Page 91 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

Me: We’re not going to make the second half either.

Mom: Oh no. Is Bonnie okay?

Me: Yeah. She’s resting.

Mom: What happened?

Me: I’m not sure. I don’t think there’s always a reason or perfect formula for someone experiencing an anxiety attack.

In truth, I don’t know much. Not firsthand anyway. I know what my elementary health textbook teaches children and what Bonnie has told me.

Me: Being separated from Noel probablywasn’t helpful.

Mom: Well, that makes me feel terrible.

Me: None of us knew, Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got her. We’ll see you at home.

Me: Can you get Gran home?

Mom: We’ve got room. Give Bonnie our love. And find out what you did.

What I did?

I didn’t do anything.

Did I?

I was so focused on how I could help. I never thought to ask what had triggered the attack. I could clearly see her chest heaving with rapid breaths. For a second I thought she might throw up. But the minute we left the symphony things improved. They got even better when we settled in here, at the Bozeman Planetarium.

I’ve been trying to remind myself that tabling our feelings was a smart idea. We both thought so. I’m also reminding myself that Christmas Eve is in two days. Gran’s Twelve Days of Mistletoe will be over, and anything fake will be off the table. No pun intended. All actions will be our own and not a manipulating grandmother’s sneaky plan.

I like Bonnie.

She’s fun and different from other women I’ve dated. She’s passionate about others and the causes she believes in. While she may consider her anxiety a disability, it’s helped me see her strength and how a person can rise above. She’s empathic and caring. She’s ridiculously beautiful. I’m not sure how the most beautiful, thoughtful girl in the room—any room, not just this empty planetarium theater—is still single.

Are men really that dumb?

I look up from my phone—the screen has gone black as I’ve stood here in thought– peering at Bonnie. Her long hair fans out over the bench seat and my coat, which dubs as a pillow beneath her head. Her eyes are closed and black lashes fan downward like a china doll. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are as full and sweet as ever. Her shoulders are bare, and because I know where to look, I can see the edge of her peacock-chase scar from here.

She’s working three jobs to work for free at her nonprofit. She might be Christmas in the form of a human. She is everything good and right in the world. And if I’m being honest with myself, I more than like her.

She stretches her arms at her sides and rolls to her left—then right off the small bench I’ve left her on. I lurch—but it’s too late.

Crap.

“Bonnie,” I call, my voice reverberating off the walls of this theater. I hurry over but she’s hit the ground, stomach and face first. I cringe. If I’d been ten steps closer, I might have caught her. “Dang. Are you all right?”

She grunts and rolls onto her back, peering up at me. “Ouch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” she says, her nose wrinkled as she pushes herself up on her elbows.

I crouch down and hold out a hand, pulling her to sit up all the way. “Your bench isn’t a great bed—that’s what happened.”

“I forgot where we were. I just—” She shakes her head. Huffing out a breath, she runs both hands over her face. “Smooth move, eh?”

I snicker. “So, you’re no Simone Biles. The world already has one of her anyway.”

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