The Holiday Date

Chapter 1

Right before Christmas break, my boss Eileen Ren called me into her glass office, shut the door, and tore me a new one.

"This project matters. I've given you chances. Screw it up one more time and you can pack your things and get out."

I stared at her keyboard. Covered with a transparent membrane, edges slightly yellowed.

"Mike."

"Here."

"Repeat the last thing I said."

"Pack my things and get out," I said.

She looked at me. The stylus in her hand stopped moving.

"Good. You still understand human speech. Get out."

Chapter 2

Now she was standing outside Macy's on Union Square in San Francisco. Black Max Mara coat, grey cashmere scarf, carrying a laptop bag that looked capable of holding the entire Wall Street.

I had those goddamn reindeer antlers on my head, and I was wearing a Christmas sweater so ugly it could blind someone—some cat wielding a lightsaber.

She walked up to me.

I reached up to pull the antlers off. The elastic band dug into my forehead.

"Leave them," she said. Same voice she used in meetings when she said Please explain this data. Crisp. Full stop.

Then she pulled out her phone, cleared her throat. "Code: Ugly Sweater, twelve o'clock."

I swallowed, summoned every ounce of willpower not to die right there. "...Response: Reindeer has landed."

She nodded, put the phone back in her coat pocket. The screen still showed the Craigslist screenshot I'd sent an hour ago, along with our passphrase.

"Get in the car." She turned toward the parking lot. I followed. Her car was a silver Tesla Model S. I knew it. Last Q4 the overtime got brutal, and she had her driver give me a ride home twice. I sat in the back; she sat in the passenger seat.

This time she opened the driver's door.

"Get in front."

I got in. Knees hit the glove box. The seatbelt catch was stiff. She started the car. Heater off.

"Address."

I gave it. She listened without entering it into the GPS. Shifted into drive. The car slid out of the parking spot in silence.

Two red lights later, she said, "Why are you 'Reindeer' in the code?"

"You set it."

"I'm asking why that one."

"...Because you're always standing somewhere high."

Red light. She turned to look at me. I stared at a dead leaf on the windshield wiper.

"...First time I saw you, you were standing on the steps outside the office. Sun was in my eyes. I thought you were tall."

She said nothing.

Green light.

The car moved on. At some point the seat warmer came on. Level three. My legs started going numb from the heat.

Chapter 3

We got to my house at three in the afternoon. My mom was in the kitchen, the electric mixer roaring. My dad was in the living room, facing the ten-foot Christmas tree, trying to straighten a lopsided Star of Bethlehem.

"Dad, Mom. This is..."

Eileen stood in the entryway, unwinding her scarf. One loop. Two loops. Folded. Draped over the coat rack. Then she extended her hand.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. I'm Eileen Ren."

Same voice she used when she said This quarter's KPIs. Professional. Firm. Full stop.

My mom's mixer stopped. My dad's star tilted completely off and crashed into the pile of presents under the tree.

"This..." My mom looked at me. "You said you were bringing a girlfriend home. How..."

"She is my girl—"

"I'm his boss," Eileen said.

My dad's mouth opened wide enough to fit a tree ornament.

"...And girlfriend." She took the scarf off the rack and hung it the other way, lining it up. "The company doesn't prohibit it. Employee Handbook, Section 17, Subsection 3. As long as there's no direct reporting relationship."

"Mike." My dad's expression shifted. "Come here."

I followed him into the kitchen.

"What the hell is going on? She's your boss? You found a boss on the internet to be your holiday girlfriend?"

"...She really is my girlfriend."

"Then why were you stuttering just now?"

"I... was nervous."

"Nervous about what? Afraid she's going to give you your annual performance review over Christmas dinner?"

I stayed silent.

My dad studied me for a full five seconds.

"Nice antlers," he said.

Chapter 4

That first dinner was as quiet as a silent film.

My mom carried out the roast turkey. My dad carved. Eileen Ren took only tiny portions of everything, arranged neatly on her plate.

"Eileen, what do you do at the company?"

"Operations. Vice President."

"And Mike..."

"Engineering. Senior Engineer," she said. "Reports to me."

My mom's fork stopped in mid-air. "You manage him?"

"The entire Operations division reports to me. He's one part of it."

"So... how's Mike's work performance?"

I stuffed a huge chunk of turkey breast into my mouth.

"Room for improvement," she said.

The meat turned to paper on my tongue. I chewed loudly.

"But he has a pathological relationship with data. Last quarter we found a vulnerability in the payment system. Two in the morning. He located it. His bug report had the ID, reproduction steps, estimated financial impact. Plus his own suggested fix."

