Ugly Sweater Weather NEW

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Don't you know me at all?" I asked, placing a hand to my heart, feigning being wounded. "Each and every ornament in there has a story, has character."

  "Those are the only ornaments worth owning," he agreed with a nod. "Now, we need to have a serious talk," he told me, voice grave.

  "What's wrong?" I asked, stomach twisting, not used to Crosby being so serious.

  "Nothing yet. But something could be terribly wrong in a moment," he informed me.

  "I... I don't understand."

  "I think if I find out you are an all-white-lights person, we can't be friends anymore," he told me, making a laugh bubble up and burst out of me.

  "White lights can be pretty."

  "Pretty, yes, but lacking some of the character we both value so much."

  "Okay. I have to agree with that. I bought colored lights. Solids and twinkling."

  "Our friendship lives another day," he declared as I fetched the lights, putting them on the table. "So, how are we handling the lights?"

  "I think I should maybe leave it in the hands of the expert. While I make us hot toddies."

  "Because we're seventy-year-olds," he said, but he was smiling.

  "I've honestly never had one. They sound both disgusting and amazing at the same time. Like eggnog."

  "Eggnog is a Christmas abomination," Crosby informed me, cringing like he'd just gotten a sip.

  "What? There is actually something about Christmas that you don't like?"

  "I know. My parents damn near disowned me when they found out."

  From what I understood, if it was even possible, Crosby's parents were even more into Christmas than he was. Clearly, since they'd named their children Crosby, as in Bing Crosby, Clarence, as in the angel looking for his wings in It's A Wonderful Life, and Noel.

  He'd told me little snippets of their insane Christmas traditions, making me so envious I almost teared up as he detailed the food, the games, the customs that went back several generations. Including some spider web thing that crossed the ceiling in the dining room that still made no sense to me since the only spider tradition I knew of involved the tree itself.

  They had cookie bake-offs and toy drives for the needy and secret Santas and white elephants and all the stuff I had never known, had secretly coveted.

  As a whole, I tried hard not to compare my life to someone else's. It never led anywhere good. I spent a lot of my childhood wallowing in that unhappiness, wishing my mom was the sort who took me out to brunches like my friends' moms, wishing I had a father who would warn me off of boys, that I knew the warmth of a large family gathered around a Thanksgiving table, or opening presents on Christmas morning.

  It was toxic to focus through a lens of lack. All it did was reinforce the idea that you were missing things, that there were holes to be filled, that you wouldn't be able to fill them yourself.

  So while I absolutely thought Crosby and his wonderful family had an absolutely amazing holiday planned, I chose to see mine as wonderful too.

  And, well, it was.

  I heckled Crosby about his blind-spots, grumbled about too many blinkers, made him readjust the star seven times before it finally looked straight. And I did all this with a big smile on my face, with the warmth of the hot toddy flooding my veins, with carols playing in the background.

  "Alright. I am going to need to know why there is a pickle ornament," Crosby declared, brandishing the ornament in question with a furrowed brow.

  "What? Mr. Christmas himself actually doesn't understand the significance of the Christmas Pickle?" I asked, tsking my tongue at him as I took it from him. "Well, the deal is. The pickle gets hidden in the tree. And the first person to find it on Christmas morning gets to open the first gift."

  "Now I know what I am getting my mom for her birthday," he declared. I knew his mother was born a few days before Christmas, something she claimed started her lifelong obsession with the season. "She will love this," he added, watching as I stashed the pickle in the tree.

  "Alright, you next," I told him, holding out the box toward him, watching as he reached inside, pulled something out, unraveled it from the safety of its tissue paper.

  "Oh, wow, Dea. That hair..." he said, trying not to laugh at what I already knew to be one of my old school ornaments. You know the ones, where they take your school picture from that year and make you glue it inside a wreath made by winding green yarn around a cardboard circle.

