budge. The San Andreas fault breaking open couldn’t have made me flinch. A meteor crashing down on the city in a burning blaze could have maybe made me squint one eye open to peek, but then I’d go right back to snuggling against him.

  To my great disappointment, Sven is nowhere near me. I am in my own bed, all alone. I am not sure why I was expecting or hoping for anything different. He must have carried me here, and I was probably so tired and drunk that I couldn’t speak coherently. Even if I had been able to speak, it would be fair if he questioned the validity of everything I said due to my altered state of mind. The appropriate, gentlemanly thing to do was leave.

  I hope he was at least tempted to stay. Or tempted to take me back to his room instead.

  What am I even thinking? He gave me one hug.

  A comforting hug. When I was a vulnerable, emotional mess. A hug doesn’t mean anything other than basic human compassion. It could have been a friendly hug. There were also a few nice words sprinkled in, but that could have been friendly, too. It doesn’t mean he is going to give me any more of those earth-shattering, soul-warming embraces.

  It certainly doesn’t mean he automatically starts sleeping beside me every night so that I can melt against his massive body as much as I like, soaking up unlimited hugs. It doesn’t mean he even enjoyed the hug himself, or that he even wants to touch me again, in any manner.

  Although I really hope he does, because I almost don’t know how I can imagine the rest of my life without having him close to me like that again. It’s funny how things can change so quickly—I had never even really thought about Sven that way. I had never felt any urge to get to know him on a deeper level, or spend time alone with him, and now it’s like torture to have him sleeping just down the hall, in a different bedroom. I feel so guilty for my previous assumptions that he was a shallow meathead. A brainless beefcake. How wrong I was.

  There’s more gentleness and sensitivity in him than anyone I’ve ever met, outside my family. Maybe that’s why it felt so natural to be near to him—why he felt like family. Far more than his brother ever did. In fact, this is the first time I have woken up in this bed alone and not given a spare thought to Sebastian. My ex-boyfriend seems so small, far away, insignificant. I went from misery and grief to excitement and optimism almost overnight.

  But maybe it’s not fair to Sven.

  Frowning, I consider the fact that I am extra-needy and lonesome due to the breakup. The fact that the man who dumped me was his twin brother, might suggest that I am trying to replace the position of my boyfriend with the most similar applicant. Not that I even know if he's interested in applying to the position. Perhaps I should slap a “Now Hiring” sign on my bedroom door, to make it clear that I’m accepting applications. Although I suppose a sign like that
could be misconstrued. Peering around in the dark room, I try to see if my phone is nearby. It’s possible I left it on the table with the feast of sugar. I groan, feeling the heaviness of the carb-binge in my abdomen, and wishing it would digest a little faster.

  That stuff feels so good going into your mouth, but once it’s actually inside your stomach, it just feels like crap. And makes you feel like crap. It’s really not worth the temporary pleasure. I vow to myself that I will not do that to my body again, and certainly not over some guy who took me for granted. He’s not worth it. I am wondering why when someone treats us badly, we often respond by repeating the behavior and continuing to treat ourselves even worse, like we somehow deserve it. Like we got used to it. But I am distracted from this deep self-analysis when my eyes land on my phone, sitting on the night table. Sven must have placed that there for me. How sweet and thoughtful of him.

  I grab my phone and navigate to his Instagram, to gather as much information as I can. It’s a reconnaissance mission. I carefully inspect dozens of photos and videos of him working with his clients. He seems to genuinely care about every single one of the people he’s training, and I sigh happily as I watch him encourage them to be their best selves. He gives the absolute best pep talks. Maybe that’s why he was so easily able to lift my spirits last night.

  He would make a great father, too, wouldn’t he? I realize I am smiling stupidly as I Insta-stalk him. Stop it, Mary. You don’t even know if he wants kids. You’ve had one conversation. Calm your tits. Soothe your boobs. Hakuna your tatas. Contain the calamity that is your mammaries.

  My sister Clara picked up the phrase “calm your tits” in Australia when she was practicing ballet there one summer. We became obsessed with every variation of saying that, and it became a running joke among my sisters. Not my brother—he wasn’t allowed to talk like that, or we called him a sexist pig. I miss my siblings, and wish I could tell them about Sven, but I don’t know whether there is actually anything to tell them. I also don’t know how to explain the breakup with Sebastian without sounding ultra-pathetic. Hey, so remember that boy I planning to marry—yeah, he just got too famous and successful, and realized he could do much better than me. Oh well, better luck next time!

  Groaning, I focus on my phone. Remembering my promise to fix up Sven’s website, I click on the link from his Instagram profile and immediately cringe. It looks clunky and not even optimized for mobile. I have no idea where he made this, and with what outdated template from the 90s. Yes, it is indeed awful, and in serious need of revamping. I begin brainstorming ideas on how to help him when I see a text message from Clara. She says she had a horrible night at rehearsal.

  I immediately sit up in bed and call her. I believe she is performing in New York right now, so it is three hours earlier, but still a little late for her to be texting me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her when she picks up.

  “Holy crap, Mary, I didn’t expect you to call immediately. Why are you up at like… 4 AM?”

  “I just am. Now what happened at rehearsal?”

  Clara gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s my understudy. I think this bitch wants my job. She’s actively trying to injure me at every chance she gets. I fell on my arm today, and I have it bandaged up with ice. But this isn’t the first time she’s done something like this. I can’t prove it, but I know she slipped a powerful laxative into my coffee before a performance last year. I didn’t think it would be very graceful to have exploding diarrhea while on stage in a tiny pink tutu, you know? Brown shows up on pink. I had to call in sick, and she went on instead of me.”

