Page 8 of Merry Little Wedding

My legs squeeze together of their own accord. Dammit. I’ve never been physical with a man like Boone, a man that makes me so…weak in the knees.

Boone straightens up, shifting in his seat. Evidently I do things to him, too. Make him…shift. “What’s the real reason you don’t like Christmas, Aurora?” he says eventually without looking at me, refocusing our attention.

“I might need wine for this conversation,” I joke. But he orders a glass of cabernet. What Emily considers a “glass” is bigger than my left tit. I’m talking,big.

I take a reticent sip. It’s the smoothest wine to ever grace my tongue. I drag my wide eyes over to Boone. One little sip and I’m already muttering shit like, “If I drink all of this it may put me at risk of jumping your bones.”

“That would just be…the worst.”

“I mean it. I’ll look so guilty your family will see right through me. The jig’ll be up!”

“How much do you need to drink to tell me what’s with you and Christmas?”

“Few more sips.” I hold up a finger as I tip the glass, the red wine instantly warming my belly.

“Ready now?” Boone says teasingly. I nod, closing down my eyes for a beat, smoothing my face. I look at him.

“You know that song, ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when I was ten I literally saw my mom kissing Santa Claus.”

“You mean your dad, right? Santa Claus was your dad?”

“Nope.” I pause for another sip of wine. And then seven more sips. “Santa Claus was one of our neighbors. We lived in this great big house in Virginia. At least it looked big when I was little. My parents never had, you know…alot,” I explain, gesturing my free hand at all the opulence surrounding me. “But every December it was something straight out of a Christmas movie. Two stories, a long walkway, three steps leading up to this great front porch. Mom always made a wreath for the front door, and Dad put up lights every year. Plus it snowed, a lot. I can’t remember a single year when we didn’t have a white Christmas.”

“Until your dad moved you to Florida.”

Sip sip sip. “He wanted to get far away. I watched him be alone. I watched him just…hurt.”

“Your mom didn’t try to keep you in Virginia?”

“Pfft,” I breathe out. “She practically paid for the tickets,” I tell him, swallowing the tears that are forming a giant lump in my neck. “Mom kissed Santa Claus and the next year, married him. They had babies. A whole other family.”

“And your dad?”

“Pretends he’s okay.” I look away. I don’t even touch my wineglass. I feel Boone’s quiet, compassionate presence, and it almost makes it all okay.

“I bet he is okay,” Boone says after a while. “I bet because he still has you. I bet he’s just so fucking proud of you.”

I can’t stop the tears that slide out of my eyes, they come so fast.

“Look at me, Rora.”

I turn my head. His blue eyes…good god, I can’t even with them. I reach for Boone’s offered hand. He holds it like it’s all of me, like it’s my actual physical heart that he’s holding.

Maybe it’s the wine or the intimacy of opening up to him, or Boone’s patient, calm understanding, that has us moving closer and closer over the aisle, sublimating into a wholeotherkind of intimacy. The kind that has me burning up so bad I almost launch myself in his lap.

This man, I swear. Does he have to besucha good listener? My life isn’t even all that exciting. I’m just melodramatic. His life, on the other hand… I may not know his story yet, but I imagine it’s got to be pretty wild.

I swallow hard. We both seem to know in the same moment that we have to create some distance between us for the remainder of the flight before there is more…physical stuff.

“They’re never going to believe we’ve been seeing each other for long enough to be in love if we look like horny teenagers getting off this plane.” It’s kind of a joke but also a reasonable thing to say. Still hate saying it.

“They won’t see us getting off the plane…” Boone informs me with darkened, tortured eyes. He sighs, so, so grieved. “But you’re right. Let’s slow down.”

“Okay. Agreed.”

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