Page 37 of The Holiday Makeover

He was a man on a mission.

But what was that mission?

Kermit the Frog and I were about to find out.

Tate bustled in, and I heard him stomp his boots on the welcome mat.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, breathless and harried, to George. “Let’s go talk to Rory.”

Oh. No. Rory was so not ready for this.

But ready or not, here they came.

Seconds later, Tate and George stood on the precipice of the parlor. Tate looked fierce but pale, like one of Coco’s Christmas ghosts had paid him a visit and plunged him into a grave. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

George, meanwhile, was wagging his tail like Christmas had come early. His man appeared to be staying.

Tate flicked some snow out of his hair. It looked extra tousled after his foray into the cold, but it worked for him. Everything worked for him.

Meanwhile, I was sporting frog leisurewear.

Tate’s lips twitched at my attire, but he didn’t say anything. I’d expected at least a Ribbit.

“Hi,” he whispered.

I bit my lip. “Hey there.”

He stepped closer.

I clasped my hands together, suddenly aware of how small the room felt. It was like there had been a cosmic tilt. One I hadn’t agreed to.

“Rory, would you do something for me?”

That was both vague and ominous. Was the something in question more of the Rory, will you bear my children or the Can you help me bury a body variety?

The second was a hard no. I mean, there was the smell, and it was winter. The effort it would take to dig a hole would be ridiculous. And then there were the legal complications. I’d like to say I’d done my best in life not to commit any felonies. I would not do well in prison. As for having his babies . . . that wasn’t a hard no.

Lily would be so ashamed of me right now.

“Um . . . what?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible while internally debating whether I would, in fact, procreate with him.

“Will you go with me to my parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner?”

My eyes almost popped out of my head. I did not see that one coming. I thought that had already been decided—as in, Tate never mentioned it again after his mom extended the invitation and then glossed over the issues at hand like they didn’t exist. And honestly, I’d thought for sure Tate would have left by now.

I’d been planning on eating leftover mac and cheese with a side of tears for Thanksgiving dinner.

“I’m confused,” was all I could think to say. Confused as to why he was still here. Confused as to why he suddenly wanted to have dinner with his parents. And . . . the prominent box-shaped bulge in his pocket also befuddled me.

Seriously, mind out of the gutter. There was an actual foreign object in his pocket.

“I know,” he breathed out. “And I want to fix that. I don’t want you to be confused about how I feel about you. I want to fix the broken things. And mostly, I want to fix us. I figured a good place to start was mending things with my parents. Maybe for once I could have an honest conversation with them.”

“Oh. Well, that kind of clears things up.”

It indeed did not clear things up. It only made me more confused. How was I supposed to feel about this?

Then . . . I remembered that just moments ago, standing at the window, I had wanted him to turn around. I’d wanted him to come back.