Page 83 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

Bonnie’s living room is festive, but not Marlene Eaton-explosive. Green garland rounds the two windows, she has a tree in the corner, and two stockings hang on a small wooden post standing near the tree. I like it—it’s warm and inviting without shoving the holiday down your throat.

She sits on her yellow corduroy couch, tossing the red Merry Christmas pillow to the side, and I sit beside her, Noel at our feet.

“You’ve got me on pins and needles. What happened?”

She holds one scooped bite in the air. It hovers in front of her pretty mouth. “I ran. The peacock ran. Bo, the blue shepherd, ran too—but for the bird, not me. I’m pretty sure Bo saved my life that day. Still, I flew between the slats of that fence, and when I caught myself on a nail, I just ripped right through. I wasn’t about to be peacock food.”

I grimace, hissing through my teeth at the thought. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what hurt worse, the nine stitches it took to close me up or the tetanus shots I got after. I do not like peacocks.” She shakes her head, slow and emphatically. “They are the only animal on the planet I can’t stand.”

“I bet.” My eyes fall to her shoulder again. I’d like to stroke that scar one more time, knowing how she got it now.I’m pretty sure it would feel different. I squint, looking a little closer and wanting to know more. “Is that when your anxiety began?”

She presses her sweet lips together—always the lips. I swear, Bonnie Miller’s mouth will be the death of me.

“No,” she says, her eyes casting down and landing on Noel. “I’d always had this brain that envisioned the worst possible outcome in a stressful situation. But then, one day in junior high, I envisioned the worst, like always, but this time, it happened. The worst became reality.” She swallows, her eyes drawing up to mine once more. “My anxiety isn’t really social. Though social things can be stressful. It’s more situational. After thatsituationcame about, I could no longer handle the unknown. There are too many possibilities. And no one could assure me the worst wouldn’t happen—it had. So, sometimes in stressful situations, my body panics. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. My heart attempts to explode. It’s all very annoying.” She gives me half a smile, attempting to blow off the seriousness of her words. But I know better. None of this is funny.

Before I can ask what happened in junior high, she’s talking again. “What about you? Any scars?”

“Um.” I knit my brows, still back in junior high with young Bonnie with a need to know that story. “Sure.”

Bonnie eats her entire cake in a mug, cross-legged, sitting across from me while I tell her about the scar on my right knee after my bike accident two years ago. It’s not nearly as exciting as her peacock story. But she wants to hear it just the same.

She sets her finished mug next to my hardly touched one on the coffee table. “Let me see.”

“You want to see my scar?”

“Yeah. You saw mine. I want to see yours.”

I smirk and shrug. “Um, okay.” I lift my pant leg just high enough to show Bonnie the rippled little mark just below my kneecap.

“That’s not even an inch long,” she teases.

“I never said it was impressive or a good story.” I lift my mug and shove a spoonful of the chocolaty goodness into my mouth.

“Well, that’s pathetic. You should stop bragging about that thing.”

I’m tempted to wrestle the girl to the ground and shut her up. I don’t—because… well, I’m not sure why at this point. All the reasons not to like Bonnie, not to kiss Bonnie, not to be with Bonnie, are muddled into mush inside my head. I like Bonnie, so why aren’t we kissing again? Maybe I should go for it.

But before I can decide, Bonnie’s stretching out her legs and peering at the little tree in her living room. No ornaments adorn the three-foot tree, just twinkling white lights.

It’s beautiful. And so is she. She looks at the tree and I look at her.

“Elliot,” she says, her eyes sliding over to me, her tone playful. “You’re staring.”

“Bonnie.” The room is dim and quiet, and I’m done trying to resist her. Words fall from my mouth as if she summoned them, as if I have to say them. “I like you.”

She swallows and turns her head to stare back at me. “You do?”

“I know it’s weird with this whole deal we have with Gran. And I know I tried to get you to remove Noel before. And I know it hasn’t been that long since we’ve known one another.” I sit up a little straighter. “But I do.”

She breathes, and it isn’t lost on me how shaky that breath is. This girl may be anxious, but she’s brave too. She slides her body until she sits right next to me. She lifts my arm, slipping it around her shoulders, then leans against my side, her legs curling up on the couch and her head resting on my chest. She has snuggled right up to me in answer. I’m not complaining.

“I like you too, Elliot.”

THIRTY-NINE

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