by Lisa Sorbe
Josh was the total package. And his attention that night made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
He held out his hand and, after tearing my gaze from Suzanne’s, I took it. His palm was warm against mine, and little shivers snaked up my arm from his touch. And then we set off for his room, where I was about to get my first gift ever from a boy.
A book was so much better than a stupid Candy Gram, anyway.
Clint surprised me again by offering to keep me company until Adair’s booty call left, thus delaying his trip back to his hometown in Minnesota. And as much as I didn’t want him driving too late into the night, I let him, if only because I was starting to like this version of Clint. He ordered another beer, and we sat at our table for close to two hours, talking the sort of getting-to-know-you talk we’d never really had. He told me about how he wanted to be an archeologist when he was a kid and sometimes still dreamed of seeing places like Egypt and Rome and Machu Picchu because of the amazing history those locales offered. I also learned that he had three older brothers and grew up with an overbearing father, one who rarely gave praise and was especially hard to please. He confessed the only thing he felt when his father passed was relief: “It was like I was wearing this noose around my neck that was always tightening, and when he died it just dropped off.” (And man, could I ever relate to that.) But he’s close with his mother; I noticed the way his features relaxed when he spoke of her, how his smile softened and his eyes shone.
By the time Adair texted me that he was done—Ready was all it said—I was having such a good time that I drew out our date for another half hour. Okay, so part of me also did it out of spite. The thought of Adair tangled up with some bimbo made my skin itch.
Clint drove me back to the house and now, watching his SUV bump and lurch back down the frozen drive, I feel a pull in my chest. It’s small but it’s there, a sentimental little tug, and I’m shocked because it’s something I’ve never felt around Clint before. I won’t see him again for two whole weeks because he’s using the freedom in his schedule to help his mom with some projects around her house and won’t be back until after the new year.
I turn away and let myself into the house, wondering what version of him I’ll get when he comes back.
Reaching up, I run my fingertips over my new necklace.
I hope it’s the one I saw today.
“Bets! Stop! Don’t come in yet! Close your eyes!”
I’m halfway through the front door when I freeze, the urgency in Adair’s command halting me in my tracks. His voice is harsh, harried, and agitated in a way I’ve never heard before. I hear a dull clunk against the hardwood floor followed by scuffling and then something that sounds like, “Cuntybuggeryfucktoleybumshite!”
The first thought that runs through my head is that whoever he was screwing is still here, I’ve caught them in some precarious position, and now they’re scrambling around for their clothes. But that can’t be, because his text indicated that it was okay to come back. I mean, I assume that’s what ready meant.
The second thought is filled with white hot anger, because the jerk should have the courtesy to do crap like this in his bedroom. Yes, this is his house and he should be able to do whatever—or whomever—he wants. But he agreed to let me stay, and with the way he’s been practically begging me to move in here you’d think he’d be able to show a little, I don’t know, courtesy. Or class. Or freaking restraint, for that matter…
“Are your eyes closed?”
Oh, for crying out loud.
I snap them shut.
A hand on mine makes me jump.
“Come on, doll. This way. But keep your eyes closed,” he says when he sees them flutter. I clutch his hand as though it’s a lifeline, because it is; I’m as clumsy as all get out with my eyes open. My equilibrium has never been on point.
“What’s going on? You’re not trying to pull me into some sick threesome with you and Whatshername, are you?” I’m only half joking, but the worry is real.
Adair feigns shock. “You know I’d never share you.”
We move through the large foyer, passing the kitchen on our right, and head straight into the living room. Everything is dark, a pitch blackness that leaves me swimming in uncertainty. What the hell is Adair up to? Just as I’m about to open my mouth and demand an explanation, a subtle glow filters in between my lashes, warm colors that press against the back of my closed lids. Even though my eyes are closed, I squint. “What the heck?”
“Open your eyes, love.”
The smile in his voice, the tender way he’s still holding my hand, makes me pause. Something’s off. I feel weird. And I’m not sure what to make of it all.
“Adair…”
He drops my hand, and the sudden lack of contact throws my eyes open.
Holy crap.
I’ve never, in my entire life, seen so many lights in one place before.
Somehow in the last few hours, an evergreen tree sprouted up in Adair’s living room. It’s large; the top of it almost touches the ceiling. White lights are strung across its branches, woven between the boughs. Glass bulbs of every color dot the limbs, some small and some large, the tree heavy with their weight. The mantel above the fireplace is covered with garland, at least a dozen candles, and even more lights—these multicolored—and the whole living room twinkles like the sky on a clear night, when every single star in the heavens is on display.
At the bottom of the tree rests a lone present. It’s a little larger than a shoe box and looks sort of mis-shaped and puffy, like whoever packaged it used too much wrapping paper.
My eyes are wide, taking everything in, but it’s not until I turn to Adair, speechless, that I notice he’s stepped back, putting several feet of distance between us. But his smile is the same charming grin he flashed the night we met, that he’s been flashing my way ever since. “What do you think? Can’t have Mother Christmas spend a lonely holiday in the Grinch’s bachelor pad, can we?”
