Ugly Sweater Weather NEW

by Gadziala, Jessica

  His arm lifted, going around my hips, holding me to him, as the other rose to land at the back of my head, fingers sifting through my hair, likely thinking I was still asleep.

  He should have been rolling away, pushing me off, but he seemed just as frozen in the moment as I was.

  His chest rose and fell slowly, taking deep breaths, maybe trying to fight through his unexpected desire like I was. Any moment now, he would push me off, move away.

  But then his voice broke through the silence of the room.

  "Dea," he murmured, voice somehow rough and soft at the same time.

  Not expecting the sound, my body jolted. And I guess that was a good thing; it was what I would have done had I actually been asleep like I'd been pretending.

  My hands planted near his shoulders, pushing up, looking down at him as my hair fell forward like a curtain around both our faces.

  I should have moved off of him.

  That was what friends did when they were sprawled all over their platonic friend.

  But I didn't do that.

  And I couldn't even tell you why.

  It made no rational sense.

  "Hey," Crosby said in that same soft/rough voice, something unfamiliar, but more welcome than it had any right to be.

  "Hey," I said, and I was pretty sure my own voice sounded odd. Lower, softer, almost shy. God, I'd never been anything even resembling shy with Crosby before.

  His hand rose, tucking my hair behind my ear, smiling when it just fell forward again. But his hand didn't drop then. It shifted inward, fingertips grazing over my jaw, butterfly light, but it made a shiver work its way through my body nonetheless.

  "You—" he started, only to be cut off by a loud scratching at the bedroom door, making both of us stiffen, turning to look at it.

  "Hey hey hey," Clarence's voice said in a hushed whisper. "Don't do that. Leave Mommy and Daddy alone this morning," he demanded as he, I imagined, scooped up Lockjaw, and carried him back to the living room.

  Something inside me seemed to click at that.

  Mommy and Daddy.

  Like Crosby and I were a couple.

  But we couldn't be a couple.

  He was my best friend in the world, my rock, my voice of reason when I was being irrational; If we tried to be more and it failed, I could lose all of that. I couldn't take that. He was too important to me.

  "Whoops," I said, like I'd accidentally bumped into him instead of climbing him like a freaking tree. I slipped off of him, then flew off the bed, reaching for my sweater I'd abandoned the night before. "I, ah, Lock needs to walk," I said, rushing into his bathroom where I leaned back against the wall, taking a few slow, deep breaths, trying to bring some calm back to my chaotic body.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Things had been weird with Crosby for days. I didn't know what was going on, but it had to stop. I had to put a stop to it.

  "Enough," I whispered to my reflection before using some of Crosby's mouthwash, then splashing some cool water on my face, and heading back out of the room.

  I found Crosby in the kitchen with Clarence, both of them holding coffee mugs in their hands.

  I wanted coffee so bad with the lingering hangover clinging to my brain, but I needed to get out of here, get out into the cool air, get some distance.

  "We were going to make waffles," Clarence announced.

  "Oh, thanks, but I have to get going. Lock needs to eat," I added, thankful for the excuse. He could, technically, have some of Lillybean's food, but hers was the full-fat kind while my chubby buddy needed the turkey flavored "healthy weight" formula.

  "Alright," Crosby said, surprising me. He was usually someone who at least tried to talk you into staying for food. "What is on the schedule for today?"

  Oh, right.

  The twelve days of Christmas.

  We weren't nearly done yet.

  Luckily, tonight's plan didn't involve getting drunk and falling into the same bed together.

  "Tonight we have the A Christmas Carol play. You know... the one at the community college," I told him, watching him wince, then smile, knowing what we were in store for, but still excited for it.

  "I'll come get you at six-thirty," he offered.

  "It's not until eight," I said, words nearly tumbling over each other in their rush to get out. "And it is midway between us. So I will just meet you there," I said, giving him a smile so fake it hurt my cheeks before I turned to get Lock into his sweater and onto his leash. "Okay. Well, we have to get going," I said, already at the door, pretending I didn't see the questioning look on Clarence's face, or the knowing one on Crosby's.

  "I'll see you later, Dea," Crosby said.

  There was no mistaking the anxiety—nor the excitement—that bubbled up in my system at his words.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Crosby

  Movies Watched:

  - I'll Be Home For Christmas (Dea's pick)

  - Christmas With the Kranks (my pick)

  - The Family Stone (Dea)

  - White Christmas (me)

  We'd skipped National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation because we both watched that on video chat with each other at midnight on Christmas Eve. It was our tradition.

  But the night was still somewhat early.

  And we were both fully vegged out on the couch in our comfy Christmas pajamas, binging on Italian we'd ordered too much of, and cookies we bought since we hadn't gotten to the baking cookies day.

  Now, the question was, did I go with my gut and pick some more of my favorites—The Santa Clause, The Grinch, Trapped In Paradise, Surviving Christmas—or if we should go with some of the classics—A Christmas Story, It's A Wonderful Life, Home Alone, Holiday Inn—or if I should choose something more romantic to go with the mood I was trying to set. There were a ton of options for romantic Christmas movies. We could go with While You Were Sleeping, The Holiday, or Love Actually.

