Page 11 of The Bright Side of Christmas
She looks like a woman who would unabashedly order a Shirley Temple at a dive bar.
She also looks like the kind of woman who, if asked, could tie the stem of the cherry and not even know what it implied.
I am so completely fucked.
That fate is even more evident with my next words.
“Put one on my tab.”
Another pause before he lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head. But he doesn’t ask any other questions, not as he puts the grenadine and ice into a tall cup, not as he tops it with a handful of cherries and then some ginger ale. Not even when he leaves the bar and carries it over to her. I watch her until he taps her on the shoulder and she turns to him, not wanting to see the interaction.
I should have told him to tell her it wasn’t from me. I’m not sure why I even did it at all, especially since when she puts two and two together, she’s probably going to be even more of a pain, thinking I’m nicer than I actually am.
“She’s staring at you, man,” Colt says when he’s back behind the bar, forearms leaning on the polished bartop, a shit-eating grin on his lips.
“Good for her,” I say, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder. Is she happy? Annoyed that I stepped in? Confused?
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself.
Even my subconscious doesn’t buy it.
I stay, chatting with Colt, much longer than I intended, switching to a soda after my beer is gone. Despite myself, I enjoy sitting at the bar, the casual atmosphere. It’s low pressure, with Colt coming over to have small talk with me between customers, introducing me to various people as if I were actually part of this town now, instead of the interloper I feel like.
FIVE
Wren leaves about twenty minutes before I do, not that I was watching. Eventually, I decide I should go try to write, so I settle my tab and say goodbye to Colt. As I drive in the dark, I note that Wren wasn’t lying. Every house in town is decorated, nearly every one already glowing bright. I have to begrudgingly admit that it does look friendly, welcoming, and festive.
When I turn onto Bluebird Lane, it’s even brighter. My house looks strangely depressing as the only one not lit up.
Not that I care, of course.
As I pull into my driveway, I note that Wren is kneeling out front, wrapping a string of lights around the post of her mailbox. She waves at me with her usual, cheery demeanor, and I give her a slight wave in return. I might not want to take part in her chaos, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a total asshole. That’s what I’m thinking as I step out of my car and spot something out of place on my front lawn.
A blow-mold snowman is smiling up at me. A snowman that wasn’t there when I left. A snowman I surely didn’t buy. There are also two more candy canes, making almost half of my walkway a candy cane lane, of sorts.
When I look back at her, there’s a small smirk playing on her lips that I fight not to return. She probably came back from the bar, put them up, and then decided she needed to decorate her mailbox at ten at night just to see my reaction.
You have to appreciate her tenacity, at the very least. Not many women would stare at me like that, challenging me as if I hadn’t turned them down a dozen times already. After a moment, I sigh, realizing this battle is already lost.
“This you?” I call out across the lawn.
“Just a little Christmas spirit!” she says, that smirk widening into a grin.
“Wasn’t the wreath enough?”
She shakes her head. “That one was basically charity. Don’t you want the local kids to see your house and know you’re not some grumpy old man?” I stare deadpan at her in answer, and she lets out a small, frustrated sound that shouldn’t be cute. “Your house looks haunted,” she whines.
I could argue, but I’m learning that gets me nowhere with Wren, so I sigh in defeat instead.
“If I leave them, will you leave me be?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to add lights to your house?”
I return her smile then, unable to hold back, and for some reason, I’m enjoying this back-and-forth of ours. “Probably not.”
“Then probably not.”
I let out a chuckle, then shake my head, heading up my walkway. “You’re not going to win this battle, Birdie.” I don’t know where the nickname comes from, just that she always looks like a delicate little bird. But when her face lights up at my words, I can’t find it in me to regret it.
