Page 99 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

Bonnie: It smells like roses in here.

Later—

Bonnie: I think I just saw Dolly Parton.

And finally?—

Bonnie: Merlee is my new best friend. Do you know her? If not, I’d be happy to make introductions.

Of course I know Merlee. We all know Merlee. Gran has been seeing her for thirty years.

There’s a whine at Bonnie’s front door. At least Noel knows I’m out here. She’s waiting for me.

“Come in!” Bonnie calls.

I push open her unlocked door and I’m greeted by a freshly groomed Noel, wearing a new Christmas collar with live mistletoe attached. Nice one, Gran. Mistletoe whenever Bonnie and I might be in need. I sigh—and yet, I can’t help but grin.

“You’re all dressed up too,” I say, bending to rub a hand over the pup’s back. Noel licks my cheek.

“I’ll be right out!” Bonnie calls from down the one hallway where I know her bedroom is. I know this building. This apartment is six hundred and twelve square feet. It hasone bedroom and one bathroom, a remodeled kitchen, and a good-sized living room.

I step into her living space, waiting for Bonnie. Noel’s furry head finds my palm. She’s a good girl who really does know how to calm a beating heart.

Still, I’m not exactly prepared for Bonnie’s presence—I thought I would be. I saw her in that dress already. I got that photo from Gran. I got it and immediately saved it to my phone and as her contact photo. But her hair is up on her head, a crown of braids around a swirling reddish-blonde bun with sprigs of curls framing her face. Her eyes are bright and glittery, her cheeks pink, and her lips are painted a bright, beautiful Christmas red as if asking to be kissed.

The crimson, floor-length gown drapes from her shoulders and hugs at her waist. I can see a hint of her thigh through the slit on her right side, and the whole sight dumbfounds me into losing all ability to speak.

I sweat and swallow and stare at the woman in front of me.

“I think the zipper is stuck,” she says, peeking over her shoulder. “I got it last time. Can you help?”

I’m silent. I still can’t find any words at the moment.

Still, she whirls around, sending a waft of raspberry sweetness into my senses. And now, I’m staring at her smooth shoulder blades, long neck, and firm back. She’s going to send me into a comatose state. Does she not realize it?

“Elliot?” Twisting her neck, she peers back at me.

When I—like an idiot—continue to stay silent because no comprehensible words enter my head, she turns around to face me again.

Her forehead wrinkles. “Are you okay?”

“Mm-har.”Mm-har? What does that even mean? That isn’t a word. I tell my brain,mm-har, not a word, but that’s all I’ve got.

One of her pretty, penciled brows quirks up. “Excuse me?”

“Fine,” I murmur. I mentally high-five myself. I got one. I said an actual word.

Then, with one finger—I don’t dare touch her with a whole hand—I press against her bare shoulder, just above her drooping sleeve, and spin her back around. Exhaling all the air from my lungs, I tug on her zipper, which doesn’t seem stuck—maybe she is trying to kill me—and pull up.

It’s fine. I’m ready. I’ll die happy if this is the way.

Though it truly might be the death of me, I don’t even try to stop what happens next. With her zipper at the top of her crow-neck dress, I brush my fingers along the edge of her skin, where the dress meets her back and shoulders. Everything inside of me says I should be kissing her neck about now. But the left side of my brain—that has all at once decided to function—reminds me that we’ve got seven more hours of tabling real feelings, of avoiding confusion, of getting through Gran’s escapade. It’s the only way. Right? If I want this to work with Bonnie, I need real, not pretend.

Just get through the night, man.

But I’m not sure I can. I’m leaning in—without control, no stopping now—when she turns back around, facing me, hands at her bodice.

“Thank you.”

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