My dad stopped chewing.

She set down her knife and fork, interlaced her fingers. "He didn't have to include the suggested fix. That's the architect's job. But he always does."

The look my mom gave me shifted. Not pride. The my son won't even wash a dish at home but somehow writes fix suggestions at work kind of profound confusion.

I bowed my head and poked at the cranberry sauce hiding on my plate.

Under the table, the toe of Eileen's Chelsea boot nudged away a fallen breadcrumb.

Chapter 5

Bedroom arrangements that evening.

Four bedrooms. The guest room was downstairs.

"Eileen can have Mike's room. Mike will take the sofa downstairs."

Eileen stood at my bedroom door, sweeping her gaze inside.

Star Wars posters on the walls. On the shelf, a row of Warhammer 40K miniatures. One Space Marine had a broken arm I'd glued back on crooked, his weapon pointing at a weird angle.

"This is your room?"

"...Yes."

She walked in. Didn't touch anything. Just looked. Paused for a solid three seconds in front of the model with the crooked arm.

Then she came out and said to my mom at the top of the stairs, "Mrs. Wilson, I'll take the sofa."

My mom opened her mouth.

"His room faces north. The heating's insufficient," she said.

My room faced south. The guest room faced north.

She carried her laptop bag downstairs.

I stood in the living room doorway holding the down comforter my mom had shoved into my arms. She was at the dining table, opening her laptop. Blue-light glasses on. The screen filled with dense Google Analytics dashboards. Like a general reviewing battle maps.

I held up the comforter. "My mom said..."

"Leave it on the sofa."

I put it there. Turned to head back upstairs.

"Mike."

I looked back. She wasn't looking at me. Hands on the keyboard.

"Warhammer models are polystyrene. Standard glue corrodes it. You need plastic cement."

I said nothing. Went upstairs. Closed the door.

The radiator in the hallway hissed. I was barefoot, toes curling against the hardwood floor.

The down comforter was with her.

Chapter 6

Christmas Eve.

Presents after dinner. My dad had too much eggnog and insisted on wearing the light-up sweater that played "Jingle Bells."

My mom drew Eileen's gift: a professional kitchen knife set. She ran her thumb along the blade, eyes wide. "This is sharp."

"A dull knife is more likely to cut you," Eileen said.

My mom looked at her like she was an alien. But kind of liked it.

Outside, it started snowing.

I stepped onto the back porch. Cold air rushed in. On the neighbor's lawn, the inflatable Santa had toppled over, puffing in the wind.

Footsteps behind me.

She came out without her coat, just a black cashmere sweater. Holding my jacket.

"Put this on."

I took it, pulled it on. Snow landed in her hair, very light. Didn't melt.

"Eileen."

"...Mm."

"When you opened my gift earlier. Why didn't you smile."

Her gift had been a pair of cufflinks. From me. Nothing creative. Safe.

"Because I don't need cufflinks," she said.

"..."

"I need someone who'll replace my keyboard membrane while I'm staring at quarterly reports."

The snow suddenly got heavier. Church bells in the distance.

She reached out and straightened the crooked antlers on my head. Fingertips brushed my temple. The cold made me flinch.

"Six tomorrow morning. I have a video conference with the Shanghai office. What's your Wi-Fi password?"

I gave it.

She turned and went back inside, sliding the door shut.

I rotated the antlers to the back of my head. Snow landed on my face and melted. My head was full of the tone she'd just used. Identical to when she said Please explain this data.

Chapter 7

Boxing Day, dinner at my uncle's.

My cousin brought her lawyer boyfriend. He drove a new BMW 4 Series and handed out cigars at the door.

My uncle asked, "What does Mike's girlfriend do?"

"My boss."

The whole table went quiet.

Eileen, holding her eggnog, added: "VP of Operations."

My cousin's boyfriend's cigar hand froze mid-offer. You could see him trying to figure out if this counted as some kind of corporate bribery.

My uncle paused, then burst out laughing. "Well, that's great! Finally someone who can keep you in line!"

I smiled.

After the smile, I didn't make an excuse to go smoke in the yard like I used to.

I stayed where I was, reached over, and rotated the roast beef platter—the one far from her—toward her.

She glanced at it. Didn't eat any. But she set down her eggnog.

After the meal, my cousin pulled me into the kitchen. "Dude, your girlfriend is terrifying. Talking to her is like giving a performance review."

"That's just how she is."

"You're not scared?"

"...Scared of what."

"Scared she's going to hit you with KPIs."

On the drive back, I drove her Tesla. She sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed.

Once we hit the 280, she suddenly said, "You performed well today."

