Page 28 of Peppermint Bark

She pulled her hand away and stood, the swing swiveling at her sudden absence as she she crossed the room to press the controls. She’d shown me the room and was ready to move on.

But I didn’t want to leave yet.

The room wasn’t the only reason … but the excuse was good enough.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said, grasping at straws. I felt like that little girl, Ruby, when I was Santa and she wanted attention, blurting out that I had pretty eyes. But I couldn’t tell Grace that … even though it was true. “I read about that pressure thing, but it didn’t make sense.”

Her cautious expression gauged my sincerity. “Proprioceptive input?”

I nodded, glad she pronounced it because I couldn't. “How does it work?”

Her feet shifted, gaze locked on the lava lamp tube.

“Close your eyes,” she said, and after a moment’s hesitation, I did. “Now touch your elbow, then your nose.” I did. “Your muscles, joints, and tendons have receptors that tell you where you are in space.”

Her fingertips grazed the fabric over my bicep. “It’s different than touch inputs on your skin. Proprioceptive issues can cause you to lose your balance or not understand your strength. Your sister, for example,” I peaked open an eyelid to glimpse the soft smile on her face, “is always seeking more sensation. Teaching yoga is perfect for her: always touching, moving her body, listening to music, and wearing tight clothes … although she’d say that's because they make her butt look great.” I held back a chuckle at my ridiculous sister. “Some people seek sensory inputs, some avoid them. For some people, it depends on the sensory type.”

The rainbow light cast a soft glow on her cheeks. “When we met, you winced when I touched your hand.”

“You surprised me.” I reached for her hand, interlacing our fingers to reassure her it was okay.

“I realized when you didn’t let go. You needed the pressure since the lights and noises in your dad’s room bother you.”

I thought she was trying to comfort me, but was she evaluating me?

“The itchy polyester of the Santa suit triggered you, but your mints and wool sweater are calming.” She ran her free hand along my arm and lingered at my elbow. She was so close that my palm rose to trail the fabric of her soft dress along her waist. Her head tipped back and her lips parted.

My mind fixated on one sense: taste, remembering her peppermint lips tingling under the mistletoe. My head dipped closer.

Her eyes widened, her shoulders froze before her firm hand pressed my chest away. “Stop it, Alex. I’m not Mrs. Claus, there are no kids here to entertain. You don’t have to pretend you want to …”

She stepped back, her arm keeping distance between us. I let my hands fall at my sides. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I work here, Alex. You’re a patient’s son. It’s one thing when we’re in costume, playacting. That's all that was. So stop flirting and implying to my coworkers that we’re more than friends. If anybody even thought we were acting inappropriately, I could get it trouble.” She stepped farther away, pressing the control panel buttons with considerable force. “What would happen at your law firm if a rumor started about a woman? It would ruin her career, right?”

Victoria had been so careful when we’d been dating and working together: being perceived as anything more than coworkers could impact her partnership promotion. We stuck to firm handshakes in the office, and that distance had carried into our private lives. It wasn't the primary reason we broke up, but it certainly hadn’t helped.

“And anyway, if …" Grace ran her palm over her leg, glancing at me over her shoulder, "there’s something you should —”

My fucking phone rang. My personal phone, not my work phone.

I scowled, ready to silence it. Grace said, “You should answer that, it might be about your dad.”

When I fumbled it out of my pocket, it flashed Victoria Blackstone’s name and contact photo: strawberry blonde hair, gray eyes, and a forced smile. I grunted in annoyance and Grace’s shoulders stiffened.

“What?” I snapped. The relaxing music stopped abruptly.

“Where are you?” Victoria asked, her curt tone matching mine.

“At the hospital.”

Victoria's voice softened. “How is he?”

“Better,” I sighed. “He got discharged yesterday, he’s at PT now.”

“Knowing Bruce, he’ll be on the back nine by summer,” she said. Four years ago, when we were dating, she came home for my parent’s 30th wedding anniversary party. Even after we broke up, when Mom and Dad visited San Francisco, they always took us both out to dinner. Dad shared his best lawyer jokes, Victoria pretended to laugh, and they all talked shop about real estate. “Does that mean you’re coming home soon?”

Home, she said, meaning San Francisco. More accurately, her two-bedroom condo in Dogpatch that I’d moved out of three years ago, though she harbored hopes that I’d move back in.

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