“You’re hardly the Grinch,” is all I can manage. And then it hits me—yes, it took me this long to figure it out—that he did all this for me.
For me.
I’m so caught up in that knowledge, trying to wrap my mind around someone caring about me so much he’d go through all this trouble, that I don’t notice Adair has moved closer until he wraps an arm around me, pulls me into his side, and presses his lips against the top of my head. They’re scorching, and heat billows down throughout my body; it’s like I can feel those lips of his everywhere. I close my eyes, lean into him.
If I’m not mistaken, I think I hear him sigh.
“Merry Christmas, Betsy.”
And then, just as quickly, he’s gone, leaving me alone with a void no amount of Christmas cheer can ever fill.
Josh’s bedroom was pretty much like any other teenage boy’s room: rumpled navy comforter over plaid sheets, walls covered in posters of basketball and baseball players along with a few obligatory bikini models, books and magazines spread over a chunky desk, an unzipped duffle bag spilling baseball gear on the floor near the foot of the bed, and one of those laundry basketball hoop things attached to the back of the door that was close to overflowing.
I took a few steps into the room, hugged my arms to my chest, and looked around. Being in someone’s personal space like this seemed too intimate; it was like getting a peek into their soul. After all, this was where Josh slept, where he dreamed. A place where he could be himself. Where he could let loose the side of his personality he kept hidden from the world.
Josh strode over to a bookcase, crouched down, and removed a hardcover from the bottom shelf. His upper torso was bare, and I noticed a scattering of freckles dotting his skin, running the width of his shoulders and all the way down to the small of his back. My cheeks started to burn, so I looked away and pretended to study a Depeche Mode poster on the wall nearest the door.
The air conditioner kicked in right then, a sound that knocked through the vent above us, and f
or one crazy moment I wondered if the house could sense my blush, the way my body temperature skyrocketed when I so much as looked at Josh.
Feeling his presence, I tore my eyes away from the poster and met his, trying to keep the wariness from mine. I felt like I’d finally stepped in the quicksand I’d been trying to avoid all night and would start sinking any second.
“Here you go.”
I took the book and studied the cover a bit before looking up. Josh was a good foot taller and being this near to him made me feel small, insignificant. Like the last five hours we’d spent together hadn’t happened at all, and I was back to being a nobody. I tipped my head back and managed a smile, all the while feeling like a fool for thinking I had a chance with him.
“Thanks.” The word felt funny in my mouth, which tasted like cotton from the drinks I’d had earlier. In fact, my whole face was starting to feel numb. I reached up and rubbed a hand against my cheek, not thinking anything of it until I realized Josh was looking at me funny.
Duh, Betsy. Duh, duh, duh!
Now that I had the book there was no real reason for me to stay, and I realized with a heavy heart that he was probably waiting for me to leave. But the sooner, the better. I was Cinderella, and my night was ending. Biting my lip, I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Well, so… I should probably get going—”
Josh pushed his lips into a crooked grin. “What? Seriously? It’s still early.” He playfully tugged on the hem of my shirt, the back of his fingers brushing my skin. “You’re not ready to leave yet, are you?”
I didn’t answer. To be honest, there was a part of me that very much wanted to leave. The night so far had been perfect, and I had the sneaking suspicion that any reprieve I’d been granted from Dorkdom was about to end. I needed to get the heck out of dodge before I screwed everything up. Before the real me came through and said or did something stupid. It was a complete miracle that I’d managed to maintain any sort of composure up until this point. The nerd in me hadn’t reared her ugly head once. I may be inexperienced, but I wasn’t naïve. Deep down I knew there was no way that Josh—or any of these people, as a matter of fact—would ever look my way again after tonight. But at least I could leave with my dignity intact. Preserve the cool persona I’d worked so hard on crafting since earlier that afternoon, back on my grandmother’s porch.
He was so close I could smell the chlorine clinging to his skin. I’m sure most would wrinkle their noses, the astringent scent overwhelming and acidic. But to me it was comforting. Calming. It reminded me of the pool, of summers and friendships and a life lived in the open, full and unencumbered.
I closed my eyes and could practically feel the buoyancy, the freedom that always overtook me when I entered the water.
My guard dropped as the floor swayed beneath my feet.
But I was tired. Sleep kept threatening, slipping over me in warm, heavy waves. And every once in a while, the room seemed to quiver, as if it was about to spin. I rocked on my heels, trying to think past the swell of drowsiness clouding the edge of my vision.
And that’s when it hit me.
I couldn’t leave.
Because Taffy had the key.
Taffy had the key, and I couldn’t get back into my grandmother’s house without it.
Appearances have always been important to my mother. From day one, she’s been my sole judge and jury, executing her motherly role by doling out criticisms in the form of compliments—masked attacks against my hair, my weight, my likes, my dislikes, who I dated…
The list goes on.
To anyone looking in, our little family of three is perfect. Of course, we’ve had our moments over the years. Days where you’d swear my mother was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Those times when she would release a heavy sigh, let her eyes glaze over with manufactured, unshed tears and say to anyone who would listen, “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with her. I just don’t.”
