I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders as we clomp down Main Street to Barnwich Brews after our last final before break. While I check my phone, Maya laces her arm through mine so I don’t run into anyone. The streets have been busier the last two days, and it’s hard not to admit that Arden was right. Her presence and the steady flow of Barnwich Instagram stories are slowly starting to have an effect on tourism.
“Arden text you?” Maya asks as she pulls me out of the way of a group of people lugging ice skates to the rink in the park.
“No,” Finn says, reading off my screen from my other side, because fake dating Arden James apparently means I have no privacy.
I glare at him and pocket my phone. “Just want to make sure she’ll be here so this article gets done. For Columbia.”
“Mm-hmm,” Maya says.
“Seriously. I couldn’t care less about Arden.”
“Mm-hmm,” Finn echoes, and the two of them exchange a look.
“Aren’t you Team Taylor, anyway?” I hiss back, and Maya groans.
“Yes, but…” She frowns. “Ugh. It’s just… Arden spent like half the basketball game asking me about art school and looking at pictures of my most recent projects. And not in like a bullshit appeasing way. In like a genuinely interested way. And as much as I hate to admit it, she—” She shakes her head. “She really grows on you, doesn’t she?”
“Until she doesn’t.”
As we get closer, I catch sight of Arden leaning casually against the side of Barnwich Brews, looking way too cool for Barnwich in a black shearling jacket, a pair of sunglasses dangling out of her mouth as she taps away on her phone.
“Arden!” Finn calls, and she glances up, smiling and pocketing her phone and sunglasses.
It’s when she pushes off the wall and our eyes lock, though, that I feel my heart flutter like last night and I know Finn and Maya are right. I’m full of shit.
“Hi,” I say, moving to follow everyone inside while I try to get this flutter under control again. Have I never seen a beautiful girl before? Jesus.
But she grabs my wrist and pulls me aside, down the small alleyway, out of earshot of the rest of the people heading to the hot chocolate competition. She turns to face me, casting a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear. “My agent called me this morning and said we need to make things… more believable.”
“Nice to see you, too. My day was good, thank you for asking.”
“Caroline.”
I cross my arms over my chest, frowning at her. “More believable? What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” she says, letting out a long sigh. “There was a picture or two from the basketball game put online, and we’re not exactly looking like we’re in the throes of some epic romance.” She lowers her voice. “I definitely don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but can you just like…?”
She holds my gaze as she takes a step closer, enough for me to see that tiny scar on her chin that she got from falling off the handlebars of my bike when we were ten, for me to see her chest rising and falling, for her knee to lightly knock into mine. Close enough that my gaze falls without thinking to… her lips.
She reaches out, fingertips trailing down my arm and into the palm of my hand, and my breath hitches. “Pretend you’re in love with me?”
That’s not the hard part. I was in love with her once. But it’s scary to just… blow off the dust on those buried-away emotions, to pretend they never even existed.
To act like I feel them now just to put on a show.
Especially with her standing here, right in front of me, looking like she’s going to kiss me.
Wait. Is she going to kiss me?
“Fine.” I turn my head to look down the alleyway, breaking the moment. “But no kissing,” I say to regain some sort of control over myself. I may not hate Arden anymore, I might even want her to get this part, but it doesn’t mean I trust her yet. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to fall in love with her again.
“No kissing,” she confirms with a nod of agreement that makes me wonder if I imagined the moment altogether.
We head inside to rejoin the group, and the wave of warm, sweet, chocolatey goodness that hits us as we walk through the door helps me collect myself. This is one of Barnwich’s signature events of the season, and the room is accordingly packed with people, milling about the six stations set up for the finalists. Austin’s at the very end on the opposite side, and he has his brow furrowed as he churns out tiny sample cups. During the qualifying rounds, everyone was required to make regular ol’ hot chocolate, but now they can add any flavors they want, which I have a feeling will go both ways tonight.
I notice a couple of heads turn as we come in and remind myself to turn my body toward Arden instead of away, like I want to be close to her. We slow to a stop alongside Finn, Maya, and—shit, Taylor, who must’ve shown up while we were talking outside.
“Your ballots,” she says, holding out two yellow papers and a tiny pencil to me and Arden. I notice her eyes flick down to our interlaced hands, and I have to look away as Arden takes them from her and turns to tuck the tiny pencil behind my ear.
Despite the awkwardness, I keep hold of Arden’s hand as we head to the first station, where Mr. Horowitz, a science teacher at the middle school, is churning out a mint hot chocolate.
