Christmas at Gate 18

by Amy Matayo

  A sniff. Her nose turns pink.

  “Your picture, the one you let me see. The ribbon was the first thing I noticed.”

  Rory clutches the blue satin ribbon like she’s just reclaimed a piece of her childhood. And maybe she has. Funny what a dollar nineteen can buy. Odd that it only takes eighteen inches of thin fabric to send you back miles and miles, years and years.

  “But I still don’t see how you…”

  “I read the back. Not the whole thing, but enough to understand you a little better. Maybe someday, if you feel like it, you’ll tell me about them.”

  Her grandparents raised her, that much I know. The blue ribbon was bought on the day they officially adopted her. A first-place win for everyone involved. That’s all I know, but for now it’s all I need. Unless I’m lucky enough to get to know Rory past the next few days or hours we have left, it might be all I ever have.

  My stomach drops at the thought. I don’t want this to be all. I want more. That resolve I had a couple days ago is entirely gone, all because of one woman. I blink at the absurdity of it all. One woman. There have been many women in my life—some whose names I no longer remember. But this one…Rory. I’ll never forget anything about her. Not her name, her scent, her hair color, her smile. Suddenly I know this as strongly as I know my own middle name. There won’t be any forgetting her. I don’t want to face the possibility.

  My thoughts halt when she touches my hand. “It almost matches this one perfectly.”

  I glance down to see another ribbon, also blue, lying in the palm of her hand. Her bag is open. A few contents are spread in front of her.

  “What are those?” My voice is tight, rough.

  “This is the ribbon from the picture.” Her voice shakes, but it’s very matter of fact, like too much thinking might cause her to crumble. She swallows and sets the ribbon aside, then picks up something else. “This was my grandfather’s scarf. He was wearing it the day he died.” It’s nearly solid royal blue except for a thin green thread that runs in curves throughout the fabric. “I wore it every day that winter.”

  She swallows and picks up something else, a bottle. I feel uneasy, but I’m not sure why. “This is his Aspirin. He kept asking me for it, but I didn’t know why and I was too scared to get up and find it. So I just sat there on the ground, his head in my lap, begging him to stop moaning. When I finally looked for it and grabbed a glass of water, he was gone. A heart attack. For ten years it had been just the two of us. Now it’s just me.”

  She picks up something else. “This is the receipt for the first house payment I made after my eighteenth birthday. I had been making them for a year by myself, praying the whole time that no one would find out. If people knew I lived alone, I would have been entered into foster care. I wanted to live in our apartment, the place he raised me.” She looks at me. “It’s why I became a model in the first place. I worked as a waitress for a few months, made most of my money in tips. But then a photographer offered me two thousand dollars to shoot some photos for a local billboard, and then an agent saw the photos and offered to sign me…”

  She shrugs. “It kept me in my home.”

  I just stare at her. I will never tease her about her job again, not ever. She’s a better person than me in every way, and I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to know her. She’s strong where I am still learning. She’s independent in ways I may never understand.

  I’m proud. The feeling swells inside me.

  “Thank you for showing me,” I say. It’s lame, but I don’t trust my voice to work much yet.

  She gives me a soft smile.

  “I’ll show you the rest later.” She returns the items to her bag one by one. “Just not today. Is that okay?”

  My heart flips at the promise behind the words. I resolved to disavow women only forty-eight hours ago. It was a stupid resolve, anyway.

  “It’s more than okay.” I pop the knuckle on my left thumb, then switch to my right. A nervous habit that brings a bit of release. “Now give me my gift.”

  She laughs, the sound like a Christmas carol drifting through the small hotel room. “Hang on. First I want to tie this in my hair.” Removing her ball cap, she gathers a section of hair on top of her head and slips the ribbon around it, then makes a large bow that sticks out from the sides of her head. Her hair looks awful, and the effect is a bit Nellie Olsen-like made worse by the fact that she has major hat head going on up front, but I say nothing. Her smile makes her beautiful. Even on someone like her, when beauty comes from the inside out, the exterior pales in comparison.