  See, Dea had been distant since the night that led to the morning in my bed.

  I couldn't say I was exactly surprised.

  While I had been fully aware that our connection had always been a bit more than just friendly, she was just starting to understand that. It was, understandably, a bit of an adjustment for her. Especially so because she didn't have the best view of relationships in general.

  I imagined, in her head, she'd already convinced herself that, somehow, a relationship between us was doom to fail, and that if it did, she would lose the connection we already had.

  I knew this was not going to be a quick and easy transition from friends to something much more. Which was why I'd been careful to move slowly with it.

  It was just getting more difficult than I'd anticipated.

  Waking up to her on top of me, her legs spread on the sides of my hips, my hardness pressed against her, her nipples brushing my chest yeah, it had been hard to forget that, to keep my mind on other things.

  "Okay, one more," Dea said, getting up to make hot chocolate. "You pick," she added as she flicked on the electric kettle.

  "How about While You Were Sleeping?" I suggested.

  "Oh, Bill Pullman is swoony in that one. I mean there is something special about the way he looks at Sandy Bullock in that wedding scene that just gives you all the feels."

  I felt my lips curving up at her words as I flicked through her video catalog. If she wasn't forcing herself not to notice, she would see that the way Jack—Bill Pullman's character—looks at Lucy—Sandra Bullock's character—was the same way I looked at her.

  "Okay. Here you go. With your weird-ass peppermint stick stirrer," she told me, handing me my mug.

  "It's good."

  "Peppermint belongs in absolutely nothing but mints and gum," Dea declared, shaking her head as she got back under her blanket—a red one covered in Christmas gnomes that complimented my green one covered in Christmas-sweater-wearing dogs.

  "You're missing out."

  "I don't think I am," she said, pulling her mug close to
her face to lick the whipped cream off the rim of her cup.

  That was a kick to the gut I didn't need right then. The last thing I needed was an erection while I was sitting close to her on the couch.

  "Okay, here we go," I said, looking forward, trying to ignore the image of her continuing to lick her whipped cream in my peripheral vision.

  "What's the matter?" she asked a couple minutes later, looking over at me with drawn-together brows.

  It seemed my self-control was not as good as I needed it to be. Because I kept glancing over. And I was so turned on it was painful at that point.

  "Nothing."

  "You're all tense," she objected.

  "I'm fine," I told her.

  "Was work hard today?" she asked, scooting closer, leaning her head over to lay on my shoulder, her hug without the arms. It was one of the many sweet little gestures I had seen from her that made it hard not to love her. Especially knowing she'd never been given that kind of affection from her mom, that she managed to foster those behaviors on her own as an adult. There was a toughness in her softness that was unique and special.

  "It's always a little crazy leading up to us closing up early for the holiday," I told her, even though it had nothing to do with my tension right then.

  "Just one more day, right?"

  "Half day," I said.

  "Totally doable. We can call it an early night if you want to go home and get some sleep."

  "Nah. I'm good. Gotta watch it till the perfect end scene of this one."

  "You know what? I think you might be more of a hopeless romantic than I am," she decided.

  She had no idea.

  While she didn't date much personally, Dea was a sucker for rom-coms, for huge, dramatic love stories, for long-running romantic TV shows.

  She liked the idea of love even as she rejected it in her own life.

  "You might be right," I agreed, resting the side of my head on the top of hers, letting myself enjoy the moment, reassuring myself that, eventually, I would get this more than once in a blue moon, more than once a year during a holiday movie binge.

  "So, are you ready to get all fancied up tomorrow?" she asked a couple hours later as I shrugged on my jacket.

  We'd made an agreement that when we went to see the Nutcracker ballet, that we would dress for it. Sure, people went to shows in jeans and sneakers these days. But we decided to go ahead and make an event of it. I would wear a suit. She'd put on a dress and heels. There were so few reasons to get dressed up these days, that we decided to take advantage of a small one.

  "I picked up my suit from the dry cleaner's today."

  "I actually picked up a garter belt and stockings today," she agreed, blithely unaware of the powerful images those words put into my head. "I practically forgot stockings even existed. But it is going to be so cold, and the idea of wearing a dress with nothing under it just sounded miserable. You guys don't know how easy you have it," she added, shaking her head.

  "Don't worry, I'll carry your ridiculous roll-up flats like always," I assured her, knowing she was not a woman who could strap on heels before leaving the apartment, and wear them all through the night. After having her hobbling for hours and nearly in tears over blisters on a New Year's night, she'd discovered the purse shoes. The only problem was her going-out-purse was too small for anything other than cards, money, and little essentials. So I had become her flat-shoe-carrier.

  "You're a lifesaver," she told me as I moved out into the hall. "I will meet you at—"

  "No," I cut her off. "I will pick you up here," I told her, having already set it up. "Trust me," I added when she went to object.

  "Alright," she agreed, brows furrowing, trying to figure out what I was up to.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," I told her, heading out.

  "Text me when you're home," she called down the hall, making a warm sensation move across my chest.

  The chances of something happening to me from her apartment to my own were slim to none, but she always demanded I text her. It was a sweet thing that never got old.

