Page 32 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

And yet, instead of tapping that blessed delete button, I hit send. Gran runs a cell under pressure better than I do.

“Shoot.” I hold my finger down on the message. “There has to be a delete after sent button, right?” I can’t be the only human to accidentally send a poorly written text. I read through my options—holy, why are there so many? “Ha! Undo send! There it is!”

Only—behind all my written options are three bouncing little dots. She’s seen my three greetings. She’s read them, and what would be the point in undoing that message now? She’d only know that I know I’m weird. Thanks a lot, smartphone.

Maybe she won’t notice. Maybe she’s an over-greeter too. Maybe I shouldn’t care since this thing with Bonnie is a bunch of Gran-nonsense. But then, I meant what I told her yesterday: I do think we could be friends. She’s a good person—Gran isn’t wrong. She’s compassionate and kind. She sincerely cares about others. She’s interesting, too—Ireally do want to hear more about the nonprofit she’s helping with. I’ve never known anyone who has helped run a nonprofit or been so invested in a stranger’s welfare. And she’s beautiful—insanely, sweetly beautiful. Which has nothing to do with us being friends. At all. Because I’m more than willing to be friends with a not-so-pretty woman too. It’s just a fact. A stated fact. I like facts. And I’m stating them.

And I need to stop stating them. Even to myself.

Pronto.

Bonnie: Hi. Morning! I’m fine. How are you?

Okay. So, either she is a three-greeter girl or she’s making fun of me. I ignore all those annoying options and just answer the question.

Time to get down to Gran’s absurd business.

Me: I’m good. Are you free sometime today? Gran was hoping we could stop by and visit again.

Bonnie: I’m working.

Me: Already? It’s seven in the morning.

Bonnie: Well, I schedule my dog-walking gigs early on the weekends. I work at the senior center at noon.

Me: Work, not volunteer?

Bonnie: Work. I organize their weekend activities, and they let Noel come. It’s the best.

Me: You have two jobs?

Bonnie: Three, if you count my little animal photoshoot business. I do—but I’m guessing most wouldn’t. I don’t even make enough to claim it on my taxes. But one day…

Three jobs? She has three jobs?

Me: Animal photoshoots?

Bonnie: Yeah, you know, portraits of your pets. I only have shoots once every couple of months, but it’s going to be a thing one day.

“A thing? Is she for real?” I laugh—not at her, but at the idea. She can’t hear me. And I’m smart enough to not type laughing emojis into our text thread.

Me: How much do you charge?

I am curious. Do people really have professional portraits taken of their pets?

Bonnie: Why? Did you obtain a pet in the last twelve hours? Because I know you didn’t have one before, Mr. Rule Follower.

Me: Hey, there’s nothing wrong with following the rules. And no, I didn’t get a pet, I’m just curious how much a puppy photo shoot would cost someone.

Bonnie: It depends on the animal, but normally around a hundred dollars. Sometimes less and sometimes free because the photographer is a sucker.

I chuckle, my eyes on my phone while I pour myself a cup of coffee. My eyes stay glued to the screen, and soon hot liquid sloshes over onto my fingers. “Crap,” I bark, looking away from the name lighting up my phone: Bonnie Your Girlfriend.

My hand stings from the hot liquid. I drop my phone to the counter and flick on the water faucet to cold. Holding my hand beneath the stream, I breathe out, my eyes returning like a magnet back to my smartphone and Bonnie’s name and last text. Her circle is pink with a capital B and Y in the center. I have the strangest urge to replace that pink circle with a photo—one that I don’t even have. Because why would I have pictures of the tenant driving me nuts for the last six months? That would make no sense. Neither does this sudden, strange urge to take a photo of the girl just for a place in my contact photos.

My phone pings with another text, and somehow I avoid running into my coffee cup and sending the entire contents down my flannel pants. “Whew.” Still, I snatch up the phone and peer down to see a text not from Bonnie—but from my mother.

Mom: Bonnie’s cutting down the tree with us tomorrow, isn’t she? Tell me she is. Because I need that to happen.

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