  “Okay, are you ready?”

  I give a single nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.

  She tosses me the box. “You’d better be. This gift wins over anything you bought.”

  I roll my eyes. She’s wrong, because nothing beats the ribbon; I win hands down. I open my mouth to make a smart-ass comment about my gift-buying superiority when the toilet paper falls away from the gift.

  I swallow hard.

  My words.

  My feelings.

  My heartbeat.

  She’s right. Her gift wins hands-down.

  * * *

  “What are you implying here?” I say, managing the words when I’m fairly certain my voice is back to working order.

  “I’m not implying anything. You said you wanted to find some earlier, and I did. So I win.” Rory speaks with bravado, but her neck stains pink. She can feign innocence all she wants, but the telltale signs of humanity will always betray her. The body always gives off signals whether we want it to or not. In her case, the signal is a massive blood rush currently filling her checks and climbing into her forehead. Blushing. Severe blushing. Who knew she was capable of it? I look away and bite the inside of my cheek. She gave me this gift for a reason, and it wasn’t to win a game.

  “I think you’re lying,” I say, picking up the mistletoe she somehow found and giving it a spin in my hand. “Where did you find this?” I hold it up over Rory’s head and twirl it a couple more times. She slaps my hand away and scoots back a fraction of an inch.

  “It doesn’t matter where I found it, I just did. Now put it down. It’s only to remind you that I can do whatever I want, and I don’t give up.” She slaps my hand again. “Stop holding that thing over my head. I’m not going to kiss you, no matter how much you beg.”

  At that, I lean a little closer. So close our noses are almost touching. “Who said anything about kissing? Or begging, for that matter. I don’t recall asking you to kiss me. Maybe I’m saving this for Stacy when she walks back in the door. Or maybe her husband, because maybe he’s more my thing.”

  Rory gives me a look but she doesn’t back away. Interesting.

  “Your ‘thing’ is to make out with newlyweds? You’re not his type. And as for her, she’s cried from the first moment she saw you, Colt. Something tells me kissing you would make her want to jump off this building.”

  “Only because if she did kiss me, her life would peak and there would be no sense in going on.” Word volleying; I can go at it for hours. Still, she’s avoiding the subject. “Now, are you going to kiss me or what?” I do an internal double-check to make sure there wasn’t any begging in the words I just uttered, then hold the mistletoe directly above her head again. Now there’s no guessing my intent. Also there’s no room to move. I have her literally backed against a wall. She presses her head against it and shakes it back and forth. I’ll give her an ‘A’ for effort, but she gets a big fat ‘F’ for making me feel like a diseased leper.

  “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  I drop the mistletoe. “Fine. I guess you’ll never get to appreciate my best talent.”

  She levels a look at me, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Kissing is your best talent?” The words are meant to sound flippant, but what do you know. I hear a hint of curiosity.

  “Among other things, but mistletoe only works on kissing.”

  The blush that never went away is back wi
th a vengeance. Who knew that a fashion model would turn out to be such a prude? Which makes me wonder. Why is she such a prude? Rory is a walking contradiction, but that’s what makes her more interesting. Where did she come from? Why aren’t more woman like her? Will I ever figure her out?

  I hope not.

  I plan to spend the next fifty years giving it one heck of a try, though.

  Fifty years? That thought comes from nowhere, and I’d rather not give it any attention.

  We lock eyes in a stare down. Mine, in a challenge. Hers, in a private tug of war. I can see it in the back and forth movement of her eyes.

  Finally, she sighs. “Fine. Show me your best talent. If I think it’s good, then I’ll admit defeat and you’ll win. If it’s sub-par like I suspect it will be, then you lose.”

  Sub-par my butt. But I don’t say that. “We have receipts to know who won. Closest one to ten dollars without going over wins, remember?”

  “I’ll throw my receipts out.”

  “Spoken like a girl who already knows she lost.”