"Which aspect."

"Rotating the roast beef. And not going out to the yard to smoke."

My grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"The beef was too far. You couldn't reach it."

"I could have reached it."

"..."

"...Thank you."

The softest thing she'd said all day.

The radio was playing "Last Christmas." Bad reception, crackling. I reached to turn it off.

"Leave it," she said.

I turned it back on. The static filled the car again.

She didn't say anything else. I thought she'd fallen asleep.

Nearing the exit, she suddenly said, very quietly, "I actually hate turkey. Always have. The meat's too dry. Fibers too coarse."

I looked straight ahead, didn't turn. The first thing she'd said all day without punctuation.

"Noted," I said.

The exit toll booth was bright. I pulled up, rolled down the window to pay. Cold air rushed in.

In the rearview mirror, her eyes were still closed.

But the corner of her mouth might have twitched.

Chapter 8

New Year's Eve.

The last day of the holidays.

My mom made a huge spread. Everyone knew this was the farewell dinner.

My dad opened a bottle of Napa Cabernet he'd been holding for years.

My mom poured Eileen's wine. Her hand trembled. A few drops splashed onto the white tablecloth, dark as blood.

Eileen got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed club soda and a cloth, and blotted the stain out one dab at a time.

Then she lifted her glass and took a sip. "Mrs. Wilson, the wine is excellent."

My mom turned away, facing the sink, and turned the faucet on full blast to rinse the cutting board.

My dad had half the bottle. His face was red, his words looser. "Eileen, Mike's a guy who's... tongue-tied. But his heart's solid. We don't understand the work stuff. But if he ever..."

He paused. "Forget it. Never mind."

Eileen picked up a slice of the pickled cucumber my dad had made.

"There's plenty he needs to improve. But his bug reports—I never have to read them twice."

My dad blinked, then grunted. Poured himself another glass.

When they were leaving, my mom tried to press an envelope into Eileen's bag.

"Here, sweetheart. Your Christmas gift..."

Eileen wouldn't take it.

"Mrs. Wilson, Compliance has regulations."

My mom's hand froze in mid-air.

I took the envelope and stuffed it into her coat pocket. "It's from my mom. The FTC doesn't care about this."

She pressed her hand against the pocket, through the coat. Didn't take it out.

"Thank you. Mrs. Wilson."

Before getting into the car, she glanced back at our window. The Christmas lights were still blinking.

I stood behind her. Snow was falling again.

"Next year," she suddenly said.

"What."

"Nothing."

She got in. The Tesla slid out of the driveway in silence.

The taillights glowed, turned the corner, swallowed by the curtain of snow.

I stood there in the cold for a long time.

Back inside, my mom was clearing the plates.

"This Eileen. She's a good person." She stacked the plates, oil dripping between her fingers. "Just... like a robot."

"She actually..."

I stopped.

"Actually what."

"...She actually hates turkey."

My mom gave me a baffled look.

Chapter 9

First day back after New Year's.

All-hands meeting.

Eileen Ren stood in front of the projector screen at the same pace as before the break. Drive, optimize, close the loop, review.

I sat in the third row, spinning a pen.

When she got to project metrics, her gaze swept across my side. Lingered less than half a second.

"The outstanding issue from last quarter. Engineering—corrective report on my desk by the end of the day."

"Received," I said.

Slightly too loud. The guy next to me glanced over.

After the meeting, in the break room.

I was making coffee. She walked in, pulled a sparkling water from the fridge.

We stood side by side at the counter.

No one else is around. Just the hiss of the espresso machine.

She twisted the cap open. "Report can be tomorrow."

"Today."

She took a sip. "Don't be a hero."

"I'm not."

She screwed the cap back on, set it on the granite countertop with a faint clink. Turned and walked away. The sound of her heels faded down the hallway.

I lifted my coffee and took a sip. Scalding. Didn't spit it out.

Chapter 10

The next two weeks.

I was first in every morning, last out every night.

The corrective report was submitted on time. The architect reviewed it, clicked "Approved" in Jira. No comment.

Eileen Ren had no comment either.

We were on the same floor, separated by three rows of open desks, two glass walls, and a hallway.

She had meetings. I had meetings. She worked late. I worked late.

We'd run into each other in the cafeteria. She stood in her line; I stood in mine. She always got the quinoa salad with grilled chicken. I always stole a glance at her tray. Then we'd sit at separate tables, open our respective MacBooks.

We never once mentioned the Christmas and New Year's break.

Like those seven days were a temporary Slack channel, archived and gone.

Only one detail.

