Pining for Perfect

by Ki Brightly

  “Don’t you ever stop working?” I grump.

  He laughs. “Not during the holidays. It’s basically go, go, go until January second.”

  “Why?”

  His face clouds over for a flash, but then he’s all smiles, happily bouncing around on the balls of his feet. He gestures wide. “Why not? There are plenty of people in the community in need.”

  I hunch over against a strong wind that bites at my cheeks and nose. My chest hurts. The back of my throat tightens. “True.”

  He hesitates, then shrugs and reaches out to grip my arm. Surprised, I almost step away, but his touch is light and sweet. “I had fun with you earlier.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to skate.” I want to bite my tongue in half. Why did I say that?

  He smiles and turns his face away. “Would you like to go to an event with me? Since we barely got a chance to talk.” He bites at the corner of his lip, smiling around it. My heart hammers as he sneaks his attention back to my face like he might get in trouble if he gets caught.

  I nod guardedly. “What kind of event?”

  “Oh… you know….” He mumbles something I don’t catch and turns his head away, brushing at his shoulder.

  I lean closer. “Excuse me?” When he straightens up, I catch a whiff of chocolate and something else, subtle and edible, that seems to be clinging to him. Where else was he today?

  “Just a build-your-own gingerbread house. They’re doing it at the library. It’s to raise money for Christmas presents for foster kids.” Asher smiles at me, but his eyes are tight where before they weren’t.

  I’m quick to shake my head. His smile slips, crumbling my resolve. I want his good mood back. Now that I know exactly what goes with that laugh I hear on the radio, I never want to be the reason he stops.

  “The holidays are the worst. But… I would like to spend some time with you.”

  He grins, nose pink with cold, and bounces on his toes to chase off the chill of another strong wind gust. “Great! You won’t regret this!”

  Chapter 4

  Stokely Zajmi

  “YOU SAID I wouldn’t regret this.”

  I wince at the irritation in my tone. I don’t mean it like that. I’m happy to be out with him.

  Eyes sparking, his pale skin flushes rosy as he focuses all his attention on the gingerbread house between us. We’re off to the side in the huge room. Most of the tables are much larger and packed with people. He has his holly-green long-sleeved shirt pushed up his forearms. The muscles there flex as he patiently adds mint candies around the border of his roof.

  “It’s candy and icing on cookies,” Asher murmurs with a laugh, spurting a large dollop of white icing from the bag he’s holding. It lands on the crack at the point of the roof. I chuckle, and he gives me a droll smile. “What’s not to like?”

  I nod carefully toward the crowd of kids and adults around us. “You didn’t say the foster kids would be here.”

  Asher gives me a funny look, but I shake my head.

  There are a few familiar faces in the crowd, aged and lined but recognizable. One lady, who flat-out told me she didn’t like dealing with black kids, especially one who barely speaks English, is surrounded by a gaggle of conspicuously blond foster children.

  One chunky woman in a floor-length jean dress was nice, but she shuffled me out of her house because I got too old and she didn’t like dealing with teenagers. They’re too “ungodly.” Jesus said to care for the children, not the bastard, masturbating teen population.

  The policeman in the far corner, with his wife and a bunch of foster kids, I want to stay far, far away from. His fist flies fast and easy. His wife doesn’t look too happy right now. All the kids with them are quiet, none laughing or having fun. I have trouble catching my breath for a second as I force myself to look away.

  Asher stares at me and has been for I don’t know how long. I sit up straight in my chair.

  “You have a problem with foster kids?”

  “Not the kids, no.”

  He studies me intently for a few seconds, eyebrows dancing upward, and then his eyes widen. “You too, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs and uses his frosting-covered fingers to shove back his curls. I raise a hand—to do what, I’m not sure—and he realizes what happened about two seconds after he does it. Asher snickers quietly under his breath.

