Page 9 of Booked for the Holidays
She snorts and nods. “Yeah, or birdseed on the sidewalk. God forbid the squirrels eat the dropped leftovers.”
“My favorite was the discussion about the brightness of the stoplights on the avenue. How the yellow wasn’t yellow enough. Are there varying shades of yellow I should know about?”
“Wait, you weren’t even at that meeting.”
I try not to dwell on why she noticed my absence. I also try not to dwell on how easy it is to talk to her, words slipping out unintentionally, continuing on and on.
“No, I wasn’t. But people talk. Is there a reason you don’t want to be here? Seems like your kind of scene,” I say. “Socializing and whatnot.”
“Ah, yes, I forget you’re a strict anti-socializer. My feet hurt. These shoes are new and I haven’t broken them in yet. There’s a long list of things I need to do at the store. Books I need to catalog and inventory I need to restock. I’m starving. All I want to do is eat a goddamn cheeseburger and French fries from Shake Shack. Is that too much to ask?”
It’s different from her usual demeanor ofpositiveandoptimistic. A damn menace of a question hangs on the tip of my tongue. I want to ask her what else is on this long to-do list, and if she needs any help in completing it.
“Excuse me. This is a family friendly event. Language like that is inappropriate. And from a woman, too. Such a shame.”
I glance over my shoulder, finding a woman sitting in a lawn chair. She tuts, manicured nails tapping against her wine glass. Warmth flares behind my ribs at the demeaning lob tossed Bridget’s way. I know I was an ass to her a short while ago, but this is different. This feels intentionally cruel, and someone like Bridget doesn’t deserve that kind of childish temperament.
“Cheating on your husband with your son’s science teacher is also inappropriate, but you don’t hear us talking about it,” I snap impulsively.
My palm lands on the small of Bridget’s back, a pathetic attempt at a shield as I lead us away, scouting out a less busy area of the lawn. When we stop, she stares at me, shell-shocked.
“Did you just–how do you know about her cheating on her husband? That’s top notch gossip, and you don’t strike me as someone who cares about that sort of thing.”
“The perk about not talking to people is that they don’t have a problem with oversharing around me.”
“Oh my god, Theo, thank you. You’re my hero.”
FOUR
THEO
My chest puffsout at her praise. I stand up straighter, the warmth growing to a heat that flicks the base of my spine, a fire beginning to burn. Slow at first, then steady. Bridget looks up at me, a slight tilt of her chin and a grin sitting on those full, pink lips. Understanding dawns. Her elation is brought on bymeand whatIsaid. The heat intensifies, giving way to a blazing wildfire that starts to burn out of control.
Her eyes–not quite green, not quite brown, a color stuck somewhere in the middle–are creased around the edges, laugh lines indicating years of pure euphoria. Her smile stretches from corner to corner.
I’m not sure I’ve seen a more stunning sight.
I thought I had a good read on my neighbor, learning small pieces about her the last couple of years. They haven’t taken much digging, easily spotted by anyone paying a lick of attention to her. Nothing overly profound, but still important.
She doesn’t drink caffeine, her personality and cheerfulness fueled by natural spunk and fiery ambition.
Hot chocolate is her warm beverage of choice, but she hates marshmallows. I heard her ranting about the fluffy pillow of gelatin once, a ten-minute passionate monologue arguing why they don’t belong anywhere near desserts.
Her favorite color is blue, mentioning to a customer the shade of the large bookshelf in her store is the one she loves the most.
Of all the meaningless details I’ve gathered, watching her be happy–in a real, unfiltered, hell, yeah kind of way–takes the whole damn cake. I seize her admiration greedily, filing it away for safekeeping. It gets tucked inside the short catalog of other acknowledgements I hold close.
“Not a problem,” I say.
I don’t know why I jumped in, inserting myself into gossip I don’t want to be a part of, but something compelled me to…protecther, almost. Defend and keep out of harm’s way. It’s the same something that ran through me when she almost got hit by the car,safe, safe, safe,chanting in my head until shewas.
I have no clue what it means.
Her rant comes back to me, and I discover there’s one thing I can help with. I fumble with the pocket of my jeans, extracting a pack of crackers and handing it her way.
“What's this?” she asks.
“A snack. You said you were hungry.”