Arden grabs a tiny cup and takes a big swig. She once again proves she’s a damn good actress, because I only realize something’s wrong by the subtlest eye twitch as she swallows it. While the rest of our group is making various grimaces of disgust, her expression transforms into a big, toothy smile.
“Wow, Mr. Horowitz!” she says. “That’s something!”
“Let me try it,” I hiss as I pull her off to the side and grab the cup from her, taking a tiny sip.
“It’s like if spoiled milk and Listerine had a baby,” she hisses back through her teeth, still grinning as I fight to swallow it because that assessment is maybe being generous.
“What a way to start,” Taylor groans, gargling with a cup of water as we head to the next station.
“One less competitor for Austin,” Finn whispers as Ruth, our caroling buddy and the returning champ, offers us a plain old classic hot chocolate.
“No frills,” she says defensively as we accept our cups. It’s easy to savor the warm, rich, sweet hot cocoa, though, after Mr. Horowitz tried to take us and half of Barnwich out in one minty blow.
“Oh shit, that’s gotta be first,” Arden says, nodding as she fills in her ballot. “Or maybe second,” she adds hurriedly, changing her 1 to a messy 2 when she catches Finn narrowing his eyes at her.
The next, a way-too-sweet white hot chocolate version from Alexis, one of Riley’s middle school soccer buddies, is a shoo-in for fifth position. We follow it up with a much better cinnamon orange from a Barnwich Brews employee, and then a not bad red velvet from a tourist who made the trek just to compete.
Arden holds up the red velvet cup. “Oh, this has gotta be at least third.”
“Absolutely not.” I turn to face her. “That is better than the cinnamon orange? You’re kidding yourself.” I notice she has some whipped cream on her upper lip. “You’ve also got…”
I reach up and use my thumb to wipe it off. Then she glances down to my lips. I let my hand linger against her smooth cheek.
Obviously just to sell the moment a bit more, like she asked.
“Oh my gosh, get a room,” Maya says, fanning herself with her ballot, a mischievous glint in her eye, while Taylor gives me a searching look from next to her. I’m surprised when Arden pulls quickly away, like she’s clocked it, disguising the sudden movement by throwing the cup into the trash can next to us, and I feel…
I don’t know. Disappointed? I grimace at myself.
Really? Disappointed? Just the possibility of that scares me. Even if it’s pretend, it’s dangerous to play with fire. Especially when that fire is Arden.
Thankfully, we head to Austin’s booth, and I refocus on the most important reason we’re here. Supporting him. He lifts his head as we cheer his name, and I snap a couple of pictures of him hard at work. I nearly melt into a puddle when I see he’s making salted caramel hot chocolate, Finn’s favorite, even though Austin hates any and all things caramel.
To see them so in love, always thinking about the other, whether it’s hideous red gloves or warm winter drinks, makes the lie I’m swept up in sting just the tiniest bit more.
We all take a sip, and it’s pretty easy to make a big show over how good it is. The decadent hot chocolate. The smooth sweetness of the caramel adding another depth of flavor. The tiny, crunchy bursts of salt.
“Holy Mother of God,” Taylor says, going to swipe a second cup, but Austin slaps her hand away. “I need everyone else’s votes too!”
“This is unreal,” Arden says. “You can tell how hard you worked to balance all the elements perfectly.”
Austin blushes at her compliment, pleased that she noticed. “It took me three months alone to figure out the right amount of caramel. Don’t even get me started on the salt.”
Three months? I look over to see pre-measured condiment cups of salt, weighed to the very last granule. I’m his best friend and I had no idea he worked this hard on it.
And Arden showed up and just… knew. Made him feel seen.
I could maybe fake kiss her right now.
She nods. “I’m sure. You made the best hot chocolate here by a landslide.” She hesitates and runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to make things weird, but if you have like a barista Instagram page or something, I could post about it. Or share it? I don’t—”
“Oh my God, yes,” Austin says, eyes wide with excitement.
Arden relaxes instantly and pulls out her phone to let him type in his handle. I down the rest of my hot chocolate and try to get my feelings, whatever they are, under control, then join Taylor in gazing mournfully at the sample cups on the table. And Arden somehow sees that too, because she holds the rest of her cup out to me while Austin hands her phone back.
I take it, hating how right Maya was. She grows on you. Whether you want her to or not.
“Seriously, Austin,” I say after another perfect sip. “I think I hear a choir of angels singing.”