Her, if you haven’t already guessed it, is me. You know the old joke about the dog who hears no so much that he thinks it’s his name? Well, her is mine.
Growing up, my parents would talk about me while I was there in the same room with them, riding in the car with them, sitting in a restaurant with them. My mother always started it, raging on and on about something I did or she thought I did or even something I hadn’t even done yet. While my father would never have much to contribute to these conversations, he never stopped her. Never looked down at me sitting by his side and said, “Maureen, she’s right here. Betsy can hear you. Don’t talk about her like she’s invisible.”
But he never did.
I eventually rebelled, as quietly as a teenager can rebel, by getting a small tattoo of a heart on my hip by an artist who didn’t care that I was only sixteen and didn’t have my parents’ permission. I had cash and, afterwards, he invited me to hear a band play at some seedy club where they didn’t card if you were with the right people. It also helped that I looked older than I was. Back then, my who-the-hell-cares attitude coupled with my D cup got me into pretty much any bar I wanted, usually netting me more trouble than it was worth.
Those D cups are now shoved into a formfitting green sweater that I’ve paired with skinny jeans and chunky Doc Martin boots, the black leather shiny against the dusting of snow speckling my parents’ driveway. It’s still coming down—small flakes dot my wool cap, weigh down the false eyelashes I applied before leaving Adair’s this morning. I flutter them to remove the fluff, wishing more than anything I was back home in sweats and eating leftover apple pie straight from the tin, and start up the sidewalk that leads to the house.
“Sure you’re up for this?” I glance over my shoulder to see Adair a few steps behind me, his arms loaded down with grocery bags filled to the brim with expensive champagne and gourmet appetizers he picked up at the upscale supermarket on the way over. Nestled in the crook of his elbow is a holiday bouquet brimming with lilies and roses and sprigs of holly and pine, the whole bunch tied neatly together with a silky red ribbon.
In all the years we’ve been friends, Adair has never met my parents. Never had the pleasure of spending a holiday in the Kline house where pretentions soar and fiction is greater than fact. I told him he didn’t have to bring anything today, that it wasn’t expected. But he insisted.
To be honest, a small part of me is glad he did. My family can be straight up vultures, and Adair is the last person I want them picking apart. Coming in with a stash like this will help.
“Relax, you.” He falls in step beside me as I climb the porch. When his shoulder skims mine, I’m suddenly reminded of yesterday and the way his lips felt when they brushed the top of my head. And that was just my head. How would they feel pressed against other, more sensitive parts of my body?
I shift the gifts in my arms, trying to halt the heat quickly spreading throughout my lower half, and take a deep breath.
Now is not the time, Betsy.
“So this is where you grew up, huh?” Adair’s head is tilted back, his eyes roaming the expansive porch, the large brick home.
“Yep. Home sweet home.”
“What do your folks do again?” He tosses a glance over his shoulder at my mom’s sleek BMW parked next to his SUV and back at me again.
“My dad’s an engineer. Chemical. And my mom,” I say with a barely suppressed huff, “is the Senior Vice President of Human Resources at St. Lukes. The hospital over on Grand?” My eyes fall to the wreath on the door, following the trail of ribbon over the fragrant evergreen stems. “It’s how they met, actually. She worked in the human resources department of his company right out of college. But with her love of making sure people act how they’re expected to act, she rose through the ranks pretty quickly and started working for the hospital shortly after they started dating.”
Adair doesn’t say anything. Just bumps my shoulder with his. It’s a supportive gesture, one I appreciate. Because even though he hasn’t met anyone in my family, he’s one of the
few friends who knows how I feel about them.
I invited Adair at the last minute, since I was pretty much the reason his holiday plans got the boot. Whatshername is still pissed—something I’m not entirely upset about but do, admittedly, feel a bit guilty for—and up until last night Adair’s only plans for today consisted of streaming Star Wars movies and eating left-over take-out.
Okay, so maybe my invitation didn’t exactly spare him. Because Lord knows I’d love to be curled up on the couch and watching the intergalactic saga with a carton of Chinese take-out on my lap and soy sauce stains on my shirt. I’m a huge Star Wars fan and was thrilled when Adair suggested spending Christmas Eve watching a marathon of all nine movies. We made it through three last night before falling asleep—me on one end of the couch and him on the other, a half-finished bowl of popcorn upturned between us.
I think he only suggested the movie night to combat the clumsy way I handled his grand gesture of turning his living room into a Christmas Wonderland and the fact that after our weird hug-kiss thing he abruptly left the house without a word. It’s like, just for a moment, we slipped out of friend-mode and teetered on the edge of something more intimate. Something bigger than either of us could handle. He did return in time to help me tote all the desserts to the soup kitchen, and after picking up take-out for dinner, things were back to normal.
My reasons for inviting him today are probably more selfish than I’d like to admit, but the thought of struggling through one more family function all by myself and so close after my grandmother’s funeral is more than I can take. Granted, only a few from my mother’s side and a couple from my dad’s will be here, but even that small number is one too many in my book.
“Is there anything on my face?”