Page 8 of Mistletoe Kisses

He busied himself near the soda station. Not that I’d watched him enough to know where the drinks came from. Though I did notice he was objectively spending more time talking to me than to the other tables. I didn’t want to be the sad, single guy taking more of the server’s time because he felt compelled to entertain me. Oh god. What if I seemed like a lonely loser who would leave a bigger tip if he showed me some extra attention? If that was his plan, it was effective because I planned to leave a sizable tip.

The server strode straight toward me with his confident gait, holding another iced tea. At this rate, there wouldn’t be enough room in my stomach for the food, but if I didn’t keep drinking it, he wouldn’t have a reason to come back.Why am I like this?

“Here you go. Hey, I was curious if you’ve read—” The bell over the door signaled a new customer. He turned his head toward the door, then back to me. I liked his smile.

“I’ll be back with my book question. Need anything?”

I shook my head and attempted a smile. His own widened in response before he knocked his knuckles on the table, then went over to greet the group of people who’d come in.

Instead of allowing myself another glance at him, I focused on the amazing ribs. I hadn’t expected the hint of citrus. It balanced perfectly with the sweet smokiness of the peppers. My mouth flamed almost immediately, but it was a satisfying burn. Soon, sweat broke out on my forehead, but I couldn’t stop eating. The food wasamazing.

I wanted to search for a recipe to try to recreate the ribs back at home. I wiped my hands on the increasingly dirty napkin and launched the browser on my phone to Google it. I’d forgotten what I’d left open on my browser tab the last time I’d searched for something. The website for Tome Raiders, the bookstore my late dad’s brother—my uncle—owned in town, greeted me. The sight settled like a boulder in my gut. I kept hoping that if I visited the website often enough, I might find the nerve to visit the store in person this week like some sort of digital exposure therapy. At the very least, I had to be single-handedly boosting his website’s Google search index.

I wasn’t sure if it was the specter of the dare waiting to be fulfilled or all the spicy sauce mixed with a bunch of iced tea, but my stomach was getting cranky and it felt like there was a twenty-pound brick sitting on top of my bladder.

I’d burned through my short napkin stack trying to keep my hands and face clean so I didn’t look like a mess whenever the server came by. There was sauce on my hands and no clean surface to wipe them on. The obvious solution was to flag him down and ask for more napkins. That’s what Keaton would do, but my brain frequently refused to play nice with the most logical path. Anxiety was a real treat.

I could make it to the restroom to wash my hands and relieve my poor bladder to make room for more tea. Every time the server came by the table, I felt awkward, but I couldn’t stop chugging it.

While he was occupied with another table, I made my escape to the restroom. I’d seen enough people walking from a specific corner of the restaurant to guess its location. As soon as I stood from the table, gravity worked its dark magic, and I discovered how dire the situation was.

I hurried to the restroom and reached for the door, but it opened and knocked me back. I stumbled but managed to right myself before falling on my butt. The person exiting reached out and grabbed my bicep.

“Whoa there. You all right? I’m sorry about that.”

I stared into a pair of eyes almost identical to those I’d studied for hours on the two photos I had of my dad. Eyes similar to the ones I saw each time I looked in a mirror.

I stumbled back again to put some distance between me and my Uncle Ron.

The two photos I had of my dad weren’t great. One was fuzzy and taken at a bar. The other was a military headshot. Those photos showed a young, lean guy, but Ron was round and firmly middle-aged with deep laugh lines. Possibly what my dad would’ve looked like if he were still alive.

“Sorry. Yes. I’m fine.”

His smile was apologetic. “I shouldn’t have been barreling out of there like my ass is on fire. My Spidey senses said the food had been delivered, and my wife was eating my fries.”

“It’s no problem.” I couldn’t believe I had managed those three words with my throat threatening to close.

He smiled and patted my arm before heading back to his table like it was no big deal. Though I supposed it wasn’t to him because he had no idea of our blood connection. For me? My world had just shifted on its axis. In the hundred ways I’d visualized meeting him, bumping into him coming out of a restroom hadn’t made the list.

I watched him walk away for several long moments until I caught the server’s eyes. I didn’t want him to see my panic, so I turned back to the restroom for my escape.

My brain fell into a familiar cycle of replaying a humiliating moment. What a first impression to make. The body slam and jostle from my stumbling hadn’t helped the bladder situation. My mind volleyed between shame and a repeated chant ofMust. Pee. Now.

Irushed to the urinal, unzipped my jeans, and pulled myself out to pee. The relief was immediate as my bladder emptied, but just as I began to bask in my bladder returning to its usual state of invisibility, a knee-weakening burning sensation radiated from the head of my penis. I looked down to see if I’d somehow cut it on the zipper without realizing, but instead saw streaks of the ghost pepper rib sauce.Oh god. No, no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.My attention bounced between the sauce on my fingers and on my penis. I squeezed my eyes closed and willed the pain to go away.

What do I do? What do I do?

I scurried over to the sink and frantically scrubbed my fingers with soap, then grabbed a wad of paper towels and soaked them in water. I took the paper towels into a stall for privacy in case someone came in while I attempted to de-sauce my privates.

I wiped and wiped, but the pain only got worse. I wrapped the wet towels around my penis and held it with one hand while trying to Google what to do with the other. I texted Keaton for ideas too. He was always quick at problem-solving.

Arlo: How do I stop my dick from burning? I got hot sauce on it! Help!

Keaton: How the hell did that happen? Do I want to know what you’re up to in Oregon?

Arlo: Seriously, I need help. Should I go to the ER?

I imagined surgeries and amputations and chronic pain, and medical professionals gathering around my bed and discussing how to save my penis. I couldn’t think rationally when my mind raced like this. I needed solutions. Directions. The thought of having to tell someone at the ER what I’d done had me wanting to double over. There was no way I could get the words out.

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