  Heart giving a nervous tick, I set down my icing bag and stand, then walk around the table. “Sit still,” I grumble at him. He squirms in place as I lean in and carefully pick out white smears, then use a napkin to do what I can. “You’ll be sticky, but no one will know.”

  He coughs, covering his mouth with a hand. “My favorite kind of secret. Sticky.”

  I gape at him for a second. He mouths the word “sticky,” eyes shiny with amusement. I hold my breath, fighting back an obnoxious laugh. He seems concerned for a second until I lose the battle, shaking with my silent humor.

  He smacks my side, but I pick out one last fleck of icing.

  “There, perfect again. Angel curls.”

  He rolls his eyes at me, but that flush is back on his face, and I feel a little proud of myself as I take my seat and look at my lopsided gingerbread house. I pick the icing bag up and then, after careful consideration, use it to fix a crack in the side of the building.

  “I was in care. Eighteen years. The same family for all of them. Mrs. Allison died five years ago, though, and now the family doesn’t invite me around.”

  I sneak a quick look at him, then fill up more cracks on my house. “You were lucky.”

  “I guess. Don’t forget to add candy. Gingerbread houses aren’t about utility.”

  I glance over at him, but he seems serious as he leans across the table to add a gummy candy to my roof.

  “What about you?”

  “I wasn’t lucky.”

  He nods, smile gone. “That happens.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve heard worse stories than mine. I wasn’t abused outright most of the time. I wasn’t a crack baby. I wasn’t damaged before the system got me. There was just never enough of anything. And no one really cared the way I wanted them to.” My heart twists. That’s not quite right, but it’s the best I can do. Fed and clothed does not equate to cared-for.

  Asher nods carefully, dolloping dots all over the top of his gingerbread house, then squishing on gummy candies. “I do a lot of this… for them,” he says. He’s different right now, not trying to be the center of attention. Quiet. I’m not sure I like it because it’s such a large deviation from what he normally is. “About half of the charity drives we do during the season will go to help local foster kids.”

  “Wow.”

  He shrugs, studying his house with a critical eye, bottom lip popped out. “Do you think this needs windows?” He glances up at me, his eyes glossed over with a sheen that isn’t usually there. I want to go back around the table to hug him. That’s a pain I know right there.

  I nod. “Every house needs a way for the light to get in.”

  He grins and sets himself back to work. “I suppose you’re wondering whether or not you won the ice skating competition earlier.”

  I laugh, shocked by the change in conversation but ready to let it go. “If I did, give the prize out as a present in one of your gift drives.”

  “Yeah? You don’t want baked goodness?”

  I shake my head. “Iman won’t forgive me, but no.”

  Asher’s smile cools. He hunches down to mound up some icing around his house before planting some more candies. “Your boyfriend? He seemed nice.”

  I freeze. However did he get that idea? “Not my boyfriend. Coworker.”

  “Oh? Well, wouldn’t your girlfriend like to have delicious confectionary delight?”

  I fight back a smile and use icing to build a marshmallow snowman on the front walk of my gingerbread house. A warm airiness fills my chest. I want to leap out of my seat but force myself still. “Are you snoop
ing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  He goes to touch his hair again, but stops himself in the nick of time. He rolls his eyes, planting his hands on the table. I lean in and so does he, his eyes bright and excited. “Then would you like to help me do the gift deliveries tomorrow? It’s really awesome to see the kids so happy. I would enjoy spending the day with you. It’s one of my favorites all year.” He takes a deep breath, smiling wide.

  “The foster parents have to sign up for these things?”

  “Yeah.”

  I nod, the fun I was having fixing up my dilapidated gingerbread house swept away the longer this conversation goes on. I lay down the icing and wipe my hands on a paper towel. “No one ever did anything like this when I was little.”

  Asher sticks his finger out, then swipes some of the frosting from his house. He sneaks his finger between his lips like he might get yelled at for doing it, fast and on the sly, looking around. Everything below my belt perks up and takes notice of those lips, and for a second, I can’t think of anything else.

