Page 90 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

He nods. “What next? I’m no Noel, but tell me what to do and I will, Bonnie.”

My chest aches with the erratic beating of my heart. “5-4-3-2-1,” I say.

“Okay.” He nods again, but his brows are cinched and he’s frowning.

“It’s a method my high school counselor taught me—it was my best help before I got Noel.” Though, I’m already feeling a little better.

“Let’s do it.” He sets his warm hand in mine and leads me to a bench at the back of this round room. “Five what? How do we start?”

I sniff and muster my courage. “Look at five objects, thinking about each for one minute.”

Elliot sits at the far left end of the bench and pats theseat beside him. “You can lay down. My thigh dubs as a great pillow.” He slips his arms from his coat and drapes it over one arm. “Look, I’ve even got a blanket for you.”

But I’m warm—in fact, I shed my own coat. I can’t remember the last time a person took care of me during one of my attacks. Mom, back in high school, probably.

I do as he says, lying on the bench and resting my head on his leg. I drape my bare arms over my stomach.

“What do you see?” he whispers.

“The sky.” I stare up, focusing on just the computerized night sky above us. “The moon.” I breathe and study. “The stars.” I exhale, focusing on one, then two individual stars. Gazing over the vision above us, I add, “The Milky Way?”

“I think so,” he says. We both stare up for a moment more. “One more,” he says just above a whisper.

I blink, taking my eyes from the sky to look at Elliot, still searching the Milky Way. “You.”

His gaze drops to mine and his throat bobs with a swallow. “What’s next?”

“Four sounds.”

“It’s pretty quiet in here,” he says.

I swallow, my eyes not daring to leave his. “It is. But there’s always something to hear. I hearyou—your voice, my voice, your breath—” I close my eyes and listen. “Your heart.”

“You can hear that?”

“I think so.” It could be mine.

“Three,” he says, his tone hushed.

My heart and head have returned to mostly normal. This place, my medication, Elliot—they’ve done the trick. I’m me again. I’m back in control. But I’m not ready to leave either.

“Touch,” I tell him.

And while I’m supposed to touch three different items, thinking about their consistency, texture, and temperature, Elliot brushes his fingers along my eyelids, closing them up. His gentle fingers trace below my lashes, up to my forehead, and back down around my chin. He’s touching me.

I’m okay with that too. I focus on his warm skin, his smooth movements, and his steady rhythm.

The pad of his thumb lumbers over my bottom lip.

I wait for Elliot to ask what number two is.

Smell—he doesn’t ask, but I already know. I don’t need him to walk me through the steps. I can do it on my own. I breathe in, paying close attention to the scents around me. This room has a lemony, clean aroma like it’s been newly dusted or mopped. And Elliot smells like richness and pine, like a Christmas tree. I pull in another breath. Yep, I’d know his scent anywhere.

FORTY-TWO

elliot

I paceacross from a sleeping Bonnie, phone in hand.

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