One Bed for Christmas

by Jackie Lau

  Seriously, these T-Rex costumes are an awesome invention. Whoever thought of them is a genius.

  Have you ever seen a picture of someone wearing an inflatable T-Rex costume and not, at the very least, cracked a small smile? Many months ago, I came across a photo of someone wearing a T-Rex costume and walking a dog, and it made my day.

  That’s why I usually walk home after these performances in my costume. The streets aren’t busy tonight, but people are pointing at me and laughing—in a good way. It brings them joy. It fits right in with the Christmas spirit.

  A group of drunk young men ask me for a picture. I growl in response, and just as they’re about to head away, I gesture to Caitlin and say she can take the picture.

  As we climb the stairs to the third floor of the small apartment building I live in, I’m huffing and puffing with the difficulty of manoeuvring in this costume. Finally, we get inside, and Caitlin helps me strip.

  Alas, helping someone strip out of a dinosaur costume isn’t exactly sexy.

  Caitlin, however, looks so freaking cute in that matching toque and scarf. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her lips look so...kissable.

  Which was exactly what I thought the day we met and she knocked me on my ass.

  I didn’t mean to do the same to her. I just figured I’d meet her out on the street and surprise her, plus the costume is pretty warm, despite the fan, and I needed to cool off.

  Instead, I knocked her over, but she laughed and got up without any difficulty.

  I would never want to hurt her.

  I know Caitlin can be hurt, even if she comes across as an invincible woman who can handle anything life throws at her.

  She takes off her winter garments and hangs them up. Underneath, she’s wearing a soft brown turtleneck and dark jeans, and yeah, she’s pretty cute. She’s even wearing a headband today, which she doesn’t do often anymore, but that was her trademark back in university.

  She looks around my apartment—she’s never been here before—and I try to see it through her eyes. My heart sinks.

  My place isn’t a complete dump, but it’s an old, poorly-maintained building, and although I’m not a slob, I’m not as neat as I could be.

  I don’t see any disappointment flicker across her face, though.

  “My bedroom’s just through that door.” I point. “I’ll sleep on the futon.”

  “Oh,” she says quietly. “Oh. You only have one bed.”

  She must have assumed I’d have a guest room. Ha. No way am I paying for a two-bedroom apartment in this ridiculous rental market. But being a CEO who owns a detached house, she would have things like guest rooms.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it’s not what you’re used to.”

  “It’s fine! I can’t ask you to give up your bed. I’ll sleep on the futon, don’t worry.”

  I’m not going to let her do that, but I table the argument for now. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Oh, shit! No, I haven’t.”

  Well, we can’t have that. I ate at the pub, but I have a nice pulled pork pie in the fridge, which I was planning to eat for lunch tomorrow. I got it from the pie shop, Happy As Pie, down the street. Caitlin can have that instead of me. I know she loves pie of all kinds, and I’m glad I can provide her with one.

  I take out a bag of spinach from the fridge and make her a salad to go along with the pie. She tries to help me, but I shoo her away.

  A minute later, she’s hooked up her phone to my crappy speaker system and “All I Want for Christmas Is You” fills my apartment.

  Oh, man.

  If only she knew.

  But I’ve always hidden my desire for her. Even joking about anything related—like what I said earlier when she asked if I was a stripper—is out of character.

  I use the bag of spinach as a microphone and goofily sing along, snapping my fingers as I dance around the kitchen. Caitlin giggles, like I knew she would, but then she does something I didn’t expect.

  She picks up the salt shaker and starts singing with me.

  I’ve never heard her sing before, and it’s soon obvious why: Caitlin Ng is good at almost everything, but she can’t sing worth a damn.

  Still, it’s endearing; it’s rather perfectly imperfect.

  She’s also swinging her hips and her boobs are jiggling a little, and I’m certainly not complaining about the show.

  We sing the entire song together, pointing at each other every time we say “you.” When it’s over, we’re both flushed and laughing, and I bend down to slide the pie into the pre-heated oven before returning my attention to the salad.

  It’s a perfect moment of domestic bliss, singing unselfconsciously in my kitchen and preparing a late dinner for the only woman I’ve ever wanted to be my own.

  But I need to be careful. I’m supposed to be finally getting over Caitlin, not falling for her even more.

  Chapter 3

  Caitlin

  When I texted Wes and asked if he’d put me up for the night, I didn’t think about the fact that he wouldn’t have a guest room. Why would he? And as far as one-bedroom apartments go, his is pretty small. He doesn’t have space for a guest.

  I should have gone to a hotel, but I know Wes won’t let me go out in the snowstorm now.

  Actually, I enjoy being in his apartment, away from the mountain of work I have. I don’t feel like Caitlin Ng, who, by some fluke, became a successful CEO. I’m just a woman, letting loose a little.

  God, I can’t believe I sang in front of him. I only sing in the shower. When it’s someone’s birthday, I mouth the words because I am acutely aware that I suck at singing. I was great at piano, but my voice is horrendous.

  Wes doesn’t care though, and I always liked that about him. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks, and he doesn’t worry.