  “Me either. Not for me, but Mrs. Allison, my foster mom, she tried her best to make sure we all had something. That’s why I organized this.”

  It takes me a second to get back to our conversation, especially with him looking so intently at me. “It’s not about the gifts for you. It’s about this,” I say, waving a hand around.

  A lot of people are having fun with the kids. I was so busy focusing on the few people pushing through this like a sour, expected public ritual that I didn’t take much notice of the giggling groups, laughing while swiping candy from one another’s houses. It’s like there’s suddenly a sharp new edge to the goings-on around me. The happiness cuts at me almost more than the remembered disappointments.

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t it painful to do this… this planning and these things?”

  He shrugs a shoulder, smile faltering, and for a second, I wish I hadn’t asked, but after a moment or two, his smile bounces back into place. “A little discomfort for me, a lot of joy for them. Don’t you think it’s worth it?”

  “You’re a good man.”

  Asher smacks his own cheek lightly with a frosting-coated hand. “Nah. It’s totally selfish to feel good. I’m messy again.” He wiggles his eyebrows, but I pass over a paper towel.

  “Too many people.”

  He juts out his lip and swipes at the small mess. “Come with me.” He twitches his lips into a smile.

  “You got that flirting down pat.” I attempt to glare. My cheeks grow hot.

  He forces a serious expression, but he can’t stop his eyes from begging. “Please?”

  My palms are sweating. There are a million other places I would rather be tomorrow than handing out presents, but no one else I’d care to be with. “Yeah, okay.”

  Chapter 5

  Asher Banks

  I KNOCK on the freshly painted door of Stokely’s apartment, then wipe my hands on my jeans. It was one thing to talk a hot guy into going somewhere on the fly, but another to make plans to meet him at his apartment.

  The door opens, and while I’m half hoping for a tour ending in his bed and half-terrified it could happen, I know I’m not going to get one when he slips out quickly and turns to lock his door. Relief jumbles up with anxiousness and sends winged water buffalo stampeding through my gut. He smiles at me, cautious but warm.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I force a smile. “Are you ready for this?”

  He nods, lips thinning seriously. The sun catches in his nearly black eyes, and I’m stuck for a few seconds. “I… I think so.”

  The world takes off at full speed again. “Right there with you,” I say, a nervous laugh slipping out. “Every year I get the jitters. Sometimes I see things that hit a little too close to….” I thump my chest over my heart with a hand, and he grabs it, surprising me by rubbing at the spot underneath my fist for a second.

  “Don’t do that.” He seems to realize what he’s doing and drops my hand, stepping away. “Where’s the man I hear on the radio? No fear there.”

  “I’ll probably talk about you Monday,” I tease as I walk down the steps toward the van I rented to make the deliveries.

  He follows and sneaks a playful look at me. “I wouldn’t know what you talk about during December.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t listen to Christmas music. It’s a plague.”

  I gasp, truly horrified. “But I always play ‘Little Drummer Boy’ when I make the deliveries.”

  Stokely’s smile turns into something pained.

  “Kidding.” I snag his hand and squeeze, getting an almost painful thrill when he tightens his fingers on mine. “Unless you want to listen to it.”

  He laughs and keeps his fingers tangled up with mine until we reach the van.

  Unfortunately the first stop is as bad as it gets: a ramshackle little home overrun with kids, probably at the limit of what the house is legally allowed to hold. The woman who answers the front door smiles gratefully at me, then shoots an uneasy glance over my shoulder.

  “I’m Asher,” I begin, and two little girls just inside the door squeal.

  “The Christmas music man!”

  I beam at them. “Yep. And guess what? This is my friend Stokely, and we’re Santa’s helpers today.”

  “Really?” One brave little girl edges closer, dragging the other one along. I have no idea if they’re biological sisters, but they’ve done their best to do their hair the same way and are wearing matching red dresses.

