All Chapters of The Holidate Pact: Chapter 1 - Chapter 6

The first mistake I made was agreeing to wear the elf costume.It was December 25th, 10:00 AM, and I was pinned between my mother, Elaine, who was beaming maniacally, and my younger sister, Daisy, who was live-streaming our descent into seasonal madness on Instagram. We were standing in the middle of my parents’ overly festive living room, a room that currently smelled of pine, passive aggression, and burnt sugar cookies, and I was wearing green velvet leggings and a tunic with tiny jingle bells sewn onto the collar.“Say cheese, Sloane!” Mom chirped, adjusting the pointed hat that was currently digging into my scalp.“I’d rather say ‘I quit’,” I muttered, wrenching myself free. “I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I should not be dressed as a supporting cast member from the North Pole.”“Don’t be such a grinch, honey,” my brother, Peter, called from across the room. He was currently wearing a respectable cardigan and an expression of smug marital bliss as he handed his wife, Jessica,

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a black dress that was aggressively professional. The kind of dress that says, "I am here to network, not to accidentally catch feelings." This was key because the last thing I needed was to turn up at a golf coach's party looking like I was actually trying to date a golfer.Jackson’s coach, a man named Coach Hayes, lived in a sprawling house north of the city. It was the kind of place that smelled faintly of money, leather, and disappointment. When Jackson opened the door to his car, I felt an instantaneous rush of theatrical comfort."Ready to execute the mission, Holidate?" he asked, his Australian accent low and conspiratorial. He looked impossibly good in a simple navy blazer. The kind of look that immediately invalidates Rule V (No staring at the accent, or the person attached to it)."As ready as I will ever be to pretend to have a functioning relationship in a room full of people who think matching polo shirts are haute couture,"

The Monday after the New Year’s kiss was a masterpiece of emotional denial.Jackson and I had a brief, clinical text exchange. It went like this:Jackson: Midnight performance review: 10/10. The crowd believed it. Mission accomplished.Sloane: Agreed. High marks for lip-syncing enthusiasm. Protocol restored.Jackson: Good. See you Sunday for the brunch. Keep your focus, Holidate.He never mentioned the way the kiss had lasted slightly too long, or the way my hands had gripped the silk of his lapels, or the brief, terrifying spike of genuine feeling that had momentarily dissolved the champagne haze.We had both agreed to treat the event as a tactical necessity, a successful deployment of the Physical Proximity Guidelines (PPGs) to prevent the greater tragedy of family pity.When Jackson arrived at the Holbrook house for the Sunday brunch, he was not just on time; he was early, bearing a beautifully arranged fruit platter that looked suspiciously professional."He brought fruit," my mot