10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex: A 27 Ways Novella (27 Ways Series Book 3)

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “I’ve been wondering something,” Isaac says, coming closer still. “When you hit rock bottom, when you were at your lowest, most vulnerable point—”

  “Isaac,” I warn him, hating how good it feels to say his name.

  “Why did you call me?” He stops right in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch him.

  That is an excellent question, one I don’t want to examine myself. You better believe I’m not hashing it out with Isaac.

  I stare at him, refusing to answer.

  Which, unfortunately, he reads as something. He smiles as if confirming a suspicion.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I say, realizing if I don’t speak up, his stupid brain is going to start skipping down bunny trails. “You think I’m still in love with you—that after all this time, I haven’t gotten over you.”

  He chuckles, and the sound makes me want to deck him. Or kiss him.

  I’m losing my mind.

  “That’s an interesting theory.” He takes a tiny step closer. “One I wouldn’t mind exploring further…but it’s not what I was going to say.”

  I scoff, rolling my eyes just so I don’t have to look at him. “Yeah, okay. Go ahead and tell me what you were going to say then.”

  “Well, Gigi, I figured you called because you’d finally accepted that I am a stellar mechanic, and if anyone can fix your car, it’s me.”

  We stare at each other, him grinning, me scowling.

  “That’s not what you were going to say.”

  He raises a brow. “You’ll never know, will you?”

  “Get the tree,” I snap, done with this.

  He laughs as I try to stalk past him and clasps my arm, trapping me next to him. “You know why I think you’re mad?”

  “I’m not playing the ‘guess what I’m thinking’ game again.” I give my arm a tug, but if I’m honest, I don’t try all that hard to pull away. You see, it’s been a long time since a guy touched me, longer than I want to admit.

  “I think it’s because you feel guilty.”

  I narrow my eyes, instantly irked enough I can push aside how good he feels and looks and smells. “Excuse me?”

  He pulls me closer, until I’m unwillingly pressed against his chest, and drops his voice to a seductive whisper. “But I’m a forgiving guy, Georgia.”

  Ugh, my name—my real name—is velvet on his lips.

  “I get why you left,” he continues. “We were teenagers, far too young to make promises of forever.”

  And he did make promises—big, scary promises. Ones I was in no way ready for. We were just kids after all.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, remembering the day I broke things off. Even now, the memory hurts, like an old injury that refuses to fully heal.

  “I just thought we should clear the air.” His smile turns wicked. “You know, kiss and make up.”

  My stomach warms, and I’m ashamed to admit my knees wobble—from surprise, not because I swoon a little. Obviously.

  Growling, I pull away from him and huff in the direction of the truck, leaving him and the tree. He’s on my heels in no time, carrying the scratchy pine like he shoulders trees for a living.

  I get it, Isaac. You’re all strong and strapping. Good for you.

  The truck makes a friendly beep when I unlock the doors, and I climb inside without waiting for him. Isaac fusses with the tree for several minutes, cutting off lower branches so it will fit in the stand. When he finally gets in, he finds me typing furiously on my phone.

  “Writing a book?” he asks, and though I don’t look up, I can hear the amusement in his voice.

  “I’m making a list of rules.”

  “Rules?”

  I finally tear my eyes from the screen to meet his. “It’s the only way we’re going to get through the holiday.”

  Looking like he wants to laugh, he says, “Is that so?” He then leans forward, trying to peer at the screen. “What all did you put on there?”

  I tilt the phone away from him. “I’m not done yet.”

  He settles back, waiting.

  I look up again. “Well? Aren’t we leaving?”

  “You get carsick when you’re messing with something in a moving vehicle,” he points out, smug that he remembers.

  “It’s been ten freaking years,” I mutter. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  “Oh, is that right? So you’re telling me you don’t get motion sick anymore?”

  I wait for a beat before I sigh, beyond put out. “No, I do.”

  He makes a pleased noise and waits for me to finish. I can feel him studying me, and I try not to let my unease show.

