Page 20 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Guess what?
My stupid pulse doesn’t comply.
He looks so sweet and innocent. Not like the guy who once crushed my heart. Maybe he’s changed … Maybe he’s—No. That’s risky thinking. What I need is a reminder of why I can never let myself soften toward Three again. So I slip out my phone knowing just who can harden me up, so to speak.
My best friend, Bristol.
We lived together all through college, then afterward she moved to the Bay Area for an art apprenticeship. She’s a serial dater and social butterfly. Basically, everything I’m not. But she loves me anyway, and she’s had my back sinceday one in the dorms.
Me
If you’re around and you get this, I need to tell you something, but I also need you to promise you won’t say I told you so …
It may be the middle of the night here, but she’s in California, so I’d bet my future salary at Hathaway Cooke that Bristol Kane is awake. Within two minutes, I have my answer.
Bristol
I would never say I told you so. Well. Okay, maybe I would, but I won’t on this occasion.
See. Iknewmy girl would be up.
Me
You can’t tell my mom either. This is absolutely Top-Secret Intel.
Bristol
I don’t exactly make a habit of texting your mother.
But this is me opening up the vault. Everything you share will remain TSI. What’s going on?
Me
Well, I tried my best, for a few hours at least, but then I sort of ran into Three in Abieville. And by “ran into” I mean I knocked him out with a fire extinguisher.
Bristol
????
Me
I was at the house by myself, and I thought some intruder was breaking in, so I hit him with a fire extinguisher. The intruder turned out to be Three. Now he’s got stitches plus a concussion, and he’s my responsibility for the next few days.
Bristol
Not gonna lie, my friend. This sounds like the plot of a romcom. Did you get into the eggnog early or something?
I snap a picture of Three and send it to Bristol, cringing as the flash goes off. Luckily he doesn’t stir, but the light illuminates his slumbering face not to mention his bare biceps and forearms. Yes, I’m sending a shot of him without his permission, but a picture is worth a thousand texts. Not to mention he still owes me for the heartbreak on Main Street.
The text bubbles ripple as Bristol composes a response. Then they disappear. Then they ripple again. So I jump in to acknowledge I realize how insane this situation is.
Me
I know. It’s bad.
Bristol
Do you, Sara? Do you really know? Or are you forgetting how you spent freshman year holed up in the dorms like some kind of mole-person? You practically made not-dating-in-college an Olympic event. I almost requested a new roommate, remember?
