Page 62 of The Hookup Situation

Paris plunks down his bright pink saucer sled and shrieks as he flies down the hill, hitting bumps along the way that have him cackling even more. It’s quite a ways down, probably a twenty foot drop, and plenty of room at the bottom to stop safely, nothing but more snow for several feet.

Preston sets down one of the two seater sleds and climbs into the front, shoving his feet into the ground to keep it from moving before he’s looking back at me.

“You coming?”

“If I don’t go I put this ridiculous get up on for nothing,” I reply, and everyone laughs. I climb on behind him and wrap my legs around his waist, holding on for dear life.

Phil gives us a push and we’re flying a second later. I find myself laughing the entire way down, and when we reach the bottom I feel exhilarated.

“So?” Preston says, climbing off and then holding his hand out to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, grinning.

“Pretty damn fun,” I admit, and he chuckles.

Phil and Paris are going down as we’re going up, and then we’re all trying to convince Pam to go like Preston said they do every year. She gives in when Paris says he'll go with her, and she’s shrieking and laughing the entire way.

I’m attempting to go down alone, sitting on a larger sized saucer sled, when Paris flings himself onto my lap, his momentum making us fly down the hill as he cackles the entire way, barely hanging on, and then proceeds to faceplant at the bottom, making everyone laugh.

It’s a couple of hours later when we’re exhausted and cold and ready to leave, all of us with our cheeks flushed and smiles on our faces.

We pack up and head back to the house where we drink hot chocolate and eat tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch, then proceed to pass out in bed or on the living room sofas for a while.

After a lazy afternoon and a delicious dinner, Preston tells me he wants to take me somewhere, and gives me that sexy grin, so I change into something a bit nicer. Black pants, a gray long-sleeved shirt and a blazer, and say goodbye to his parents and Paris as we head out the door.

He’s dressed in chinos, a button up shirt and a blazer, and looks amazing.

A few minutes later we’re arriving, and he grins as I look out the window. “A jazz lounge?” I say, excited. “Really?”

“Yeah, come on.” We get out of the car and he’s beaming as he grips my hand and pulls me with him.

The music is incredible, the atmosphere amazing, the drinks refreshing, and the experience altogether wonderful.

At one point Preston leans in as we’re watching the couples on the dance floor, moving to a slower number, and asks if I want to dance with him.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” he says. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I swallow, because I want to so fucking much. I want to have this memory with him before our time is over. So even though I know I shouldn’t, for the same reason I shouldn’t even fucking be here, I nod and take his hand. He smiles widely and pulls me with him, taking me in his arms as we sway to the music. I look into those cornflower blue eyes and say, “thank you,” in barely a whisper. Then I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in that scent. Peaches and musk, and him.

When we leave the lounge a couple of hours later, it’s still bustling outside as people stroll along, enjoying the nightlife and the holiday lights downtown. Preston takes my hand again and tugs me until we’ve reached a corner where there’s a man sitting with a horse-drawn carriage on the cobblestone street.

“You want to?” he asks, his eyes twinkling, and I nod. He pays the man and we climb in, and the two gorgeous clydesdales take us on a ride, passing shops, boutiques, restaurants, pubs and more.

Preston slides his hand in mine again as we press close to each other, the winter night chilly, and my heart rate spikes as his cold fingers lace with mine. I swallow, because I’ve never done this before. Holding hands briefly while being tugged along somewhere is different. This is longer, more purposeful, more… intimate. How is hand holding more intimate than sex?

Goddamn him. Everything in me is telling me to pull away, but I don’t. Even though I know I should, even if I know it will hurt that much more the longer I keep this up, I don’t. Because his hand feels so good in mine, and because even if I never get the life I so desperately want, at least he’ll have given me a glimpse of it.

Monday, we all go to the winter farmer’s market, and spend time during the day playing board games and baking cookies. I’ve never baked cookies with anyone before, so when Pam asks if any of us want to join, I eagerly volunteer. Preston joins in, too, and Pam gives us directions on how to make her famous almond spritz cookies. Since they’re made almost entirely from butter and sugar they’re absolutely addictive and I shovel half a dozenof the tiny cookies away before the second batch is even in the oven.

Preston grins at me and Pam giggles. “You like them?”

“Oh my god, they’re amazing,” I tell her. She gives me a pat on the cheek and tells me to eat as many as I want.

After that we make fudge and it’s equally as delicious, and I’m realizing that I maybe should have brought my fat pants with me because there’s no way I’m not gaining weight on this trip.

Tuesday, we take a trip to the Museum of Art.

Wednesday, Pam convinces Phil that the tree should go up, so we spend our afternoon decorating it with funky ornaments and garland, and listening to Christmas music while the wood burning stove warms the house and Ginger snores nearby. I don’t remember ever putting a Christmas tree up with my parents since they were always too busy and would hire someone to do it, and I can’t stop smiling while we work, feeling so blessed that they're letting me share in this special event with them.

Pam smiles and hands me an ornament with a little boy on it, probably seven or eight, with wild blond hair and a big toothless grin. “That’s Preston in second grade,” she says.

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