  "That was a particularly rough look," I agreed, looking at a small me with her hair in Shirley Temple ringlets that only served to make my face look too round, my eyes too big, my baby fat double chin too obvious. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a white turtle neck under a gray sweater did not help the look.

  "This one isn't much better," he said a moment later, hitting the motherland of all my old school ornaments, producing my first grade picture of me in a floral long-sleeved jumpsuit, my hair pulled into high double pigtails that—for God knows what reason—were then braided.

  "And this is why I am very diligent about my dental hygiene," I told him, shaking my head at my toothless smile. "No teeth is not a good look for me. Please tell me you have at least one embarrassing childhood photo.

  "I have one my parents snapped after I took a pair of scissors to my hair here," he told me, reaching up toward the scalp directly above his left eye. "Before they dragged me into the bathroom to shave the rest of it off."

  "You probably managed to make hairlessness look cute."

  "What can I say, I've just always been this devilishly handsome."

  I had no problem imagining that as the case. Crosby was one of those guys who always looked perfectly put together. Of course, it was always easier for guys in general, but even freshly rolled out of bed, eyes still bleary from sleep, wrapped up in a giant bubble jacket, walking an impatient Lillybean to meet Lock and me for a walk, he looked like he belonged in a magazine.

  He was probably one of those little boys whose parents always dressed him up in fancy sweaters instead of the silly animal-printed ones I always had on.

  "You grew out of the awkward, Dea," he told me, misinterpreting my silence. "You have to know you're gorgeous."

  As a whole, I tended to shake off compliments, disregard them. I was self-aware enough to know that it stemmed from a looks-conscious mother who thought the outside was the most important, who fished for compliments, who melted when she got them.

  I didn't want to be like her. I didn't want my self-worth to come from others. And I didn't want to set my confidence on the shaky foundation of beauty I knew to be fleeting.

  All that said, there was a distinct little wobble in my belly at his words, something unexpected, something I was sure stemmed from knowing that he first thought I was interesting and fun and a good person.

  In fact, I had never heard him make a comment on my appearance before. Unless telling me I had spinach in my teeth or a leaf in my hair counted.

  Which, well, it didn't.

  That was the only explanation for the belly wobble.

  "I, ah, thanks," I said, shuffling past him to grab another ornament, making a fuss about what was likely the least interesting one on the tree—just a simple key with the year I moved into my apartment on it—because I suddenly found the conversation a little awkward, a little uncomfortable almost.

  "Hey now, this one isn't so bad," he said, producing another ornament from school, this time featuring my school picture of me with pin-straight hair and a red-and-white sweater.

  "That was fifth grade. My mother woke me up at five a.m. to straighten my hair."

  "I like your hair like this better," he told me, looking at me for what felt like a lingering moment before he turned to the tree to find a blank spot.

  I don't know if I was over-analyzing the situation or what, but it felt like Crosby was being a lot more complimentary than usual. And while it was his nature to be someone to pick me up on a bad day—and I could see him viewing this cancelled Christmas thing as a bad day/week/
month for me—it never seemed like he complimented me on my physical appearance often.

  I mean, I threw out comments here and there about him because, well, he was stupidly perfect, but he seemed to understand that I wasn't a huge fan of being judged by my outside. Which meant he almost never did it.

  So doing so twice in one night just felt new. And strange. Yet not altogether unpleasant. If anything, there was an odd little flipping in my belly.

  And that was something I was going to go right ahead and not think about.

  "So, what is on the schedule for tomorrow?" Crosby asked a while later, lounging next to me on the couch, another hot toddy—which he called disgustingly delicious—resting in his hand, sitting on his stomach.

  I was sure it was the odd placement of the cup that had my gaze focused in that general region, that made me almost acutely aware of the fact that his sweater had slipped up when he'd stretched a moment ago, leaving a sliver of taut skin between its hem and the waistband of his pants, showing just the tiniest bit of his Adonis belt and happy trail.

  Which were things I should not have been noticing about my best friend.

