Snuggled in comfy warmth, I inhale deeply, relishing in the knowledge I don’t have to get up just yet. Also, for the first time in a long while, I feel at home.
Well, duh, you silly… because you’re home.
For the holidays…
To tell my parents Chuck and I broke up…
The Chucokate!
I blink, suddenly wide-awake and in a state of panic.
Then I realize who I’m snuggling with and my mental health further deteriorates. I’m curled up against Chuck, my face resting on his chest and his stupid Star Wars pajamas, my feet comfortably nestled between his calves for warmth.
How did I end up sprawled on top of him?
I pull back, careful not to wake him, and assess the situation in the feeble light of pre-dawn.
We’re on his side of the bed, so he didn’t creep on me during the night. I must’ve rolled on top of him in my sleep. The floor is strewn with discarded pillows. I must’ve kicked them off the bed to clear my path to Chuck.
Well, it’s not my fault. I’ve always been a hugger, and my subconscious perhaps still hasn’t flagged Chuck as the enemy. Okay, maybe not an enemy, but an ex. Who I hope, one day, I’ll be able to go back to being friends with. We just have to wait for all the hard feelings of the breakup to settle.
I look at him now, sleeping peacefully while the Darth Vader black mask on his chest moves up and down in rhythm with his breathing. He couldn’t be nerdier if he tried, with his pale, I-spend-too-much-time-indoors-in-front-of-a-laptop skin and spaghetti-straight blue-black hair sticking out in all directions.
But he used to be my nerd. My blue-eyed, long-lashed, chiseled nerd.
An inexplicable lump rises in my throat.
How did I go from loving this man with everything I had, to barely being able to spend two minutes with him without arguing? A pang of regret beats against my chest from within.
Well, of course, Chuck is my first love. My first everything. I can’t expect to get over him in just a few months after a decade as a couple and a lifetime as best friends.
But I must stay strong.
Remember the apathy, Kate, and everything else you came second to. The lack of initiative. The laziness. Our lives were diverging into opposite tangents. I simply called the end first.
Still, being home with him has not been the piece of cake I’d expected. Lots of buried feelings resurfacing, and our parents…
Oh, gosh. I hide my face in my hands as I envision the Chucokate standee again. Of all years, why did they have to pick this one to make us brand ambassadors?
The Valentine’s Day campaign must be part of their not-so-secret plan to convince their only children to move back home once school is over and come work for The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Factory.
Another can of worms I don’t care to open just now. I’m not clear what I want to do once I finish my MBA next summer, but I’m positive I could do without the pressure. I want to be free to decide on my own, without the guilty impression I’m letting someone down if I don’t choose the path they’ve laid out for me.
Too many thoughts are jamming my brain. I get up and change into my thermal athletic gear, getting ready for a quick jog. I’ve wanted to get more fit forever, and Marco gave me the final push I needed to pick up running. He’s full of life, full of interests, and exactly the kind of man I need by my side.
Careful to creak the bedroom door open as stealthily as I can, I’m about to slip out when I see Chuck lying on the bed half uncovered. He’s going to catch a cold like that. I tiptoe to his side of the bed and pull the comforter up to his neck. I almost go for a kiss on the forehead but keep myself in check. Until we’ve adjusted to our exes status, we need to keep clear boundaries.
I walk away from the bed, out of the bedroom, and hop down the stairs—mindful to avoid the third-to-last step which always squeaks. At the front door, I zipper-up my running jacket and walk out onto the porch. I breathe in the cold air like a tonic and jog along the driveway, heading for the lake.
The sun is slowly rising as I cross the Bluewater Bridge, its rays igniting sparks in a million ice crystals dangling from every surface: tree branches, house roofs, streetlights. Every single house in town is decorated with Christmas lights. Many have an outdoor Christmas tree as well as an indoor one, and I pass countless snowmen along the way. From the simplest one to the most elaborate snow sculptures. Easy to guess which families will compete in The Bluewater Springs’ Annual Snow Sculpting Challenge—sponsored, of course, by The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company.
As I reach the town’s square, the scenery becomes even more picturesque, resembling a holiday postcard. Weathered stone buildings with snowy rooftops encircle tall, ancient trees wrapped in fairy lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps are decorated with bows and garlands. And the quaint, glowing storefronts patiently await a new day of Holiday shopping.
In the heart of Old Town Square, a giant Christmas tree towers over the scene, complete with a life-size illuminated sleigh in front of it being pulled by no less than eight sparkly reindeer. In front of the sleigh, a red and white sign reads: Brought to you by The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company.
I stare across the street at The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company café, candy shop, gift shop, the boutique, and the Chocolate Factory Museum—all owned by my and Chuck’s families.
