Page 92 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

Her brows lower and she stares at me. “Are you saying my dismount was less than awesome?”

“Your dismount from the bench you were sleeping on? Maybe. Come on, let’s get you up.” I wrap one arm around her back and help her to her feet. Her chest bumps mine and I keep my arm around her, stabling her on those wobbly feet.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

I swallow. “No problem.” I don’t mind having an excuse to wrap my arm around her.

Walking over to the bench, we sit side by side. Bonnie rests her head back against the wall.

“I’m sorry for the whole night, Elliot. Your family’s lifelong tradition, and I ruin it with dumb emotions.”

She isn’t looking at me, so I slip my hand into hers—screw tabling, she needs this. And maybe I do too. “Your emotions aren’t dumb. They just are.”

Her blue-green eyes blink open. “I’m still sorry.”

“I’m happy to be here with you, Bonnie. I don’t know if you realize that. But this is where I want to be.”

She swallows. “You really hate the symphony, huh?”

I chuckle. “Actually, I love it.” I pull her fingers to my lips and kiss the back of her hand, silently confessing that I like her even more than I like the symphony.

Pink blooms in her cheeks again, but she hides her face by laying her head on my shoulder.

“Can I ask questions?” I’m hesitant, but I want to know. There are things I want to ask and know, but I’m not trying to pry or make her any more uncomfortable.

“You just did,” she teases. Her fingers arelaced through mine, her thumb tracing over the soft skin between my thumb and index finger.

“Right,” I say, not letting it go so easy. “But can I ask about what happened?”

She doesn’t lift her head. She doesn’t look at me. “Sure.” The word is so small, so fragile. I am treading on sacred ground.

“My mom—well, she said something—” I’m fumbling, trying to get out my thought and it’s not going well.

“What?”

“She asked what I did.”

Bonnie’s head tilts and she peers up at me, those blue-green eyes piercing me. “I don’t follow.”

“She wanted to know what I did wrong—” I realize I don’t know the proper etiquette here. What do I call her attack?

“As in, whatyoudid to cause my anxiety attack?”

“Yeah. I never asked. I just wanted to help. But if I did something wrong?—”

“Elliot,” she says, her free hand covering our knotted fingers. “You didn’t do anything. And honestly, I appreciate you asking how to help before askingwhyit happened. I hate that word.”

I clear my throat. “At the risk of getting hit—can I askwhyyou hate that word?”

She breathes out a non-humorous laugh. “Because there isn’t always a why. Because sometimes, like today, it’s a really stupidwhy. I lost it and I shouldn’t have.”

“You didn’t lose it.”

“I couldn’t breathe. I was shaking. My mind wouldn’t stop reeling with worry—all over nothing. Logically I know it’s dumb, and yet it feels so real.”

“Will you please stop calling your feelings dumb? I may not be an expert, but I am an elementary school physical education teacher.”

That makes her smile like I’ve shared something funny. I don’t mind. It is a funny brag. But also—it’s legit.

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