“Probably just a sugar high,” he says modestly, handing Finn a second cup, topped with extra whipped cream this time.
“Favoritism,” Taylor mutters as we all head off to the side to drop off our ballots at a table where Sheila and Margie, two of Edie’s Saturday-night card-playing pals, are frantically tallying everything up.
As we await the results, I try to gaze adoringly at Arden, which feels particularly difficult because… I don’t know. I’m finding it hard to fully look her in the face after what just happened with Austin. Like if I do, I’ll see too much Arden there and not enough Arden James.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, head dipping down, cheek brushing up against mine. She nods across the room, letting me know it’s not a move. “Look.”
I follow her gaze to see Ruth puttering around the ballot table, pretending to drop off two cups to the ladies counting. When she thinks no one’s looking, she digs into her purse to pull out a handful of yellow ballots, scattering them quickly onto the table.
“Ruth is cheating,” I say, horrified. But then it gets worse. I watch as Sheila grabs the ballots with a wink, passing them over to Margie. “And they’re helping her!”
This is practically a crime in Barnwich. Cheating in the annual hot chocolate competition? You might as well just kill someone.
This would make for a damn good article, but I can’t stand the idea of Austin losing just so I could get an exposé.
When Ruth digs around in her bag for another handful, I hear my voice call out, “She’s cheating!”
The entire room freezes. Ruth’s eyes go wide as she swings her head up to look at me. She recovers quickly, putting on a performance of almost Arden caliber. “Me? I was just dropping off some hot chocolate for our hardworking judges. I wouldn’t call that cheating, now, would you?”
“What’s in the purse?” Arden calls, putting an arm around my shoulder. A united front.
Ruth reaches innocently into her bag and pulls out… the fucking cowbell from caroling.
Arden rolls her eyes. “What else?”
Ruth’s gaze flicks quickly to the exit door, and before Mr. Lee, the owner of Barnwich Brews, can confiscate her purse, she’s running through the crowd, dodging people with the agility of a D1 football recruit, tampered ballots trailing after her.
“She’s loose!” Mr. Lee shouts. A few people try valiantly to catch her but fail. She makes it to the door without being apprehended and pushes through it, shooting Arden a middle finger through the front window before disappearing into the night.
I gape at Arden in disbelief, and then the two of us burst into laughter in a way that’s hauntingly familiar. Soon, the entire room joins in as we all try to process what just happened.
“When she pulled out the cowbell—” Finn wipes tears from his eyes.
“When she gave Arden the middle finger,” Taylor adds, cackling.
It just keeps getting funnier the more anyone says anything, so Arden and I lean into each other as the laughter doubles us over.
Mr. Lee is definitely not laughing, though. He goes straight into damage-control mode, removing Sheila and Margie before hopping up on a table to survey everything, chewing his lip as he comes up with a plan. After everyone has had a chance to sample, the whole room quiets and waits for him to talk.
“Merry Christmas!” he calls, and everyone choruses it back.
Except for Riley. “Happy Hanukkah!” she calls back, meeting my eye, and the two of us grin.
“Well, I want to thank everyone for coming out to our sixtieth annual hot chocolate competition! It certainly was a memorable one.” He sighs, and the room responds with cheers and whistles and laughter. “With the voting being tampered with, I feel like the only fair way to find our winner is to let all of you decide as a group, right here, right now.”
I cast a sideways glance at Austin to see that his fingers are crossed behind his back, teeth gnawing on his lower lip. A win would not only put a thousand dollars into his pocket, but it would be another thing he could add to his résumé. Another thing to help him on his path, his dream, of one day owning his very own coffee shop.
Just like this article is for me.
I look down to see that Arden’s fingers are crossed too.
“So, I’ll go right down the line,” Mr. Lee says, motioning to all the tables. “And when I say the name of a competitor, if you think they should win, cheer as loud as you can! Okay?”
Everyone claps in agreement.
“First up, we have Mr. Horowitz, with his one-of-a-kind mint hot chocolate!”
You could hear a pin drop.
Someone coughs over by the bathrooms, and it sounds like thunder in the silence.
His own wife doesn’t even clap for him. Brutal.
“Uh, all right,” Mr. Lee says, scratching his chin. “Better luck next time, Mr. Horowitz!” He motions to the next table. “How about Alexis Piccadillo with her white hot chocolate!”
Alexis blushes as a bit of scattered applause sounds through the room and her middle school friends shriek like banshees, led by one Riley Beckett. She’s a good friend, because I know she hates white chocolate.