  “Yes, miss.” I dig into the small red sack I carry, full of candy canes, and dutifully hand them out to each child, and then it’s time for the real presents. Stokely carries in the box marked for this address and settles it down in the corner near their tree.

  “Now those presents are to be opened on Christmas morning,” I admonish seriously. The kids all groan as the woman laughs. “But here’s a present to open today,” I say good-naturedly, taking the top present from the box. The group of kids tear at it together, and thankfully the board game is one they don’t have already.

  “Would you like to stay for some coffee?”

  “No, ma’am,” Stokely answers for me when I waffle, always hating this part, always embarrassed to leave in a rude rush. “We have a lot of kids to visit today.”

  She cracks a smile at him, offering her hand. “Maggie Jacobs. I remember you. You helped Jaquwan last year. At the career center.”

  He blinks at her, taking half a step back. “Jaquwan Williams? Yes. I remember him. He got an internship at Erie Insurance.”

  “And now he has a good job there. Thank you so much.”

  I bump his arm with my shoulder as we’re leaving, and he glances down at me. “Why didn’t you tell me you volunteer?”

  Stokely laughs. “I don’t. I get paid to do that job. She doesn’t need to thank me.”

  I shake my head, impressed. “The help that keeps on giving. You’re like Santa twenty-four-seven.”

  He frowns at me. “Are these disgusting holiday references going to continue all day long?”

  “Yep!” I open his door for him, and he studies me thoughtfully, but whatever he’s thinking he ends up keeping to himself.

  We make several more nice, cheerful stops with happy kids and slightly overwhelmed foster parents thankful to see us. We drive around the city until we come to a charming little side street. The house we stop in front of is familiar because I’ve been doing this for years. An inflatable penguin and Santa Claus in the yard make me grin.

  “I love those. They’re like those punching bag things,” I say to Stokely, who smirks.

  “Like you know how to punch anything.”

  I jab at him on the way up the steps, and he laughs at me, not doing anything to fight me off until I actually land a light punch. I let out an embarrassing squeak as he wraps his arms around me, shaking his head. His eyes are brilliant in the sunlight, friendly and brown. He’s
warm, so I burrow in a little, and he sucks in a deep breath.

  “You’re more than I thought you would be, Asher,” he whispers.

  I blink up at him, not sure what to say. “You thought I would be what?” I laugh nervously, unable to keep it in.

  “A little more arrogant. A little less friendly. A little less down-to-earth.”

  “I thought you liked me!”

  He smiles, wide and friendly, and my stomach tenses. Holy jumping Santa on a pogo stick. Yes. Please do that all the time.

  “I do, but I like you more than I thought I would.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Not really.

  He squeezes me tight for a second, and I fight the urge to melt against him, to rest my forehead on his shoulder. I shimmy my shoulders and tickle at his hip with one finger. He makes a deep surprised sound that shivers heat through me before he lets me go. I smooth down the front of my jacket, as if it could be wrinkled, and he clears his throat, gesturing at the door with a hand. Snickering, I knock.

  “The box.” He sighs before he trudges back toward the van.

  He’s standing beside me, and I’ve knocked three more times before I get a weird feeling in my gut. “I called ahead to remind everyone today was delivery day. I know this lady. Mrs. Dintley. She’s good people.”

  Stokely scowls, leaning close to my shoulder, comforting me by being close even though his hands are full.

  “You know, I’m glad you stopped at the rink,” I whisper. “I’ve seen you walk by. You’re always so quick, like you’ve got someplace to be.”

  He bumps his shoulder against mine with a there-and-gone touch that fights off some of the chill. A bit of holiday magic was on my side this year.

  But when the curtain in the window beside the door twitches and a little eye peeks at us, it feels a lot like it disintegrates into a puff of coal dust.

  The door creaks open. A girl who can’t be more than six or seven, in jeans and a sweatshirt and with a halo of spiral curls, cracks the door, blinking bright curious eyes at me. She only opens the door for real when she sees Stokely with the shiny ribbons poking over the top of his cardboard box.