  “Okay,” I say after several more minutes. “I’ll text it to you.”

  “Oh, this must be serious.” His tone is light and teasing. “We each get our own copy.”

  Ignoring him, I paste the list into the message. A few seconds later, his phone chirps.

  “Number One,” he reads. “No dredging up the past.”

  “Feel free to look up ‘dredging’ if you’re not familiar with the word.”

  “She’s still feisty,” he says to himself. “Number Two: No sucking up to each other’s parents.” He looks up, grinning. “I don’t suck up. I’m nice. I know the concept baffles you, but it’s a thing, I swear.”

  I snort and then read, “Number Three: The bathroom schedule will be followed.”

  “What bathroom schedule?” he demands.

  “I’ll print it and post it on the mirror later today.” I wave my hand at him, politely asking him to shut up so I can go on. “Number Four: No entering each other’s rooms via the shared bathroom. Number Five: No flirting. Number Six—”

  “What, exactly, constitutes flirting?” Isaac interrupts, his eyes too bright. “Like, is friendly banter allowed? Where are we drawing the line?”

  “Number Six,” I continue, “No physical contact.”

  “So, if you were about to be hit by a truck barreling down the street, I couldn’t grab your arm and pull you to safety?”

  “Number Seven: No fixing things. Not cars, nor things around the house, and certainly not Georgia’s life.”

  “Ah, come on. That one is insulting—”

  “Number Eight: Isaac shall not refer to Georgia as Gigi. Number Nine: Time spent in each other’s company will be kept at a minimum.”

  I pause on the last rule, not because it isn’t important, but because I don’t want to read it aloud.

  “Number Ten,” Isaac says, taking over for me, his grin growing wicked. “No kissing, nor conversations about kissing.”

  “Do you agree?” I demand.

  “Hmmm.” He scans the list again. “To six out of ten.”

  My stomach does a weird flip-flop. “What four are you refusing?”

  Laughing under his breath, he sets his phone on the console and turns the key, making the truck rumble to a start. I wait for him to answer me, but he never does.

  8

  Mom frowns at the tree, and I silently dare her to send us out again. I love my mother, but I’m not playing that game twice.

  “It’s rather…” She extends her hands out. “Wide.”

  “If we came home with some skinny thing, Calliope would just knock it over again.”

  Unable to argue with my logic, she gives in, and we begin to set it up.

  The criminal cat watches with interest from the back of the couch. Isaac secures the tree into the stand, making adjustments as my father sees fit.

  “A little to the left,” Dad says. “No, too much. Back a little. Now that’s too far.”

  I close my eyes, wishing the day were over.

  “Hop on up, son,” Dad finally says. “Let me take a crack at it.”

  Isaac crawls out from under the tree, looking thankfully amused. Dad gets on his hands and knees, and in five minutes, he has the tree standing exactly as straight as it was when he started.

  “There,” he says, brushing needles o
ff his shirt. “That’s better.”

  “Looks good, Brian,” Isaac agrees.

  I shoot him a scowl, reminding him of Number Two. An unapologetic smile crosses his face, but he otherwise ignores me.

  Mom turns on Christmas music as we decorate the tree. My parents seem oblivious to my mood, and they chat, drawing Isaac into the conversation often. Everyone pretty much leaves me out of it, which suits me just fine.

  Every so often, one of us has to shoo Calliope away.

  “Persistent, isn’t she?” Isaac says the fifth time we remove her.

  I set the cat on the back of the couch, and her tail flicks back and forth. She’s clearly irritated we won’t let her explore the new forest-scented jungle gym.

  Poindexter lies on his bed at the side of the room, watching both the cat and the ornaments with equal amounts of interest. The moment Calliope hops down to make her sixth attempt at the tree, Poindexter leaps up and chases the crazy cat right up the trunk.

  Mom’s screaming, and Dad’s yelling. The tree shakes like a hula dancer on a trucker’s dashboard, dropping needles all over the rug.