Mr. Lee smiles and shakes his head, motioning for them to quiet down. “Okay! We’ve got a couple of fans of Alexis and her white chocolate. Well done!”
One of the middle schoolers lets out a final shriek of support, and then Mr. Lee moves to the next contestant.
“What about Mrs. Walters’s delightful cinnamon-orange hot chocolate?”
The crowd cheers louder than for Alexis, but nowhere near as loud as the applause that follows for the out-of-towner, Abigail Darcy, and her red velvet hot chocolate. Abigail beams and waves as Austin looks on nervously.
Arden leans closer to me, her chest grazing up against my shoulder, voice a whisper on the back of my neck. “Told you it was better than the cinnamon orange.”
I scoff in protest, trying to ignore the goose bumps running down my arm.
“And last but not least… Austin Beck”—Finn whoops before Mr. Lee can even finish saying his name—“er with his salted caramel—”
But the rest of the crowd starts to go wild too, his voice drowned out as all of us start hooting and hollering. Austin buries his blushing face in his hands as the noise crowns him the clear winner.
It takes Mr. Lee a full minute to get everyone to quiet down enough to make the official announcement. “And with that, Barnwich Brews’ very own Austin Becker is the winner of Barnwich’s sixtieth annual hot chocolate competition!”
The cheering starts back up again as Finn scoops Austin up in a hug and spins him around. He only lets go long enough for Austin to pose for a picture with Mr. Lee for the local newspaper.
As the crowd slowly begins to disperse, Finn stays behind to help Austin clean up while Taylor gets pulled into a conversation with someone from the cheer team. The rest of us head outside, following the flow of people, including Riley and her friends who are giggling down the street. We’re barely through the door, though, before Maya makes up an excuse about a school project that I know doesn’t exist, leaving me and Arden standing alone underneath the Barnwich Brews sign.
“We made quite a team today,” she says, an eyebrow ticking up. “Single-handedly saved the integrity of the hot chocolate competition.”
I laugh. “Our names will be in Barnwich history books.”
Arden smiles at that, so genuine and so pretty I have to look away. The two of us fall silent as snow starts to drift down between us, sparkling in her dark hair.
“I’ll… I’ll text you the question for today,” I say, something about this day of pretending suddenly feeling like too much. I glance in the direction of my house, just two blocks away, wanting to put space between us. “I’m gonna…”
I turn to leave, but she calls out, “Wait…” and grabs my hand, pulling me into a hug. I squeeze my eyes shut as my arms wrap around her waist and my face burrows into her neck, her skin smelling the same as it always has.
But to be this close to her feels so…
Strange? Different?
No. Intimate.
Four years ago it was just a quick hug, the graze of a hand, our knees touching under the table, me always silently aching for more.
The only time it ever felt like this was the winter before she left, when she jumped into the lake before it froze over, wearing only her bra and underwear at Jacob Klein’s house for fifty dollars. She shivered as I held her in my arms, using my body heat to warm her back up.
Now I can feel her heartbeat through her shirt again. Feel the weight of her against me, just like I did that night.
After all the pretending we’ve been doing since she got home, this is the first time the closeness has felt real. And that knocks me off-balance.
“To make it believable,” Arden whispers into my hair. “There’s someone taking a picture.”
It makes my stomach sink. But when I open my eyes, there’s not a phone or a camera in sight.
She’s lying. But why?
We pull apart without another word, and I turn, walking as if in a daze down the empty street. After only a few steps I glance back to watch her head in the opposite direction, my hand resting flat against my stomach like it can suppress the army of butterflies threatening to burst through my skin.
That night after dinner, I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, my heart still pounding in my chest.
And not just because I drank an obscene amount of sugar.
“Just do your job, Caroline,” I mutter, finally getting up the courage to pick up my phone, swipe into my text thread with Arden, and tap out today’s question.
I might be a bad actress, but I know for a fact I’m a good journalist.
where do you see yourself in 10 years?
I watch as almost instantly three dots appear. And then stop. Over and over again. I try to picture what I think she’ll say, flashes of Arden in flowing designer dresses at award shows, drinking champagne somewhere chic with a great view, strolling casually along a cobblestone street in a pair of sunglasses.
oscar? emmy? a different city every night? I prompt when the dots disappear again.