The square is almost deserted at this hour with most of the shops still closed. But, as if on cue, the café lights switch to life and I head in that direction, ready for a white vanilla mocha, my favorite coffee order. I don’t have my wallet, but Chuck and I never pay in the shops owned by our families. And, sometimes, we have a hard time paying even in the shops our folks don’t own. Being a Warren or a Rose in Bluewater Springs is like being royalty.
As I push the door open, I stamp the snow off my sneakers, smiling at the plastic Santa Claus mounted on the threshold. The bell Santa is holding in one hand promptly jingles, and Saint Nick lights up to welcome me with a jolly ho, ho, ho.
“Hey, Mildred,” I greet the barista. Being a one hundred percent family-owned business, we Warrens pride ourselves on knowing our employees by name. At least, the ones in Bluewater Springs. Not a challenge, considering Chuck and I have grown up in the halls of the Chocolate Factory—at one point literally—among candies and toys and basically the love of two moms, two dads, and our extended workforce family. Chuck and I have also been interns at the company in various roles, from business to production, to retail, to wholesale, since the ninth grade. So we know our people well.
The factory and its workers are like a second family to us. And from the day we could talk, our parents have been grooming us to take over one day. The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company is our destiny. But with the expansion of the firm and its play to go international, working in the family business won’t necessarily translate to returning to Bluewater Springs—at least, not for me. Chuck’s dream is to move back home at once after graduation next summer. He wants to settle down and design new toy and apparel lines and never go anywhere else. Admittedly, he has a talent for product development. All the plush toys he designed outsold the others tenfold. Put a pencil in his hands and he comes alive.
Me, I’m more of a numbers girl, like my dad. And with the UK plant grand opening scheduled for next year, I could join the financial team in London. What an adventure it would be. But when I suggested the possibility, Chuck of course wouldn’t hear of it. To get him off his precious couch is the worse offense one could ever pull on him. I don’t know how he stays so fit, considering he never works out and eats like an unsupervised teenager whose been left in charge of doing the groceries. Chuck’s not brawny, but he has defined, flat muscles, and a six-pack he honestly doesn’t deserve. He’s one of those insufferable people who could eat a whole turkey and not gain a pound. Not fair. Especially when I have to be careful given the business our families are in.
The temptation to taste-test every new sweet we produce constantly lingers, but I have to keep track of every calorie if I don’t want to gain ten pounds every time I come home. That’s one of the things I intend to change as soon as I’m given more responsibility within the company. For years, I’ve been advocating for a reduction in our products’ sugar levels and the necessity to bring to market lower-calorie, healthier alternatives. Mom has been skeptical, but she’s agreed to give agave syrup a try in a few limited runs of our most basic sweets.
Baby steps.
“Kate,” the young barista behind the counter welcomes me. “You and Chuck are back home?”
That’s the other thing with Bluewater Springs. Since Chuck and I got together, I’ve ceased being a single entity and become merely one half of our duet. Ninety percent of the time people refer to me in the plural.
“Yeah,” I say, “just last night.”
“What are you doing out this early?”
“I took up running a few months ago.”
“Oh, that’s new.” The barista smiles. “If I could’ve stayed warm in bed under the covers this morning, I surely would have. Especially if Chuck was there next to me.”
Mildred’s comment is meant to be a joke, but I can’t help the wince that comes naturally to my lips. Chuck is by far the best catch in town, not only because our families are well off, but also because he’s the hottest, kindest, sweetest guy in Bluewater Springs. Maybe all he needs is to meet a girl who’s happy to live her entire life in this small town, and who enjoys watching Star Trek movies, playing video games, and who doesn’t find cosplay ridiculous. Because Chuck is the personification of the hot nerd: shy and irresistible. And more than a few hearts broke in our community when the news got out that we were an item.
Well, ladies, he’s going to be all yours again soon.
An image of Chuck running across the Bluewater Bridge chased by a horde of women in bridal wear crosses my mind. It might not happen exactly like that, but the moment Chuck moves home single, the town’s bachelorettes will engage in a battle to the last blood to snatch him up. The thought makes me want to puke.
“Sorry, Kate,” Mildred says. “I was joking. We all know Chuck only has eyes for you.”
The affirmation depresses me even further and causes my stomach to swirl with guilt. From what I’ve heard—or, more accurately, not heard—from our shared friends back in Ann Arbor, Chuck hasn’t been with anyone else since we broke up. Or, maybe, he’s only been more discreet than me and has been having one torrid affair after the other.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Let’s not go there.
“No, Mildred, sorry. I have this awful cramp in my left calf.” Plausible enough, as excuses come. “It gives me a bad case of resting bitch face every time. I wasn’t upset with you.”
“Oh, okay.” Mildred huffs, relieved. No one wants to mess with the big boss’s daughter.