The keyboard membrane at my desk had been replaced. New. Transparent.

I asked IT. They said it was a floor-wide refresh. Everyone got new ones.

But I saw everyone else had matte.

Only mine was transparent. Exactly like the one I'd had before.

Chapter 11

February 14th. Valentine's Day.

At 5:30 p.m., HR pinged the group: [Discouraging overtime tonight. Please manage your personal time accordingly.]

A suppressed cheer rippled across the floor.

I didn't move from my desk.

The code was still running on my screen, progress bar at 87%.

Co-workers drifted out. Someone clapped my shoulder. "Not leaving yet? Waiting for Ren to bring you roses?"

"Get lost."

He laughed and walked off.

By 6:30, the only lights on the entire floor were my screen and the frosted-glass office down the hall.

The progress bar hit 99%. Stuck.

I waited five minutes.

No movement.

The back-end error log exploded across the screen, a wall of red mocking me.

I shoved the keyboard away. Got up to get water in the break room.

On the way back, I passed her office. The door wasn't fully closed.

She looked up from her computer. Glasses off.

"You're still here," she said.

Not a question.

"Test threw errors."

"Mm."

She looked back down at her screen.

I should have left. My feet didn't move.

"Eileen."

She looked up.

"New Year's Eve. You said 'next year.' What were you going to say."

The motion-sensor lights in the hallway went out. Only the cold glow of her Excel sheets lit her face. I gripped the mug.

She took off her blue-light glasses, set them beside the keyboard. Rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I was going to say—"

Her phone rang.

The screen said: Mom

She answered. "Hello."

The voice on the other end was loud. I couldn't make out the words, only the urgency in the tone.

She listened for a few seconds, said, "Got it. I'll be right there."

Hung up. Stood. Grabbed her coat.

The movements were still efficient, but I saw her hand fumble twice before hitting the Tesla key fob button.

"What is it," I said.

"Family thing."

She pulled on her coat. The scarf was half-untied, one end trailing off her shoulder, brushing the desk edge. She didn't fix it.

She walked past me. A faint trace of cedarwood. The motion-sensor lights came on. Then went off again.

Then I heard the elevator ding.

I set the mug down and ran.

The elevator doors were halfway shut. I jammed my hand in.

She stood inside, looking up at me.

I stepped in. The doors closed. I pressed G.

"I'm coming with you."

"No need."

"I'm coming with you."

She looked at me.

The elevator descended, pressure in my ears.

"It might get messy," she said.

"Mm."

"My dad. Old condition. Heart."

"Mm."

She said nothing else.

The elevator opened to the parking garage. Cold air flooded in. She walked out; I followed.

Into the car. She started it, fumbled with the GPS. Her hands were shaking. Not from the cold.

"I'll drive," I said.

She looked at me for two seconds. Let go of the wheel. Opened her door, walked around to the passenger side.

I got into the driver's seat. It was pulled too far forward. Knees jammed under the steering wheel. I didn't adjust. Tapped the address into the GPS. Shifted into drive.

The car surged forward, tires chirping on the concrete.

Up on the street, streetlights slid backward in a blur.

She sat in the passenger seat, head against the window.

"Mike."

"Here."

"If you come today, tomorrow in the company email chains..."

"I know."

"Know what."

"People will talk."

"...When the project went wrong those times, people talked more." I stared straight ahead. "About me and you."

She didn't respond.

A long pause.

"It wasn't about connections," she said. "It was about your bug reports."

My grip on the wheel loosened a little.

We climbed onto the Bay Bridge. The San Francisco skyline spread out to the right, the bay pitch black, only the bridge lights a warm amber.

I glanced at the rearview mirror.

Her eyes were closed. But her eyelashes were trembling.

"Eileen."

She didn't open her eyes.

"The Space Marine's arm," I said. "I re-glued it. With plastic cement."

She opened her eyes, turned her head toward me.

"How'd it turn out."

"Straight. Weapon facing forward."

"..."

"There's still a seam. But that's from the earlier corrosion. Couldn't be helped."

She said nothing. Closed her eyes again. But this time, the eyelashes were still.

The GPS announced the upcoming right turn.

I flicked the turn signal.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like the sound of her scissors cutting wrapping paper outside my house that day. Precise. Efficient.

The car turned into the UCSF Medical Center emergency parking lot.

Before getting out, she retied her scarf. One loop. Two loops. This time, not as neat. A small end tucked inside her collar.

"Let's go," she said.

I followed her through the emergency room doors.

The instant they swung open, the smell of antiseptic and the blast of heating hit us together.

She glanced back at me.

I didn't hesitate.

I followed her in.