  “Poindexter, NO!” Mom hollers, but I’m not sure the puppy even knows what that word means.

  Isaac grasps hold of the dog’s collar, pulling him out of the tree, and the cat goes tearing out of the room and down the hall.

  When the room falls silent, I can’t help but say, “What did I tell you? It didn’t fall over this time.”

  Isaac’s parents are incredibly nice. Odd, but nice. Don’t get me wrong. They’re not attempting-to-contact-aliens or invade-Area-51 odd. No, they’re more like an-entire-basement-filled-with-working-train-models odd. If you were a ten-year-old boy, you’d think his dad was the coolest man alive.

  And if trains aren’t enough for you, Isaac’s mom breeds and sells hedgehogs.

  Seriously, they’re the kindest people. But if you don’t think it was a shock to my fourteen-year-old self when I walked into Isaac’s house the first time and found all that…well, you’d be wrong.

  “Georgie-girl!” Glen says when I walk down the stairs. He grins from the dining room table with a mug of coffee in his hand.

  “Oh, Georgia!” Charline hurries from the kitchen in a bright red apron with a black Santa belt appliqué across the front. “Just look at you, honey! It’s been forever! I wanted to come up the minute we got here, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She pulls me into a tight hug that smells like vanilla perfume and maple syrup. I return the embrace, genuinely happy to see her—and a little surprised the feeling is so sharp. Charline is exactly as I remember her, though maybe a little softer around the edges.

  It’s Christmas Eve, only Day Two. I have a total of three to get through. Last night I had a much-needed respite from Isaac since he asked to borrow Mom’s car to surprise his parents at the airport. They ended up going out to dinner after. By the time they arrived at the house, I was hiding in my bedroom, and they all assumed I’d gone to bed early.

  Was I asleep? No.

  Was it a bizarre sort of torture listening to Isaac brush his teeth and get ready for bed on the other side of the door? You betcha.

  “Gigi,” Mom says when Charline releases me. “Can you look at Calliope? I think something is wrong with her eye, but she won’t let me near her.”

  “Morning, Gigi,” Isaac says lightly as he passes me and heads into the kitchen.

  I glare at his back. I don’t know what I can do about it, though. It’s not like I can write him a warning. I mean, technically, I could hand him a folded-up slip with a handwritten citation, but he’d get far too much amusement out of that.

  That’s the problem with my list. Isaac can break my carefully crafted rules as he pleases, and I’m helpless to stop him.

  As it repeatedly did until two in the morning, my mind goes back to four little words…six out of ten. Does that mean he’s going to act on those remaining four? And what four are they exactly? A few I can live with—the nickname is bothersome, but it’s not that big of a deal.

  I suppose I can put up with him sucking up to my parents too. But the dredging up the past rule? That one is necessary. And the bathroom schedule? Obviously, that’s important so I don’t accidentally walk in on him while he’s half-dressed.

  For half a second, my mind conjures up a mental image of Isaac in a bright white towel, and I have to shake my head to clear it. My mom doesn’t even own white towels, so who knows where that thought came from.

  What if it’s the kissing?

  I’d like to say it’s the first time I’ve thought it, but it’s more like the fiftieth. It’s ridiculous; I know. Isaac doesn’t actually want to kiss me. He was just trying to ruffle my feathers when he said it. He doesn’t still have feelings for me—that’s ridiculous.

  Who holds on to something like that for ten years? You’d have to be a special sort of sad, pathetic loser…

  “Georgia?” my mom says, sounding like she’s repeating my name for at least the second time.

  I snap out of it and turn to her. “What?”

  “The cat?”

  “What about the cat?”

  Charline laughs. “Give the poor girl some coffee.”

  “I asked you to check on Calliope,” Mom says. “Her eye looks a little goopy, but she won’t let me close.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “And you’re volunteering me?”

  “Please, Georgia. The vet closes at noon, and I want to get her in before the holiday if she needs it.”

  “Okay.” I shake my head, wondering how anyone expects me to find a cat who doesn’t want to be found.

