Page 59 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

elliot

“Come sit,”Gran says, patting the space on the couch beside her. “What time will Bonnie be here?”

“Ten,” I say, glancing down at my watch. “But we could always give her a day off.”

Gran shakes her head. “No days off. I asked for twelve days—in a row—and that’s what you’re going to give me, Elliot James.” She hums, her blue eyes pondering. “I really need to learn Bonnie’s middle name. You know how I like to full-name my grandchildren.”

“It’s Faith,” I say, not remembering when I learned that piece of information.

“Lovely. BonnieFaithMiller. I will full-name her tonight.”

I breathe out, my chest deflating. I haven’t seen Bonnie all day. She worked and I Christmas shopped. I definitely didn’t wish she had been with me the entire afternoon. Or maybe I did. I should be showing the girl a little mercy by trying to get her out of Gran’s “lesson” tonight. Only Granhas already put her foot down. And if I’m being honest, I want to see her.

I do understand the definitions of fake, false, and fraud. All descriptions of my romantic relationship with Bonnie. I get it.

But Bonnie is like coming up for air after holding your breath for far too long. She makes me laugh, and I’m convinced that her heart is larger than the average human’s. I had all the information wrong when I thought she was trying to pull one over on Gran. Even then, she was trying to survive while being kind. With Bonnie, what you see is what you get. She’s so real. Err—apart from the whole fake girlfriend thing.

Gran pulls a stuffed manila envelope from the drawer on her coffee table.

“What do you have there?” I ask, sitting next to her on the floral couch in her fancy living room. She wants me to ask. I can see it in her twinkling eyes. She loves it when I ask questions. I ask about her growing up and about Gramps. I ask about life in the ’60s and what she would have done with her life had she not chosen to stay home with her children. She always reminds me that she loved staying home with her children. But also that she would have been one heck of an engineer had she chosen to dabble down that path.

“These are notes from a friend.” She breathes in, lacing her fingers and resting her hands overtop of the envelope.

“That’s nice.”

Gran breathes out and studies me. She’s ready to talk. “Growing old is a lonely business, Elliot.”

“Gran—”

“It is. I know I have you and your mother and sisters. Butthat doesn’t change the fact that your grandfather has been gone more than three years. Finding your soulmate is wonderful, Elliot. Losing them is devastating, even at my age.”

My brows knit and I cover her wrinkled hands with mine. She needs to say this. And even more, I need to listen. She deserves my attention at the very least.

“I have you kids. And I see you often. Especially you, my Elliot.” One of her hands escapes our hold and she cups my cheek for a few short seconds. “And yet, I’m lonely. Holidays are especially lonely. I can’t be with you and your family all of the time. I just can’t. Not unless I moved in with your mother, and I refuse to do so. I lived with the girl for nineteen years already.”

I smother a laugh. “Me too.”

She sighs as if she might be tired. “We love her. Heaven knows we do.”

“We do,” I say.

“One Christmas, I was especially lonely. I think it was the year your parents went on that cruise. Anyway, I got this in the mail, and”—her head bobbles in a shake—“I didn’t feel quite so alone.”

She pulls out one single card from her envelope and hands it over to me. There’s a cartoon Santa on the front, a child on his lap, and his beard is bright pink. An elf at Santa’s right says to another, “He washed his suit with his whites again.”

I smirk at the joke and bring my gaze back to Gran.

“Open it up.” She grins at the silly card, something Gran would never normally pick up, and nods for me to continue.

I do. There are no more jokes inside, just plenty of room for the giver to write, and the right page is filled top to bottom. I dart to the end ofthe card to see a bubbled B and the name Bonnie Miller scrawled at the bottom.

“Read it,” Gran says next. And apparently, I am a sucker who does whatever his grandmother asks of him—except that I want to read this. Bonnie wrote it.

It’s dated three years ago, and she’s written:

Dear Mrs. Elliot,

Merry Christmas! I hope this season finds you with family and friends and lots of love.

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