  I mean, yes, I'd seen the guy without his shirt on before. And, yes, it was a sight to behold. Raised by two doctors, he believed in living a healthy lifestyle. So while he did indulge in junk with me, he typically ate a healthy diet, took long walks with Lillybean, and hit the gym on the regular.

  It showed.

  And I'd noticed.

  In a detached sort of way. It all just fit in with the perfect puzzle that was Crosby Dean. The man who could have skated by on his looks, but busted his ass to make something of himself. Who managed to be incredibly kind and grounded, despite having a lot of privilege, a lot of head starts in life.

  But this felt like a different kind of noticing.

  "Deavienne," he called. Was it just me, or did his tone sound almost, I don't know, silky? It seemed silky. He also almost never used my full name like that. It slid off his tongue way too pleasantly.

  Or maybe that was the booze telling my brain that.

  That was the most rational explanation.

  I was buzzed.

  He was a nearby male, when my system had been starved of those for a long while now.

  That was all it was.

  "Yep?" I asked, my gaze jerking away so fast that the room seemed to spin for a moment.

  This was the point where I would usually say something flip, something silly, some rib at him about his stupidly good body, about how it wasn't fair that his Christmas cookie addiction wasn't showing up on his body like it was mine.

  Being caught looking at him was always funny.

  But now, it almost felt embarrassing.

  What the hell was going on with me?

  "You alright?" he asked, brows pinching when I slow-blinked at the Christmas tree.

  "I, ah, yeah. I think the toddies have gone to my head."

  "Always were a lightweight," he agreed, and that silkiness I'd detected earlier was gone, leaving me to think it had never been there at all, that I had simply imagined it.

  "Yeah. Anyway. What was the question?"

  "What's the plan for tomorrow?" he asked.

  "Oh, right. Tomorrow. I know this is kind of lame..."

  "Nothing about Christmas is lame," he insisted.

  "Okay well. I thought... hot chocolate and taking a stroll down Fifth Avenue to see all the amazing window displays. I planned for it to just be my mom and me, but now that you're coming, we can bring the dogs. Which will make it even better."

  "Sounds like a date," he agreed, tossing back the last of his drink, giving me a small smile, then moving to stand.

  He might have been better at hiding it, but he was getting a little drunk too. It was in the wobble in his step when he finally got to his feet, in the flush up his neck.

  "You should Uber," I told him, watching as he walked over to grab Lillybean's jacket and harness.

  "We usually do a good walk before bed," he insisted, strapping her in. "It will be good for us."

  "It's a really long walk."

  "We can hail a cab if we get tired," he insisted, giving me a warm smile, his eyes bright. "Don't worry about us."

  "Text me when you get home. I won't be able to sleep until you do." And he knew that. We had always been the "text me when you get home" type of friends. It was a relatively safe city, but you could never be too careful.

  "Always," he agreed, looking over at the tree one last time. "It's a good tree, Dea," he told me, giving me a serious tone and a firm nod.

  "That is possibly the highest praise of all coming from you," I said, grinning.

  "See you tomorrow."

  "See you tomorrow," I agreed, watching him leave, noticing the quick final glance he gave me while closing the door.

  "Was that weird, Lock?" I asked when he finished gnawing at his foot. "That was odd, right? Like there were some strange moments. I know, I know. You only have eyes for Lillybean, but would it kill you to pay attention to the vibe between Crosby and me for five minutes, so you can tell me if I am being a lunatic or not? I mean, of course I'm being a lunatic. I'm asking my dog to do a vibe-check for me. Okay. Anyway. Want to go for your quick tree-pee before bed?" I asked, climbing off the couch.

  Without the promise of seeing his girlfriend, Lock was always a bit less enthusiastic about his evening walk. He stretched for a solid two minutes before getting fully off the couch, walking over to me to let me leash him up, then moseying down the hall, out onto the street, and making short work of his final potty trip of the night.

