All Chapters of The Holidate Pact: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

50 Chapters

CHAPTER 1: The Worst Christmas Ever

SLOANE Here's what nobody tells you about being thirty-five and single during the holidays: it's not the loneliness that kills you. It's the pity. The head tilts. The soft voices. The "How are you doing... really?" I'm standing on my parents' front porch, staring at the wreath, gathering courage I don't have. Through the window, I can see them: Peter, his wife, Jennifer, and my dad. The door swings open before I can knock. "Sloane! Finally!" My mother pulls me inside, her perfume hitting me like a wall. "We were starting to worry." "Traffic was bad." She takes my coat and ushers me toward the dining room. The table is set like we're hosting the President. "Sloane!" Peter raises his glass. "The prodigal daughter returns." "It's Christmas, not Easter. Wrong parable." "Still freelancing, I see. Plenty of free time for church." I smile. "Doing great, actually. Just landed a campaign with a regional athletic brand. How's pharmaceutical sales?" His jaw tightens. Point to me. J

CHAPTER 2: Boxing Day Regrets

SLOANE The Target returns line on December 26th is where hope goes to die. I’m standing in it now, clutching a fondue set I will never use, watching my life tick away one agonizing minute at a time. The line stretches from Customer Service all the way back to Housewares. At least ten people ahead of me, every one of them holding gifts that prove someone doesn’t really know them. The woman in front of me has three identical blenders. The guy behind me smells like he slept in his car. Overhead, the speakers are still blasting "All I Want for Christmas Is You" for the millionth time. The employees look like they’ve survived a hostage situation. Red vests wrinkled, name tags crooked, eyes completely dead. A kid two spots ahead is having a full meltdown. He’s on the floor, kicking and screaming about a candy bar. His mother just stares at the ceiling like she’s praying for the roof to collapse. I understand that prayer. The fondue set is getting heavier by the second. White ceramic p

CHAPTER 3: The Austrailian

SLOANE The smell hits me first. Old coffee, fryer grease, maple syrup that’s been warming since the breakfast rush. It’s not pleasant, but it’s honest, and after the plastic cheer of the last forty-eight hours, honest feels like oxygen. Doris, the waitress who has probably worked every graveyard shift since 1998, doesn’t bother with a smile. Her name tag is crooked, her hair is the color of midnight in a bad decisions bottle, and the coffee pot seems permanently grafted to her right hand. "Sit anywhere, hon." Jackson chooses the booth under the flickering fluorescent by the window. The vinyl seat is cracked and patched with silver duct tape that matches the sky outside. I slide in across from him. The table is sticky. The menus are laminated and permanently stained with coffee rings older than most TikTok trends. I love it here. Doris fills two chipped mugs without asking if we want coffee. In Mel’s, coffee is assumed. It’s the only thing that keeps the place alive. "Food?" she g

CHAPTER 4: Mel's Diner at Midnight

SLOANE I wasn’t supposed to text him. And yet. It’s 11:07 PM and I’m flat on my back in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it owes me an explanation. My body is exhausted, but my brain is doing cartwheels. Every time I close my eyes I see blue eyes and a dimple and that ridiculous kangaroo sweater. I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it. ME: Still awake? The reply comes in under five seconds. JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Dangerously awake. You? ME: Same. Want to meet for actual food? Mel’s? Three dots. Gone. Back again. JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Leaving now. 20 min. I’m already pulling on jeans. Seven minutes later I’m parking beside his Subaru. He’s leaning against the hood, collar turned up against the wind, breath fogging in the streetlight. Snow is falling in fat, lazy flakes that melt the second they touch the ground. "You beat me," I say, slamming my car door. "Couldn’t sleep anyway." Inside, Mel’s is nearly deserted. Same burnt coffee smell, same cracked vin

CHAPTER 5: The Proposal

SLOANE I spent all of December 27th trying to talk myself out of it. Didn’t work. By four-thirty in the afternoon I’m sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open to a gym campaign that’s due tomorrow, cursor blinking like it’s personally offended I haven’t written a single word. The document is titled “NEW YEAR, NEW YOU – DRAFT.” The only thing on the page is the title and a coffee stain. My phone is face-down beside my mug. I’ve read Jackson’s last text seventeen times. JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Thanks for meeting me. Even if you say no tomorrow, tonight was nice. My reply: It was. Two words. Safe. Non-committal. Adult. I flip the phone over again. Open Notes. Start a new one titled FAKE DATING SANITY CHECK. CONS - This is objectively deranged - Lying to my entire family for a year - If we get caught the fallout will be biblical - I know almost nothing about him - Attractive Australian accent might be a problem for my impulse control PROS - Mom stops ambushing m