Another aspect of Smallsville living that makes me look forward to the anonymity of London, where nobody will know who I am, or what my family does, or which man I was destined to marry from the womb. Our mothers even got pregnant within two weeks of each other.
“Should I get the usual started for you?” Mildred asks. “Vanilla white mocha?”
“Yes, please.”
“Anything to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
Mom will surely fix a massive breakfast at home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.
Five minutes later, Mildred hands me my drink. “Here you go, Kate, with an extra vanilla pump just like you like it.”
I take the warm paper cup from her. “Thanks.”
“By the way, are you excited about the new campaign?”
“Uh?”
“Oh my gosh, don’t tell me I’ve spoiled the surprise. Mr. Warren and Mrs. Rose presented it at the company’s Christmas party last week; they said they would tell you once you got home, and I just assumed—”
“Are you talking about the Chucokate?” I interrupt.
“Thank goodness you know already. Phew, for a moment I thought I’d dropped the ball.”
“No, no, it’s all right, they told us last night.” I take a sip of coffee, relishing the wave of heat it brings to my system. “What—what did you think of the new chocolate?”
“Oh, it’s delicious. The crunchy raspberries are a stroke of genius.”
“I wasn’t talking about the taste. What about the name? Don’t you think it’s a bit… uh… I don’t know, over the top?”
“No.” She actually bats her lashes dreamily. “It’s so cute. You and Chuck are the perfect couple, so inspirational. You guys are going to become the next Brangelina.”
I refrain from commenting that Brangelina is no more.
“You’re lucky to have Chuck,” Mildred continues. “Every girl in town wishes she were you.”
Yeah, right. I don’t think so.
But I have to concede a point to Chuck’s mom. The Chucokate might not be such a crazy idea. Pity it will never see the light of day.
The same sense of nausea that hits me whenever I imagine telling my parents the truth about Chuck and me promptly sucker-punches me in the stomach. I squash it with a sip of heavily-chocolated coffee.
I can’t go on like this. We need to tell them soon, today, this morning. Otherwise, I’m going to develop a stress ulcer.
Once I’m properly warmed and caffeinated, I prepare for the run back home, re-tying my laces and pulling up a new playlist on my phone.
I’ve just walked out of the café when my phone rings. It’s Marco.
“Hey,” I pick up, my breath pluming in the frosty air.
“Hey, babe, I missed you on my run this morning.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You done already?”
“Actually, no, I was heading back home now. I had a bit of a late start,” I say. Because for Marco, seven a.m. is late. He’s really into fitness and keeping a balanced diet and a healthy lifestyle.
“Read me your stats so far?”
Marco made me download a fitness app to track my progress. I open it now on my phone while hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. The numbers aren’t awful, but I still round them up a bit. I give myself an extra mile and shave a few minutes off the total running time. Only because Marco is fixated on constant improvement. Maybe a little too fixated.
“That’s great, babe! Keep going like this and you’ll be able to run the Point-to-point half-marathon in June.”
“Uh, I’m not sure about that. I could enroll in the 10k version like we talked about.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, babe. If you train hard enough, you’ll make it.”
Sometimes Marco can be a bit condescending, and maybe a little irritating, too. Because, yes, I know I can complete a thirteen-mile race if I set my mind to it. But the idea just doesn’t appeal to me. I don’t care about marathons or half-marathons. For me, running isn’t about the competition, not even with myself—it’s just a fun, healthy exercising habit.
But, hey, I wanted to be with someone who encouraged me to become a better version of myself and pushed me to achieve more. Yeah, I should remember that. Marco is good for me. I like how energetic, vital—
“Provided you don’t eat too much sugar during the holidays.”
I throw a guilty stare at the café behind me. Marco takes his coffee black. No sugar, no milk, no chocolate, and definitely not a double shot of vanilla syrup.
Whatever. It’s Christmas. A small cup won’t kill me. “I’ll do my best,” I say. “But you know sugar kind of is the family business.”
“I’m only reminding you not to overindulge. If you go off on a tangent even for just a couple of weeks it could take months to get back in shape.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Listen, I’m kind of freezing my ass off. Mind if we talk later?”
“Oh, you’re not running? I thought you said you were only halfway done?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, annoyed. “But I’ve stopped to talk to you. I can’t run and talk at the same time. I don’t have the stamina for that yet.”
“You need to work on your breathing, babe. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Well, yeah, I’ll work my way up to it. But now I really have to go. Talk later?”
“Later, babe.”
We hang up, and I blast Tones and I by Dance Monkey at top volume on my phone to run back home.
Marco is right about one thing, though: where there’s a will, there’s a way. I can apply the same principle to confessing the truth to my parents. It’s only a matter of taking a deep breath and making the plunge. As soon as I get home, I’m going to kick Chuck off the bed—he’ll surely be still asleep—and drag him downstairs to come clean with our parents if it’s the last thing I do.