The Twelve Holidates: a Sweet Christmas RomCom Novella

by Emma St Clair

  The Twelve Holidates

  Emma St. clair

  To Rob, for always begging me to read my books to you… even when I don’t.

  I really like you right now. <3

  Contents

  Dear Dr. Love

  1. Date 1

  2. Date 2

  3. Dates 3 & 4

  4. Date 5

  5. Dates 6, 7, & 8

  Dear Dr. Love,

  6. Dates 9 & 10

  7. Dates 11, 12, & Lucky 13

  The Twelve Holidates

  Epilogue

  What to Read Next

  A Note from Emma

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Emma St. Clair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For information or permissions, contact: emma@emmastclair.com

  Cover by Sharon at Book Cover Bug

  Cover by Emma St. Clair

  Proofreading by Devon Banta

  From: FriendZoned@DrLove.advice

  To: DrLove@DrLove.advice

  Dear Dr. Love,

  I’ve been in love with my best friend since we were thirteen. The problem is that she has no idea.

  She kissed me one time, back in middle school. And I was so shocked, so excited, so thirteen … that I didn’t say anything.

  She took that to mean I must not like her back. Being a beacon of maturity, I didn’t know how to tell her the opposite was true. But she stuck me permanently in the friend zone, which is where I’ve lived ever since.

  I don’t think I can take watching her date losers and have her heart broken anymore. But I don’t want to ruin over ten years of friendship. I can’t lose her.

  What do I do?

  Sincerely,

  Friendzoned

  From: DrLove@DrLove.advice

  To: FriendZoned@DrLove.advice

  Dear Friendzoned,

  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to channel the bravery your bestie had when she kissed you way back then.

  She put herself out there, while probably more terrified than you are right now, and just went for it.

  It’s time for you to do the same. Ideally, before a guy who’s NOT a loser stakes his claim.

  Go get her, cowboy!

  -Dr. Love

  Date 1

  Taylor

  I have to wonder if the blogger who suggested waiting inside a giant stocking for your significant other actually tried it first. After spending thirty-one minutes waiting inside one for my boyfriend, I’m guessing no. Maybe it was one of those sponsored posts with a stocking brand, where they just HAD to write good things.

  Because the post mentioned nothing about the heat inside of a giant stocking. This thing does NOT breathe. At. All.

  Which means the cute holiday dress I'm wearing is now plastered to my body like a red velvet wetsuit. I also suspect that I smell, and not like the holiday cookie body spray I spritzed on before I climbed inside the stocking of doom.

  My best friend, Weston, tried to warn me this was a bad idea. But he’s always a wet blanket when it comes to anything Chad related, so I’ve learned to tune him out.

  Weston never thought we would last through the first year of Chad’s law school, and just look at us now! Take that, Weston.

  Assuming all goes well. Which is what I’m doing: hoping for the best. Chad says my optimism is one of my best qualities. That and my legs. They better be, considering how frequently I run.

  How much longer is Chad going to take?

  He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, based on his schedule. And one thing Chad and I have in common is that we do not deviate from our schedules. Maybe he stayed after work for drinks? But that’s not like him. He should have been here seventeen minutes ago. I got here early just in case he did, and boy, am I regretting it now.

  Finally, when I’m afraid I’m going to melt into a Christmas cookie scented puddle in the bottom of this knit monstrosity, I hear keys in the apartment door.

  It’s go time!

  I straighten up, trying to retain the stocking’s shape, which requires a tiny bit of contortionism and a whole lot of discomfort.

  It will be worth it. It will. It has to be.

  While the blog post focused on the sexytimes benefits of hiding yourself in the stocking, I’m thinking of it more in a symbolic way. (Which explains why I’m in a Christmas dress and not some kind of naughty Mrs. Claus nightie.)

  I want Chad to see that I’m his. I’m all in. I mean, if waiting for him while he finished law school wasn’t an indication enough, this should do the trick. I’m his, and I’m ready for phase two of our relationship.

  He’ll pass the bar and get a full time job at Walker Associates while I’ll finally get the ring I’ve been patiently and not at all passive-aggressively waiting for. I’m not one of those pushy girlfriends who constantly hints about rings and timelines. No, I’ve just … waited.

  Anyway. Back to the present, Chad is here, and I’m about to show him that I’m really HIS. But tonight is just the start. This is the last week before Christmas, and the giant stocking is just one of twelve “holidates” I printed off from the blog post. The paper is a little bit damp after holding it in the stocking for thirty-one minutes, hopefully still readable. Once I’ve surprised him and am out of this literal sweat sock.

  How long does it take the man to get his key in the lock?

  Finally, the door opens. My heart beats faster. Come on, Chad. Get your cute butt in here!

  The door slams, and I try not to let out a shriek of excitement. And just like when playing hide-and-seek as a kid, my eager nervousness might have resulted in a little loosening of the bladder region. I’m most definitely leaving an anonymous comment on the blog post after this. People need to know what they’re getting into. Literally.