  I’m a bit of a worrier. Always have been. In university, my solution was to over study, so I knew the material cold. But Wes cheerfully walked into our electronic circuits exam saying he had no idea what a circuit was—an exaggeration of course—and that he was sure he was going to fail.

  I always admired how he could do that.

  For the record, he did pass the course. Barely.

  Now he’s preparing me a salad and meat pie, and it’s kind of sweet.

  “I’m glad you were free tonight,” I say. “It occurred to me that you might be, well...”

  Oh, God. I’m mortified that I was thinking about this.

  “Santa Baby” comes on. I don’t know why I put this song on my phone. I’ve always hated it.

  Wes sings along in an exaggerated voice. He struts across the kitchen, then stops in front of me. “It occurred to you that I might...what, exactly?”

  “Have a woman over,” I stammer. “A woman you intended to, well, bang.”

  Yeah, I sure have a great vocabulary.

  He chuckles before turning away from me and going back to the salad. “Right.”

  I always admired that about Wes, too. How easy it is for him to approach a woman and charm her. How he could have casual sex, just let go for a night.

  All of the sex I’ve had has been confined to relationships, and I haven’t had one of those in well over a year. Ironic, perhaps, considering I run Match Me. Many people have found love because of my app, yet my love life is non-existent.

  And if you’re wondering if Wes and I have ever hooked up, the answer is no.

  I’ve never thought of him in that way.

  I look at him now, singing along to “Santa Baby” as he whisks up a vinaigrette. He certainly does have a cute smile, and adorably untameable hair, and broad shoulders, and nice arms.

  Come to think of it, Wes is pretty good-looking, and it’s no surprise that he’s often successful picking up women at the bar. Not that he does it when I’m around, but I’ve heard stories.

  Hmm. He’s handsome, and he’s currently cooking me dinner...

  But no. Wes is my friend, and I’m sure he’s never thought of me in that way befor
e, either. I mean, the first time I met him, I smacked him in the face, and I’m far too much of a nerd for him.

  We get along great as friends, but I can’t see us being anything else. We’re too different, and honestly, the fact that this is the first time I’ve even thought about the possibility, despite knowing him for twelve years, should mean something.

  Wes doesn’t seem interested in relationships anyway. I’ve never known him to have a girlfriend for more than a month, and even that is a rare occurrence.

  He walks over to the oven and takes out the pie. It smells amazing.

  “For you.” He puts it in front of me with a flourish.

  “Want some?” I gesture to all the food. I feel guilty—I’m about to stuff my face, and he’s not eating anything.

  He shakes his head. “I ate earlier, but you know what? I think I’ll have some hot chocolate. And under no circumstances will I make any for you. Nope, won’t even consider it.”

  “Wes...”

  “Okay, fine. If you sing ‘Santa Baby’ for me.”

  He’s joking. Wes knows better than to deprive me of hot chocolate. I love hot chocolate, preferably with lots of marshmallows on top. He, on the other hand, likes his with a shot of Bailey’s.

  I know I don’t have to sing “Santa Baby” to get hot chocolate, and I know my singing voice is absolute shit, and oh my God, I really do hate that song, but for some reason—to catch him off guard, I guess—I stand up and grab the salt shaker again. Wes widens his eyes, and then he grabs a Santa hat off the top of the fridge (why does he have a Santa hat on top of the fridge?) and puts it on. He sits down, hands behind his head, smirking.

  “And now,” he says, “we have a special guest. Caitlin Ng, CEO of Match Me, will perform her rendition of ‘Santa Baby.’ Please give her a warm welcome!” He claps his hands and starts the music.

  I just stand there.

  As a CEO, I have to do a lot of things that many people find nerve-wracking. That I still find nerve-wracking. Like making enormous decisions, speaking in front of large groups, and firing people.

  And I do it all. Sometimes I need to talk myself up a bit first, but I know I can do it.

  This, however, is a different story.

  “Santa Baby” is a sexy song, and Wes is an attractive guy and my friend, and my voice is utter crap, and I’ve never been good at embarrassing myself in public.

  Yet a part of me wants to prove to him that I can be more than nerdy and driven, and singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” was kind of fun, much to my surprise.

  Still, I can’t find it in me to make this big a fool of myself.

  “You know what will make you feel more comfortable?” Wes says. “An inflatable T-Rex suit. It’s like a mask. It’s easy to do anything when you’re wearing a T-Rex costume, and everything you do can’t help but be awesome.”

  And this is how I find myself being helped into an inflatable T-Rex costume at eleven in the evening on the Saturday before Christmas. I dance and sing along to the song in a not-so-sexy way, while Wes howls in laughter and takes a video that better not end up on social media.

  Finally, I remove the costume and sit down in front of my salad and pie. I’m grinning and flushed. It’s nice to hang out with Wes, after being so anti-social for the past several months. It’s nice to not be worried about what everyone thinks.

  Alright, no matter how long the power outage lasts and how long I end up staying with Wes, I resolve to not even think about Match Me until after Christmas.

  Three days with no work. The thought is overwhelming, but I’m determined to succeed.

  I need more balance in my life.

  I need to hang out with Wes more than once every four months.