  “Yikes,” I say, making a face. “Have you told someone?”

  “Of course! I mean, not about the laxative. I didn’t want that in the headlines. But tripping me so that I smashed my arm? That was obviously intentional!”

  “Did anyone see it happen?” I ask her.

  “Yes, but no one believes me. She seemed so sorry and helped me immediately. You oughtta see her, Mary. She’s so sweet and fake, and everyone thinks she’s an amazing friend, until she stabs you in the back and takes your role. This should be an amazing time for me. I’m getting paid more than I’ve ever gotten in my life. Everyone is coming to the shows specifically to see me. I’m earning more for one performance than I used to get in a whole year. After every show, my dressing room is filled with flowers and cards and teddy bears. The love is unreal. And this bitch wants to take it all away from me.”

  “Don’t let her, Clara. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You’ve sacrificed so much. You’ve been injured so many times, and you never let it keep you down. So just—don’t let her get you down, and don’t let her win.”

  “I miss you so much,” Clara says, and she sounds on the verge of tears. “It wasn’t just me that sacrificed for this. It was you, and mom and dad, the whole family. If I fail now, I’ll be letting you all down.”

  “You won’t fail. You can’t fail,” I tell her, trying to dig deep for my inner-Sven and find some pep-talk skills. “You’re my sister, and you’re the best. You eat, sleep, and breathe ballet. Your name is Clara, for goodness’ sake! You were born to dance in The Nutcracker. Of course, people are going to be jealous of pure perfection—but remember, you worked your ass off to achieve it, and no one can take that away from you. They are just looking for shortcuts to the top, but hurting you won’t give them your skills. They will still suck, and you will still be Clara. The best of the best.”

  “Oh, Mary,” she says brokenly. “I’m just tired. I miss Snowflake Creek and want to go home. I just want to get through this last month of performances without any diarrhea or broken bones, and get away from this cutthroat company to be around people who actually care about me again.”

  “You will be soon,” I assure her.

  “Tell me something good, Mar.” Her voice sounds sleepy.

  I feel like she is a child again, asking me to read her a bedtime story. I feel tears spring to my eyes, wishing that she was closer so that I could tuck her in and take care of her.

  “Tell me about Sebastian,” she asks with a whimsical tone. “Did he propose yet? My life is so empty, I need to hear about your epic romance with your dashing hockey player. Let me live vicariously through you.”

  “Uhm,” I respond, nervously. “Things are… good.”

  “What’s it like having someone love you?” Clara asks.

  The question makes my heart hurt. “Well,” I respond, wanting to protect her from the truth and let her be a child for a little while longer, despite her age. Believing in love is like believing in Santa Claus, and as the oldest, my parents made sure I understood that it was necessary to let the younger kids believe for as long as possible. That’s what I need to do now.

  “It’s magical, Clara. I mean, last night, I was kind of down, and he just gave me this incredible hug—I don’t know how to describe it. It was like a dream. It was… like when you dance. That same feeling of being carried away on some kind of beautiful cosmic melody, where all the cells in your body are humming in harmony, and you feel like you’re exactly where you need to be, with the person who was meant to be there with you, who feels exactly the same as you do. And you just know it in your bones, that it’s right, and good. And it feels like home.”

  “Mmmmm,” Clara says happily as she drifts off to sleep. “I love you, sis.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.”

  When I hang up, I feel a bunch of emotions hit me. Guilt for lying to my sister—something I never normally do. But I couldn’t tell her that I got dumped and probably cheated on a million times, and that love actually sucks ass. And that’s what she has to look forward to in life. I worry for her. I wonder if we all pushed her too hard when we discovered she had this talent, and if she’s missed out on all of the other important things that life has to offer while she’s been focusing on dance.

  And mostly just longing. Longing to see her again and make sure that she’s okay, and give my baby sister a hu
g. I doubt my hugs are as good as Sven’s, but I am willing to try. I hate hearing that she is stressed and afraid. But there is very little I can do to help from the other side of the country.

  I am hugging my phone and stressing about all the things as the drowsiness takes over and lulls me back to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of a shrill whistle makes me sit up abruptly in bed.

  The sunlight hits me at full force, because somehow, the curtains have been drawn fully open. I clutch my head groaning and smashing my eyelids closed, but it is too late, and my temple is throbbing.

  The whistle sounds again, and I wince as my head pounds even harder.

  “What’s going on?” I grumble. I am absolutely not a morning person.

  “It’s time to begin,” says a masculine voice.

  I carefully squint one eye open, and see that Sven is standing at the foot of my bed, wearing workout attire.

  “Begin what?” I ask.

  “Begin building your BODY BY SVEN!” he responds.

  Groaning, I fall back to the pillow and pull my blanket over my face. “Do you do this whole whistle thing to all your clients?”

  “Only you,” he says. “You’re special.”

  That makes me smile, and I’m glad the blanket is covering my face. I pull it down slightly to reveal only my eyes. “Okay, drill sergeant. What’s the plan?”

  “I’ve designed a personalized program for you, and we’ll be starting every morning at this hour,” he announces.

  “It’s 7 am!”

  “So?” he asks with confusion. “I’ve already finished training with my 5 am client, and I told you we were starting bright and early. I have another client at ten, so we only have about two and a half hours.”