  "Always," I agreed.

  I found myself nervous the next day as I got out of the shower, went through my general grooming routine, then getting into my suit. I even took time to add some cufflinks and a nice watch, wanting to look my best.

  This was the most date-like of all of our dates, thanks to what I had planned behind her back.

  I wanted it to be perfect.

  "Which one?" I asked, walking out of my room toward Clarence, holding up the cologne bottles.

  "Whichever one you've worn around her in the past and had her telling you that you smell good," he said, rolling his eyes like I should have thought of that already. "You need a pocket square," he added, brushing past me and into my room, rummaging through my top dresser drawer until he found one that worked, then set to folding it expertly.

  "It's not too much?"

  "For the fancy date you have prepared? No. She is dressing up, right? Like fancy-fancy? You'll only make her uncomfortable if you take her to that restaurant and she is wearing a casual dress."

  "She said it was silk," I told him, shrugging. "Her mom bought it for her last birthday and I remember her telling me it was too fancy to wear anywhere she usually goes."

  "Alright," Clarence agreed. "Should be fine then."

  "Do you think the flowers are too much?" I asked, walking over toward them on the kitchen counter.

  "The flowers are perfect. It doesn't matter how casual dating has gotten these days, women always like flowers. Calm down," he demanded, sensing my nerves. "It's the perfect night."

  "But is it too presumptuous?"

  "You're in the home stretch here, Crosby," he reminded me. "If you don't start making yourself a little more obvious now, you are going to fail, and be pissed at yourself for screwing up this golden opportunity. Take the risks while you can."

  He was right.

  And it wasn't like Dea and I hadn't done date-like things in the past. She'd never given it a second thought.

  "You're right," I agreed as he moved over toward the window, looking down.

  "I think your car is here," he said just a couple seconds before I got the alert on my phone.

  It wasn't a taxi or an Uber, some rideshare thing we'd done a million times.

  No.

  I got us a car.

  With a driver.

  Who was wearing a suit as well.

  Not a limo, since that would have been way over the top, but a town car.

  "It's not over the top?"

  "It's the perfect amount of class. Save the champagne for after the ballet, though," he advised. "It would be too much right away."

  "Already the plan," I agreed. "On the way to the restaurant."

  "Alright, bro. Good luck," he said, giving me an encouraging smile. "Tell Dea I will pop over and walk Lock later," he said, having a key since he'd done her the favor a few times in the past.

  "I need to get you a couple extra Christmas presents," I decided as I made my way to the door.

  "You know me. I'm not happy unless it's designer," he reminded me. "Did you see that new Game On collection from Louis Vuitton?" he added, dropping unsubtle hints as he had always been known to do.

  "I will look into it," I agreed, making my way out the door.

  Flowers in my hand, I stood outside of Dea's door, my heart hammering in my chest, my palms feeling damp.

  I'd been on plenty of dates in my life. I'd never felt anything like this before. But, then again, the stakes had never been quite so high.

  I could hear the click of heels across her floor, followed by the tap of Lock's paws. "Here buddy. I got you the big bone," she told him, before I heard the item in question hitting the floor with a thud.

  The locks slid.

  The door pulled open.

  And there she was.

  I thought Dea was a knockout when she'd barely just rolled out of bed with messy hair, no makeup, and toothpaste stains on her shirt. />
  But this dressed up version of Dea was breathtaking.

  The dress her mother had gotten for her was practically made for Dea, the red silk gliding over her hips, scalloping low on her chest, skirting the floor at one side of the hem, then slitting drastically up her thigh on the other.

  She'd gone with nude heels, and had tamed her hair into silky sheets, had matched her dress to her lipstick, lined her eyes, put little golden hoops at her ears that matched the dainty golden chain with a small hollowed-out circle clock necklace I'd bought her for her first anniversary of living in the city. Her "New York Minute" necklace that she wore on special occasions.

  "Wow," I said, the sound rushing out of me, unstoppable.

  "Yeah?" she asked, doing an unsure little turn. "It's not over the top?" she asked, running her hand down her stomach uncertainly.

  "It's perfect. You're perfect." That was probably too much, but it was true nonetheless.

  Her smile was of the shy sort, her gaze skittering away for a second, then moving over me. "Hey, we match kind of," she told me, reaching out to touch my pocket square that Clarence had picked out which had hints of gold and red. "You smell amazing," she said, making my lips curve up as she leaned forward, taking a deep breath.

  "So do you." I'd always been a fan of Dea's perfume. She hadn't switched it up for the night, had gone with her old favorite scent she wore every day, something her caretaker, Tilly, had bought her as a birthday present when she was little, something light, feminine, powdery. I swore she stuck with it as an adult as an ode to Tilly and also to tick off her mother who thought it was a little girl's perfume.

  "Okay. Let me just grab my clutch. Yes, a clutch. I was informed today by a coworker that I can't carry a shoulder bag with a silk dress."

  "And the shoes," I added, even though we wouldn't be doing much walking, and would be sitting down most of the night.

  "Okay, all set," she said, handing me the shoes to tuck away while she baby-talked at Lock about being home soon and belly rubs and snuggles.