  For some reason, Chad seems to have stalled out in the entryway. I hear shuffling, but no indication that his steps have moved any closer. His apartment isn’t massive. I’m near the Christmas tree that I insisted Chad get the day after Thanksgiving.

  Why is he just standing in the doorway?

  My anticipation is on par with a five year old on Christmas Eve when she’s hoping to get her first big-girl bike.

  Finally, I hear Chad toss his keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter. Any second now …

  I hear a deep sigh—is this it?! Does he see me? I’m almost ready to squeal. Right about…

  “Oh, Chad.”

  That sultry voice isn’t part of the plan. Not my tonight plan. Not my anytime-ever plan.

  It is very female, very breathy, and definitely going to ruin my holiday spirit.

  A low growl follows, a sound which has to be coming from Chad, unless I’m somehow in another apartment. Or another dimension. I’ve certainly never heard him make THAT particular noise before.

  My knees begin to tremble, and the paper list I’ve been clutching falls to the bottom of the stocking. The sounds continue.

  Heavy breathing. A giggle. Rustling. They’re getting closer, shuffling steps headed toward the couch. I feel a little more nauseated with each sound, and my humiliation grows.

  Is this really happening?

  And how do I extricate myself from this stocking of death before things in the room go too far?

  How far, exactly, will they go?

  I don’t want to know the answer to that question, which is why I
make the snap decision to make a run for the door.

  Only, this is a bit tricky considering my hiding spot in plain sight in the stocking.

  I try to step out of the stocking, averting my eyes so I don’t have to see things I can’t unsee. But I’m standing too close to the tree, and my heel catches on the string of Christmas lights. Lights I so carefully hung while Chad checked texts on his phone that he said were Very Important and School Related. Yeah, right.

  The moment I realize my heel is tangled in the lights is the one where I see Chad and her, entwined on the couch, not unlike the way that Chad and I were two nights ago.

  The sight makes me want to vomit. It would serve them right if I did, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility, especially considering the way I’m toppling toward them.

  I stumble forward in an awkward step-hop, my heel still in the lights while the other is trapped in the stocking.

  Their faces belong in a movie. The woman’s wide blue eyes really are like the clichéd description of saucers. If saucers had spidery looking fake eyelashes attached to their edges, that is. And yeah, I’m judging her eyelashes. Isn’t that my right?

  Chad’s face matches hers, the only difference being the shadow of regret I see in his eyes. Regret and … is that pity?

  Oh no. Not pity. Nope. Not taking that right now.

  I’m going down. Right on top of them. There is no avoiding it. Spider-lashes opens her mouth even wider, if that’s possible, since it already looks like she could fit her whole fist inside.

  The amazing thing is how many thoughts have time to race through my head as I’m falling toward the couch.

  I put my hands out to break my fall. My palms land right on spider-lashes’ plump backside and then the tree lands on mine.

  Then it’s me and Chad and spider-lashes and the Christmas tree, all tangled on the couch together.

  Not awkward at all.

  With a pop and a shower of sparks, the string of lights goes out, and all I can think about is how Weston was right.

  Date 2

  Weston

  I should never have let her go.

  That’s what I’m thinking as I open the door of my apartment to find Taylor in a wrinkled dress, clutching her heels in one hand and a person-sized Christmas stocking in her hand. The mascara tracks on her cheeks confirm what I already know: Chad is a total loser.

  “He was cheating on me!” she says, throwing herself in my arms.

  And as much as I want to throttle her idiot boyfriend—now ex boyfriend, I’m assuming—I can’t be sad about getting to hold Taylor.

  “Come on,” I say, roughing a hand over her dark hair. I walk her to the couch where I’ve comforted her like this countless times before. It’s THE couch. To Taylor, it probably doesn’t mean much, but to me, it’s a monument to my stupidity.

  I shouldn’t have let Taylor go. And I don’t just mean to her stupid jerk of an ex’s house to wait for him in a stocking. I should have cut that off at the start.

  But I never should have let her go after she kissed me when we were thirteen on this very couch. That’s what I’m thinking as I hold a sobbing, broken-hearted Taylor, wishing I was holding a happy, in-love-with-me Taylor instead.

  I’ve gone over that pivotal moment so many times in my mind. Imagined me doing and saying all the right things instead of what I actually did.

  We were in my parents’ basement, watching The Dark Knight for probably the fiftieth time. Like most thirteen-year-old guys, I was obsessed with the new Batman franchise. And Taylor was equally as obsessed with Christian Bale, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  I didn’t see the kiss coming. Not even a little bit. My eyes were glued to the screen, watching Ra’s Ah Ghul take on Bruce Wayne in his mansion. The dark moment before the light.

  Looking back, I see what my idiot self then didn’t. Taylor went to get a drink refill and plopped down on the couch much closer to me. Then she reached across me for the remote, and when her shoulder pressed into my scrawny chest, I’d angled my head to see the screen better.