CHAPTER 6: Terms and Conditions

SLOANE I woke up on December 28th with a kids’ menu pinned to my fridge and the distinct feeling I had lost my mind. The crayon looked even more ridiculous in daylight. THE HOLIDATE PACT in Jackson’s careful block letters. Twelve holidays. Three-second kiss maximum. No feelings. No exceptions. Our signatures at the bottom, like we’d just bought a house, instead of agreeing to a year-long performance. I stared at it while the coffee brewed, waiting for the panic to hit. It never really did. Instead, a calm settled in. The kind of calm that comes right before you do something irreversible. By noon he texted. JACKSON: Coffee? Need to lock the story before New Year’s. ME: Brew & Bean on Clark. One hour. I showered, threw on black jeans and yet another black sweater (my wardrobe is basically a funeral director’s mood board), and drove. He was already there, corner table, two black coffees waiting. He slid one across as I sat. “Figured you still take it like an adult,” he said. H

CHAPTER 7: Second Thoughts

SLOANE I woke up on the 29th convinced I had made the worst decision of my adult life. The kids’ menu was on my nightstand like evidence in a crime scene. Crayon signatures, dinosaur border, three-second-kiss clause. In the gray morning light it looked exactly like what it was: proof of temporary insanity. My pulse was already sprinting. I grabbed my phone and opened a blank text to Jackson. Draft one: This was a mistake. I’m out. Sorry. I stared at it until the words blurred. Too cold. Draft two: Hey, I’ve been rethinking everything and I don’t think I can do this. Too polite. Too easy for him to talk me back in. Draft three: I can’t lie to my entire family for a year. I’m sorry. True, but dramatic. I deleted all three and threw the phone across the bed like it was radioactive. Then I did what any sane person does at six-thirty in the morning after agreeing to a year-long con: I made coffee and panic-listed. THINGS THAT COULD GO WRONG 1. My mother cries when sh

CHAPTER 8: New Year's Eve - The Debut

I changed my outfit three times before settling on the black dress. Classic. Safe. The kind of thing that says "I'm a functioning adult" without trying too hard. When the knock came at seven sharp, I checked my reflection one last time and hated that my hands were shaking. I opened the door. Jackson stood there in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down that made his eyes impossibly blue. His hair was still slightly damp, like he'd just showered. We both froze. "Hi," he said. "Hi." He looked at me for a beat too long. "You look..." "Don't." I grabbed my coat. "We're already lying enough tonight." But I caught his smile as I locked the door. And yeah, okay, he looked good too. Unfairly good. The drive to my parents' house took twenty minutes. We spent the first five in silence. "Okay," I said finally. "Quiz me." "How did we meet?" "Through Alex Porter. Marketing event in October. You hated the rosé." "What's my middle name?" "Thomas." "Yours?" "Elizabeth." "Favorite food

CHAPTER 9: The Morning After (The Arrangement)

I woke up to my phone vibrating itself off the nightstand. Noon. I'd slept through half the day. Forty-seven unread messages. I scrolled through them with one eye open, still half-asleep. Mom: *He's wonderful! When can we see you both again?* Mom: *Your father won't stop talking about him.* Mom: *Why didn't you tell us sooner???* Peter: *He seems decent. Still watching him though.* Aunt Susan: *THAT MAN IS A SMOKE SHOW.* And Maya. Ten messages from Maya, each one more insistent than the last. Maya: *Coffee. Today. Non-negotiable.* I groaned into my pillow. An hour later, I slid into the booth across from her at her favorite café. She already had my latte waiting, which meant she was either being nice or preparing for an interrogation. "So," she said. "So." "Jackson." "What about him?" She leaned forward. "Cut the crap. What's really going on?" "I don't know what you mean." "Sloane. I've known you for eight years. You tell me everything. When you tried that new Thai pl

CHAPTER 10: The Woman From Australia

**JACKSON** The golf course parking lot was empty at seven AM. Cold air burned my lungs as I grabbed my clubs from the trunk. Then I saw her. A woman leaning against a black rental car, arms crossed, watching me. Blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail. Designer workout clothes that probably cost more than my rent. My stomach dropped. "Hello, Jackson." Charlotte's voice hadn't changed. Still had that edge to it, like she was always half-amused by everything. I shut the trunk slowly, buying time. "What are you doing here?" "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" "We're not friends." She pushed off the car, walking toward me. Her perfume hit me first. Something expensive and floral that used to make my head spin. Now it just made me nauseous. "I've been calling," she said. "I noticed." "You didn't answer." "That was intentional." She stopped a few feet away, tilting her head. The morning sun caught her face, highlighting cheekbones I used to trace with my fingers.

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