  She gives me a disgusted look. “Are you going to kiss me, or not?”

  I try not to smile. Who’s begging now? “Fine. But don’t forget that I warned you. I’m good.”

  “I’ll try to keep my excitement in check.” But the way she says it…almost like she’s all out of air.

  I move slightly closer and make myself a little taller in the process, purposefully taking my time about it. She fidgets in her nervousness, which makes her cuter than she already is.

  “What’s the matter? You scared or something?” I ask.

  “I’m scared this is going to suck. Or that you’ll be so clumsy you’ll knock out one of my teeth. I do have a career to think about, you know.”

  I move a little closer still. “I’m aware. And trust me babe, after I kiss you it’s all you’ll be thinking about next time you’re standing around in your underwear. Might even make your job a little more pleasant.”

  Before she can protest, I’m on her mouth. I start slow, a light press of our lips together. Neither one of us closes our eyes—too stubborn for that maybe. Her eyes are greener than I thought, oval grapes ringed in black. I’m so taken with them that it takes me a second to see the hint of boredom creep into her stare, but that second is all I need.

  Women don’t get bored with me.

  Ever.

  I close my eyes as my teeth nip her bottom lip in a tender bite, and she inhales softly. Some might call it surprise; I prefer desire. I know I’m right when her tongue brushes against mine and her hand grips my side. She’s moving a little faster than me, but I like a challenge. I can keep up.

  I crack one eye open. Hers are closed now. Good.

  I let myself go and thread my fingers through her hair—only now remembering the mistletoe I’m no longer holding above our heads. Oh well, it’s a dead plant anyway. My fingertip finds the back of her earlobe and slides downward over her neck, collarbone, shoulders, side. Her sweet little moan dissipates on a breath. Someone likes to be touched.

  I keep going because I like it too.

  My hand brushes the waistline of her jeans until it finds a little patch of bare skin where her shirt has risen up. Did I raise it? Shame on me. I trace a little circle there, and when she comes up on her knees and presses herself against me, warmth greets me everywhere. For a moment I forget who’s in control. I pull back a fraction to give myself a second to remember, but Rory isn’t having any of it. She moves forward and control is no longer an issue. She can control me. I’m all for feminism. I think I told her that once.

  Her hand grips the back of my neck, and I like the pinch. Swallowing a groan, I make another slow circle at her waist with my thumb at the exact moment her mouth opens to draw me in.

  She tastes like Oreos and breath mints, and I like the combination.

  This kiss is going better than I planned. I’m even starting to sweat. My heart is doing a funny little dance. I mentally high-five myself and ply her lips open a bit more as reality hits.

  I am kissing Rory Gray.

  There isn’t time to focus on that thought because the door flies open then, ushering in Mr. and Mrs. Doom and Gloom in all of their honeymoon glory.

  “Well, it seems you two are no longer fighting. Looks like you’ve reignited the fire,” what’s-her-name says. Why can’t I remember her name? All I recall is her constant blubbering.

  She’s isn’t crying now though. She seems almost…perky.

  I don’t like perky.

  “Yep,” I say, wiping my throbbing lips with the back of my hand as resentment squeezes my brain. “The fire’s back in full force.” And it might have been a raging inferno if you’d stayed gone a little longer.

  Still, she’s smiling. Stacy. That’s her name.

  But who cares? I’m not smiling. Where are her tears? Why are the hairs prickling on the back of my neck? Why is the mistletoe mocking me?

  “Did you hear the news?” Stacy practically bounces in place, and that has my heart crashing to the floor.

  “What news?” Rory says next to me. Her voice sounds flat. Like it is eyeing my heart and considering lying next to it.

  “The airport’s back open. Flights leave in three hours. We’ve been rerouted to Jamaica. Apparently things haven’t been nearly as bad there.” She claps her hands at the same time Chris walks to the bed and begins throwing things into a suitcase.

  “But the power is still out,” I say almost as an afterthought.

  Stacy walks over to the light switch. “No, it was just turned off.” She flips it on and practically skips away.