  "We're going to have a double-date tomorrow night," I told Lock in bed half an hour later, feeling the alcohol like a fuzzy warm blanket on my brain, urging me to sleep. "Well, I mean, not a double-date, double-date. You know how it is. It's not like that."

  In that strange in-between moment right before sleep, though, there was one little lingering thought I couldn't shake.

  But did I want it to be like that?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Crosby

  "How goes Operation: Get The Girl?" Clarence asked, lounging on my couch, swiping left through his dating app while letting out the occasional critique on whatever guy's profile he was reading.

  Lillybean was sleeping on his feet, dressed in the truly ridiculous Tiffany-blue and white-silk ribbon pajamas he'd made her himself. He often quipped that if his career didn't pan out, he could always fall back on dog fashion to pay the bills.

  "We are onto day two," I told him, making my coffee, then reaching to steam the milk for Clarence's latte.

  "So... no boning yet?"

  "'Boning'," I repeated, rolling my eyes.

  "It's making a comeback. Ew. Who thinks I want to look at pictures of you holding up a dead fish?" he grumbled, aggressively swiping left. "Look, I know you have it all planned out. But sometimes, you have to just... grab love by the balls. Or by whatever weird, flowery stuff ladies have going on down there," he said, waving toward his lap.

  Weird, flowery stuff.

  This was coming from the child of an OBGYN and a fertility specialist. We had been acutely aware of the "weird, flowery stuff" that women had "down there" since we were eight or nine years old. Along with how it all worked. And, during a particularly uncomfortable conversation when we were in our early teens, how to stimulate the female erogenous zones. Clarence still joked that the conversation was the moment he realized he was gay, though we all had an inkling of the fact when he was eight, and informed us all that he was going to grow up to be Audrey Hepburn while he braided the hair of Noel's Barbies.

  "I don't want to screw it up," I admitted, handing him his latte as I sat down in the chair across from him.

  "That is the exact mindset that has kept you longing after her for years, Cros."

  That wasn't entirely true. At the beginning, while I'd always thought she was a knockout, it had truly just been casual. You know... for about a month. And that was when it all went downhill for me. By
then, though, I was her friend that she went on walks with and ate pretzels with and caught dinner with.

  The door of opportunity felt like it had already slammed in my face.

  "She doesn't like guys all in her face," I insisted. I knew that. Because I'd seen it when we were out with friends time and time again. Anyone who got too assertive with her got shot down ruthlessly. "She likes a more casual approach."

  "There's casual and there's brotherly. I'm just saying," Clarence said, holding up his hand at me.

  "Anyway. We are going to walk down Fifth Avenue tonight."

  "Jealous. But that could be romantic enough for a kiss."

  "I'm not rushing it."

  "You have twelve days. Well, no. Now eleven. Everything needs to be sped up a little."

  "There's time. I am playing it by ear. There was a minute last night when things felt... different."

  "At this point, do I really need to ask you for details? We are on Chapter Seventy-Five, page two-thousand-and-three of the Crosby Loves Dea Chronicles. I'm invested in this."

  "We were sitting on the couch and I caught her staring at my stomach."

  "Oh, wow. Bro. If her looking at your stomach is proof of something, then everyone at the gym must be woefully in lust with you."

  "It was different. She was looking-looking," I insisted, finding it hard to explain. There was just something about it. "There was a vibe."

  "Oh, well, if there was a vibe," he said, rolling his eyes at me. "Alright, look. I know you know Dea better than I do, but I know women better as a whole. And they like a man who knows what he wants and confidently goes after it."

  "I am confidently going after it."

  "At a snail's pace."

  "Better than not moving at all," I insisted.

  "Fine fine fine. Just... don't miss your shot, okay? I love Dea."

  "You only love her because she was your first client when you opened your place."

  "Well, there is that," Clarence agreed, smiling. "Even if she hates everything to do with spas."

  "She's ticklish, that's why she hates massages."

  "She hated every treatment," he insisted. "Massage, facial, cupping, wrap, pedicure."