  * * *

  It’s midnight, and I’m down to my last sip of hot chocolate. Despite the hot beverage, and despite all the moving around I’ve done, I’m getting a bit chilly. When I shiver, Wes gets up and puts his hand on the radiator.

  “Heat’s gone off,” he says.

  “The heat is off?” I squeak. “Can you turn it back on?”

  “Nah, I have no control over it. Something must have broken again. Happens occasionally. The super will get to it eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Hopefully tomorrow or Monday.”

  “Tomorrow or Monday?”

  I know I sound like an idiot.

  But no heat? That’s why I came to Wes’s. He was supposed to have functioning electricity and heat. Maybe I sound like a princess, but I’m already chilled, and it’s only going to get worse.

  Wes doesn’t sound too bothered by it, but unlike me, he probably doesn’t run cold.

  He gets an extra blanket for the bed and gives me a pair of sweatpants and an ugly Rudolph sweater. Rudolph has a large red pom-pom for a nose, and I sort of love it.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with sleeping on the futon?” I ask.

  He nods. “You take the bed. I’ll be fine out here.”

  He’s wearing pajama pants and a white T-shirt that does great things for his arms.

  Hmm. I really shouldn’t be noticing such things about my friend.

  Because that’s what Wes is. A friend who’s kind enough to let me stay the night, make me dinner, sing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” with me, and lend me his T-Rex costume.

  He’s not going to give me a kiss goodnight.

  OMG, Caitlin, where did that come from? Why are you thinking about kisses?

  Perhaps because I haven’t so much as kissed a guy in over a year and my body is desperate. Yeah, that must be it.

  Maybe I’ll get Wes to teach me his secrets to picking up and casual hook-ups. God knows I’m not any good at those things, but right now, as I survey the double bed and the wind howls outside, a hot male bed partner sounds pretty appealing.

  Alright. I’ll put that on my New Year’s resolutions list.

  14. Get laid.

  Yes, I’ve already got the first thirteen resolutions figured out. I keep a running list in a New Year’s resolutions app on my phone, which also helps you track your progress.

  I look forward to tracking my progress for this one.

  But tonight, I’m alone.

  Ah, well.

  * * *

  It’s now two in the morning, and I still haven’t fallen asleep.

  It’s fucking freezing. How can his apartment get so cold when the heat has only been off for a few hours?

  I’m also finding it rather lonely in here, even though I’m used to sleeping alone in my bed, alone in a house that I have all to myself.

  Wes, on the other hand, is probably soundly asleep on the futon, his bigger body providing enough heat to keep him warm.

  Sharing a bed with my male friend sounds a little strange, yes, but you know what?

  I really am very cold.

  I leave the bed and head to the living room.

  Chapter 4

  Wes

  Here’s the thing about my futon.

  I got it at a deep discount and soon discovered why: it’s the least comfortable futon known to mankind. Like, seriously, it’s an impressive feat that anyone managed to make such an uncomfortable futon.

  It’s not a bad place to lounge—with lots of pillows—while you’re watching a movie, but it’s a terrible place to sleep.

  I mean to replace it eventually, but I keep spending my money on other things. Recently, I’ve spent a lot on Christmas preparations. I don’t usually go all out like this for Christmas, but this year is a little different in my family, and I am determined to bring a ridiculous amount of Christmas cheer to my parents’ house on Monday.

  I roll onto my stomach, but the futon is even more uncomfortable in this position. How is that possible?

  Ugh. I don’t know what time it is now, but it’s going to be a long, long night.

  If only I could be with Caitlin instead. But offering her the full use of the bed was the right thing to do. There’s no way I’d let her sleep on t
his travesty of a futon, and I couldn’t expect her to share a bed with me. Plus, that would give my body ideas.

  “Wes.”

  It sounds like Caitlin, but I must be imagining it. The pain of sleeping on this futon must be making me hallucinate. It can’t actually be her.

  A small hand—a very cold small hand—covers my mouth.

  “Sorry!” She jolts back. “I was aiming for your shoulder, but I couldn’t see in the dark.”

  I exhale. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any heat, not even a space heater.” I want everything to be perfect for Caitlin, but alas, I cannot control the whims of the silly old building I live in. “I’ll get you another blanket and a pair of fuzzy socks.”

  “That sounds excellent, but I was actually wondering if you’d like to join me in bed?”

  I couldn’t have heard that right. Maybe I’m hallucinating after all.

  I flick on the lamp. Caitlin really is here, sitting on the edge of the futon.

  “Are you propositioning me?” I ask.

  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of Caitlin inviting me to her bed. Or my bed, in this case.

  She’s wearing one of my ugly Christmas sweaters, and her normally neat hair is a mess, but she’s still the most beautiful woman ever.

  I’ve thought that since I was an eighteen-year-old kid.

  Since she was the studious girl in my class who sat in the front row, and I was the goof in the back row. Since before she started conquering the world.

  I always knew she’d succeed.

  “No, no,” she says hastily, and I can’t help but deflate. At least she doesn’t sound disgusted by the possibility. “I just thought...well...the bed is probably more comfortable than this futon. I hate imposing on you like this, but...”

  This hesitancy isn’t like her.

  “I thought we could snuggle for warmth,” she finally says.