  Side note: it’s no wonder I can so quickly peg every idiot Taylor dates. I’m working from experience here.

  Anyway. When her subtle cues didn’t take my eyes from the screen, Taylor went all in. She took my acne-dusted cheeks in her hands and pressed her mouth to mine, with all the enthusiasm and inexperience that a thirteen-year-old can.

  And I … didn’t kiss her back.

  I didn’t move.

  I was a hiker, coming across a mama bear and her cubs in the woods. Awestruck and terrified, I resorted to the third alternative in the fight or flight response—I froze.

  It was the best moment of my life, one I’d dreamed about but had never imagined actually happening. I was stunned. Blown away. Lobotomized by that single, sweet kiss.

  And when Taylor pulled away, searching my face for something, anything, all I gave her was the same look a big-mouthed bass does when it’s on your line: wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

  Taylor wisely chose flight, and high-tailed it down the street to her house. And that’s where I made an even bigger mistake—I didn’t go after her. I didn’t call her. I didn’t even walk over the next few days and ask her to hang out like I normally did that summer.

  Because I had no idea what to do or say.

  My feelings were simply too big for my little pea brain to handle. That kiss short-circuited my motherboard, blew all my fuses. If you’ve never been a teenage boy, you simply can’t understand the Molotov cocktail it throws into your life. The feelings, the raging, hormones wreaking havoc on a confused physical body, all mixed with a maturity that’s nonexistent.

  Yeah, yeah. Excuses, excuses.

  The thing was—I already had it bad for Taylor. I thought I’d shown her by the fact that I spent every waking minute with her, even when my other guy friends teased me mercilessly. I figured it was obvious. I had no idea she felt the same way until that kiss.

  While I understand how my ineptitude came across as disinterest and maybe even dislike, it was the furthest thing from the truth. I was terrified. I couldn’t work up the courage to go see Taylor, but I worked up a speech. Which was heavily influenced by Christopher Nolan movies and more fitting for a big budget action film, but whatever.

  By that time, though, Taylor had spent two days convincing herself that I didn’t feel the same way. She blew into my house with a smile like she always did, acting like nothing ever happened, except for the quick speech she made about how we were never to talk about that night again under pain of certain death and loss of friendship.

  “You’re my best friend, West,” she’d said, “and that’s all you’ll ever be. Friends forever?” She’d even stuck out her hand for me to shake.

  What was I supposed to do at thirteen? I had no game. Braces. A voice that cracked half the time I spoke. No knowledge of how girls worked, or that this was Taylor’s way of protecting herself.

  It felt like the worst kind of rejection.

  So, with my stomach feeling like a garbage compactor crushing up all my insides, I shook her hand.

  Leading me to this moment, where the douche of the day has just broken her heart again, and I’m the forever best friend left picking up the pieces of the woman I love.

  “I supported him through law school,” she sobs. “I gave up my dreams for him to succeed, because I thought I was doing it for us.”

  My T-shirt is soaked with her tears—and hopefully just tears—as she cries into my chest. Is it so terrible that a part of me eats this up because it means I get to hold her?

  Yeah, it’s terrible.

  Because unlike the other jackholes that Taylor dated over the years, she was actually serious about Chad. To the point that she thought he was The One. It fills me with relief that he screwed this up so royally. But it also means that my girl is hurting. Bad.

  All I can do is stroke her hair, let her soak my shirt with enough tears to stop a drought, and tell her she’s going
to be okay.

  That’s all I can do for now. Later? I’ll exact my revenge, as I always do on her exes. But I’ll plan that out another time.

  “What did I do wrong?” Taylor pulls away to look up at me.

  Her red-cheeked, tear-filled expression makes so much tenderness and protectiveness boil up inside me that it takes me a moment to locate words.

  “Nothing, Tay. You did nothing wrong. Chad is the one who screwed up.”

  “Literally,” she says, sniffling, and I wince at my careless word choice.

  This is why I let Taylor do a lot of the talking. Whenever I do, I find ways to stick my size twelves right in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry. What I meant was that Chad clearly didn’t deserve you.”

  And he’ll pay. Soon. Maybe I’ll finally utilize the deer urine I’ve been stocking up on at the hunting store.

  Taylor chuckles bitterly. “How many times have you said that now? At what point do I become the common factor in my failed relationships?”

  “The only common factor is that you keep choosing …” I search for a creative insult that adequately covers how awful her exes are. Nothing seems quite bad enough.

  “Guys out of my league?” she offers.

  “No.” My voice is so low, so rough that Taylor startles a little. I take a breath, getting myself back under control. “The common factor is that you are too good for them.”

  Her tears have dried and Taylor is moving into the part of recovery where she wants to dissect things. I hate seeing her cry, but the autopsy of her busted relationships? No, thank you. The last thing I want is to hear more about Chad.

  Time to play offense.