  I end up locating Calliope in my parent’s bedroom. She’s asleep on a shelf in the closet, but when I enter, she cracks an eye open and yawns. Correction, she only opens one eye because the other looks wet and swollen.

  “She definitely needs to see a vet,” I say to my mom when I go back into the kitchen. And then, seeing my escape for the day, I add, “I can take her.”

  “Will you?” Mom asks, looking grateful. “I have just a few stocking stuffers to pick up, so Charline and I were going shopping.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Isaac,” Mom says, turning toward him. “You should go with Georgia.”

  What? No! That’s not part of the plan at all.

  “Sure,” Isaac says easily, once again ignoring my rules. Number Nine clearly states that the time spent in each other’s company will be kept at a minimum.

  I suppose the good news is that he’s already broken three rules, which means there’s only one more he didn’t agree to. What was it?

  Mom looks as pleased as punch, but you could say I’m less than enthusiastic.

  “Great,” she says. “I’ll make an appointment.”

  Isaac catches my eye, gives me a subtle smile, and then joins his father at the table.

  9

  It’s just like Georgia to make a list of rules, but surely she must know that if she draws a line in the sand, I can’t help but view crossing it as an intriguing challenge.

  Call me simple, but that’s just the way my brain works. So, yeah, I’m okay with her list. She’s officially set up the game, and I’m a willing player. It’s Capture the Flag, and she’s the prize, and you better bet I won’t be waving the white flag of surrender.

  The only thing I haven’t figured out is what I’m going to do if I catch her. Do I want Georgia back? Do I want to figure out the logistics of a long-distance relationship? From the sound of it, her life is pretty much up in the air right now. Who knows where she’s going to end up?

  And most importantly, do I want to risk losing her again? Right now, she’s not mine. She’ll walk away, and it won’t bother me a bit to see her metaphorical taillights heading down the highway.

  I glance at Georgia as she sits next to me on the long wooden bench at the vet’s office. Her soft blonde hair is pinned up today. She has on small silver hoop earrings, and she’s wearing a white jean jacket with a de
ep red scarf. I think she’s just about the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, but I might be partial.

  Just being with her again has brought back a slew of buried feelings, and I know I’m lying to myself. Watching her walk away this time is going to hurt just as much as it did ten years ago.

  “You can come on back now,” a woman says from the doorway. She’s in pink scrubs with various cartoon dogs printed on the fabric, and she looks about as happy to be here on Christmas Eve as we are.

  We stand, and I pick up Calliope’s carrier.

  “I’ll take her,” Georgia says, tugging on the handle, expecting me to let go.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got her.” I give her a smile, silently asking her if she’s going to make a scene over it.

  Georgia purses her lips and turns on her heel, following the woman into the back. We end up in a room that smells of bleach. There’s a sign on the wall that asks, “Is Your Dog Protected from Heartworms?” and a glass jar of biscuits sits on the counter.

  “All right,” the woman says, stopping in front of the computer. “What’s wrong with Calliope today?”

  “We’re not sure,” Georgia answers. “She’s done something to her eye.”

  “Go ahead and remove her from the carrier so we can take a look.”

  Georgia opens the swinging door. The cat has squished herself to the very back, and occasionally, she cries, begging to go home.

  “It’s okay,” Georgia says as she gently pries the cat from the carrier. Calliope clings to the sides like a dog not wanting to go into the bath. “Come on out.”

  The vet tech takes the orange and white furball from Georgia and cuddles her in her arms so she can look at her eye. “That looks pretty painful. When did you first notice it?”

  “This morning.”

  She sets Calliope gently on the exam counter and goes back to the computer. She types a bit, and then she heads for the back door. “Dr. O’dwyer will be in with you in a minute.”

  Calliope has flattened herself on the table, sticking her neck out as far as possible to sniff her new surroundings. She begins to army crawl, keeping low, and makes it to the edge of the table. After a few minutes, she works up the courage to stand.