  “Isn’t that great news?” Chris says. “Jamaica for a honeymoon. It isn’t Alaska, but it’s better than this hell hole…”

  But I barely hear him.

  I glance at Rory, but she’s staring at the wall as though she just discovered Santa isn’t real.

  For both of us, what should be the best news of our lives somehow…isn’t.

  Turns out I’m rather fond of hell holes.

  I’m pretty sure Rory is too.

  Chapter 15

  Rory

  “It will fit. It fit on the way here, and it will fit again, trust me.”

  “Ma’am, no it won’t. Regulations are different now because of the storm, and you’ll have to comply.”

  First of all, I’m not old enough to be referred to as ma’am. Second of all, different in three days? What is with airline employees and their refusal to understand my simple demands? Nice to know the storm didn’t wash away anyone’s bad attitude.

  And third, we’re going home. One minute I was kissing Colt in our hotel room, the next minute we’re at the airport checking bags. I’m completely out of sorts and feeling quite frazzled and trying real hard not to cry.

  I don’t want to leave Colt.

  There’s no way to pretend my heart isn’t hurting.

  But picking a fight with the lady behind the counter seems to be a good place to start.

  “I’m not checking this bag, so you’ll have to give me another option.” My upper lip begins to sweat and I’m starting to feel the onset of a panic attack fist around my throat. Why do panic attacks take away your ability to breathe, anyway? They should be kinder and take away the extra calories you ate for breakfast. Then maybe we’d all welcome them a little more.

  As it stands, it’s getting hot in here and my throat has an opening about the size of a Starbucks coffee stirrer.

  I clutch the canvas bag to my chest and count my heartbeats.

  “There is no other option,” the lady says. “You’ll either have to check the bag or stay here.”

  I feel like I’m in a movie, one where the heroine just lived out the worst few days of her life and she’s on the verge of getting a break but then doom befalls her again and the ominous music plays to usher in the final dreadful act. The tone is dark, written by some obscure indie musician who’s first big break is showcased in this awful film, but there’s a cute guy standing
by working to redeem the mess the heroine is standing in. Except in my case, there’s no real music playing and Colt has gone off to the bathroom.

  As usual, I’m all alone and this film will probably tank at the box office.

  That’s when I notice the Musak coming from the speakers. That’s when Colt suddenly appears at my side again. And that’s when the real-life dreadful act starts. I feel a tear prick the corner of my left eye. My chin trembles against my will. This lady is not taking my bag. If it winds up under the plane, then I’ll be there clutching it for dear life.

  “What’s going on?” Colt asks, sauntering up to stand beside me.

  I look at him for sympathy, but all I get is a casual stare. “She says I have to check my bag.”

  Colt looks at me. Really looks at me. And I brace myself for the inevitable wisecrack that will follow because I know I’m being a child but this bag is all I have left. It’s all I have of my past and if she takes it—

  “How much for a seat?” Colt hasn’t taken his eyes off me so I’m not sure if he’s asking me or the lady in front of us. She’s the one with the answers and I don’t quite understand his question. He turns his gaze to her. “How much? Assuming there are still seats left, of course.”

  She blinks as though waiting for the punch line. When one doesn’t come, she speaks. “You’re going to buy a seat for a backpack?”

  “Yes, I’m going to buy a seat so that her backpack can be strapped into it with a seatbelt. That’s the problem, right? It’s too big for the overhead?”

  She nods and looks at her computer, biting her lip in bewildered concentration. “The seats are going for over twelve hundred dollars, and there are only two seats left together anyway, so—”

  “Then I’ll take both. Wherever she’s sitting now, move her so that she can sit next to her bag, then give away her vacant seat to someone else.”

  Now I’m the one blinking. Twenty-four hundred dollars for me and my bag? He’s crazy. He’s lost his mind. He’s…

  Handing over his debit card.

  She swipes it.

  He returns it to his wallet and walks away as she prints out two new boarding passes and hands them to me.