Page 82 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

My fingers twitch, begging to touch that spot one more time. “Do you have a lot of scars?”

“A few.” She licks her lips and goes back to work, this time on the second mug. “This one,” she says, tipping her head to her right, directing to her shoulder, “was a painful one.”

I cross my arms over my chest—mostly to control my rebellious hands—and keep my eyes glued to her face. “What does that mean?”

Her gaze darts to mine before dancing back to her mugs. “When we were kids?—”

“You and your sister?”

“Yeah, Meg. We’d visit our grandparents in the country.”

“In—” I say, finding I need every single detail of her life. We may be here all night.

“Colorado. Mom’s parents are in Colorado. That’s where I grew up too. We’d visit my grandparents for two weeks each summer. One year Grandpa kept talking about the peacock the neighbors owned?—”

“Wait, a peacock. Do people often own peacocks?”

“Sure—at least, Grandpa’s neighbor did.” She taps her spoon on the edge of the mug, then cleans the chocolate-covered utensil off by diving it into her mouth and out again.

The girl is killing me.

“Excuse me—” She points, and I realize I’m standing right in front of the microwave.

I slide over and watch as she sets our mugs inside of a small oven and sets the timer. “Keep going,” I tell her. “The neighbor’s peacock…”

“Grandpa hated the thing. It woke him an hour before his alarm every morning. I’d never seen it, but I’d heard it too—they are loud things. So, I decided I needed to have a talk with the bird. Seven-year-old Bonnie had all the answers.” She snickers and a small sigh falls from her chest. “Meg was too smart to come with me, so I went alone. This wooden fence with horizontal slats separated my grandparents’ home from the Lougherys—their neighbors. I was too short to climb over the top and too big to climb completely beneath it. But I could fit between the slats in the middle. So, I slipped through and went on a secret search for Grandpa’s number one enemy?—”

I blink, picturing little red-headed Bonnie. “The peacock.”

She nods. “Yep. The peacock.”

“I’m afraid,” I say, watching her. “I’m legit afraid for your life even with you standing right in front of me.”

She smirks. “With good reason.”

The microwave dings, but I ignore it. I’m too entranced with Bonnie’s story.

But Bonnie’s not about to leave her carefully crafted baked goods unattended. She opens the microwave door, and I am reminded of her broken Scooby mug and burnt finger.

“Whoa—” I say. “Hot pad?”

She snuffs out a laugh. “I’ve got one.Thistime.” She lifts her hand, already covered in a mitt, and retrieves both mugs. She doesn’t motion to give me mine and I am happy to wait. The thing is steaming and I’m waiting for her to finish.

“Did you find the peacock?” I ask, reminding her that we weren’t finished.

“Oh, I found her. It didn’t take long. She was on the other side of the Loughery’s shed. So, I simply started to explain to her how rude she was being. I wanted a very civil face-to-face chat. Very pacifist of me, don’t you think?”

I run a hand over the back of my neck. “Holy smokes. You were seven?”

“Yep. And about to learn a valuable lesson. Peacocks don’t like chatting. They don’t believe in pacifism. Who knew? At first, the bird just stared at me, and I thought she was really listening. I was thrilled. When her feathers came out, I thought maybe she was showing off. Or possibly agreeing with my suggestion to sleep in and leave my grandpa alone between the hours of four and six. But when she started making loud calls and strutting toward me, I knew I was in trouble.”

Beads of sweat pool over my forehead, and in a nervous gesture, I fold my arms into a cross.

“Whipped cream?” she says, interrupting herself.

My brows knit. “Oh. Um, sure.”

She spoons on a dollop of cream, then taps the mug with her middle finger, testing how hot it is. She hands me the no-longer-scalding cup, along with the spoon still covered in cream. She does the same for herself and takes off for her living room.

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