Her reply comes in quickly this time.
lol no
Then:
I mean an oscar WOULD be nice, but ever since I left barnwich, she writes, I’ve felt like I’ve been on a speeding train, like I can’t slow down or turn around or get off. I’d hope by 28 I’d be able to feel like I have some control, that my life was more than just a career, than some bullshit image that was constructed for me, you know? I just… I want the simple things. friends, family, somewhere to call home, something constant I can count on when this industry is always trying to kick you out on your ass
I think about our conversation from a couple of nights ago after the basketball game. About normalcy. The part of her that envies the ordinary and the mundane. My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up.
maybe somebody to come home to
I swallow, my previous image of an older Arden shifting drastically. The same fancy dress, but instead of the glamorous red carpet, she’s come home early, not even changing before curling up on a big leather couch under a cozy blanket, someone’s hand in hers, an Oscar on the mantel.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Four years ago that was word-for-word exactly what I would have thought she’d say. But it does.
It still feels so strange to hear from her about what the past four years have been like instead of just guessing, trying and failing to reconcile the Arden I knew like the back of my hand with the one I read about on magazine pages. It also feels strange to think about what it would’ve been like had I been there in real time to hear about it from her, to experience some small part of it, instead of being left behind. There’s so much I just assumed about her life from the internet, assumed about her and her reasons for not getting in contact, because she wasn’t there to tell me differently.
It’s hard to hold both things in my head, especially when I still feel the hurt of being the girl in the pink jacket she drove away from.
Three dots appear again, followed by,
you?
I hesitate, knowing this is an opening to let her in or shut her out again. I bite my lip, still thinking of standing on the curb and watching her go all those years ago, and then… today. Her arms around me outside Barnwich Brews, the way her face felt underneath my fingertips.
And I start to type, giving in, figuring that some Arden, if even for a little while, is better than no Arden at all. The only way I’m going to heal from this is if we actually start talking instead of me keeping her at arm’s length.
a successful career in journalism, living in new york or LA, with a dog and a girlfriend
taylor hill? she asks, and I hesitate, unsure what to say.
A few days ago I thought maybe those feelings would come, but somehow, frustratingly, even mad at Arden I can feel more for her in our fake relationship than I do for Taylor. We’ve practically stopped texting because I’m so swept up in Arden’s orbit.
I sigh and tap out a diplomatic response: I don’t usually like blondes.
can’t say the same
I stare at my phone for a long moment before tapping the side button, letting the screen go dark as I lay it flat against my chest, resolving not to look at it again.
It buzzes, and I flail as I sit up to read the message, an instant liar.
The text that comes in is from Riley, though.
you’re trending
I frown, tapping the tweet she’s sent me to see it features a picture of me and Arden at Barnwich Brews. There’s a small smile on my face as I wipe the whipped cream off her lip, and Arden’s face is soft as she looks at me, her gaze… adoring. One note from her agent and she’s got a new submission for her Oscar reel.
Then I scroll down to see—Jesus Christ.
24,000 likes in an hour?
I scroll through some of the comments. People wondering who I am, saying we look cute together, complaining that it should be them Arden’s looking at instead of me.
Or just being plain mean.
I search her name and see the picture has been reposted a hundred times in way more tweets. So have more shots of us at Barnwich Brews and some from the basketball game a couple of days ago. I keep swiping, images flying past, only stopping when I come across a blurry picture of us talking outside just a few hours ago, snow floating down around us, moments before she hugged me.
I guess… I didn’t really think about just how big this part of our little deal is.
The part where Arden is Arden James and this isn’t just one article or a simple byline tucked into my portfolio. It’s not black-and-white like the other stuff I’ve done. I’m part of the story. My face is all over social media now, for better or worse. I’m no longer just an invisible person behind the words I write.
They might not know who I am now, but they will when the article goes live. Shit, I mean they’ll probably figure it out by midnight tonight.
It’s… overwhelming. And I’m just getting a small taste of what she gets every day.
No wonder she wants normalcy. No wonder she wants simple, constant things.
I hope that one day she gets it. Ten years from now, when she actually wants it. When all the partying, and the girls, and the late nights get old. Not for a role, or to tell people what they want to hear, or to rebrand her image. But something real, with someone real.
I roll over onto my side and put my phone down to stare out the window, thinking now about how I’ll eternally be known as the girl who dated Arden James that one Christmas.
And even though I didn’t, even though I’m not, even though it makes me hate myself, part of me still cares about her enough, still feels something enough, to think it’s worth it if it means I’ll have a few more days getting to know the girl I’ve never been able to completely forget, again.