12 Days of Mistletoe

16. Elliot

SIXTEEN

elliot

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I press my lips together once, then twice. Embracing the lingering buzz that Bonnie Miller caused when I kissed her yesterday. The swirl of our breath came together. Our lips collided, leaving my brain tattooed with the feel of her. It won’t leave.

And I don’t know why.

She’s basically a stranger. I’m not the kind of guy to kiss a stranger. I’m a nice guy. I just can’t figure it out. It has nothing to do with her pink cheeks, green-blue eyes that remind me of Greenough Lake, or her long, strawberry-blonde hair that looks so much like her dog’s coat. That’s all physical. This was more than that.

I’d like to deny the somatic spark I felt when our lips met, but I can’t.

I’d probably feel the same exact buzz had I kissed any other stranger. It’s just… strange, and normal that it would cause strange things to happen to your body.

I pick up my phone to find a text from Gran. That’s right, my eighty-five-year-old grandmother is texting me at seven in the morning.

Gran: What time will I see you and your girl today?

Bonnie Miller is not my girl.

She’s a girl. One that Gran has decided to torment along with her favorite grandchild.

I write her back, knowing that if I don’t, a phone call will be in my five-minute future.

Me: I don’t know what Bonnie has planned today. She isn’t a teacher. It’s not her Christmas break. I’m assuming she has to work.

Gran: Elliot, dear, that didn’t answer my question. Not one little bit. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if the girl had to work. She seems to be the hardworking, lovable type. Don’t you think? I asked: When will the two of you be over?

I sigh and knock my head against the wall behind me. I am the chump of all chumps.

Me: Let me text Bonnie and ask about her plans. Okay?

Gran: Oh, so you did as I suggested and got her number?

She is the one who texted us both, ensuring we had each other’s numbers. Then, when she found out I hadn’t saved Bonnie’s number, she gave Bonnie my phone and told her to add her number to my contacts… so yeah, I “took her suggestion.”

But I don’t say that. Not to my gran. Why? Because I am a chump with a capital C, a chump who adores his grandmother.

Me: Yes, Gran. It was a good idea. I got it. You’re brilliant.

Gran: I really am. Remember that.

I sigh and press one finger to the flesh of my lip—but the buzz doesn’t leave. It’s still there. It’s there and whispering her name, never letting me forget: Bonnie .

Gran: Well, when you know Bonnie’s plans, let me know. I’m looking forward to another visit.

I contemplate for only a minute if I want to call or text Bonnie—I’d kind of like to hear the tone in her voice when I ask her when she’s free today. But that would only make a strange situation stranger. So, I opt for texting. I’d rather be oblivious to her annoyance at spending another day with me, anyway.

I blow a puff of air through my nostrils and look up Bonnie’s name. She indeed added her name and number to my cell last night.

First name: Bonnie.

Last name: Your Girlfriend.

Under her name, there’s a place for notes. A section I’ve used a few times to add addresses. Bonnie’s written:

(In case you forget.)

I laugh and shake my head. Oh Gran, what have you done?

I wander into the kitchen as I hit the message button and type out to Bonnie Your Girlfriend:

Me: Good morning. Hey. Hope you rested well?—

Whoa . Thank goodness for the delete button. Why in the world would I need three greetings? That’s three, right? One is plenty. And asking about her rest is a weird greeting in itself.

I haven’t been this awkward around a girl since junior high—despite what Q says.

And yet, instead of tapping that blessed delete button, I hit send. Gran runs a cell under pressure better than I do.

“Shoot.” I hold my finger down on the message. “There has to be a delete after sent button, right?” I can’t be the only human to accidentally send a poorly written text. I read through my options—holy, why are there so many? “Ha! Undo send! There it is!”

Only—behind all my written options are three bouncing little dots. She’s seen my three greetings. She’s read them, and what would be the point in undoing that message now? She’d only know that I know I’m weird. Thanks a lot, smartphone.

Maybe she won’t notice. Maybe she’s an over-greeter too. Maybe I shouldn’t care since this thing with Bonnie is a bunch of Gran-nonsense. But then, I meant what I told her yesterday: I do think we could be friends. She’s a good person—Gran isn’t wrong. She’s compassionate and kind. She sincerely cares about others. She’s interesting, too—I really do want to hear more about the nonprofit she’s helping with. I’ve never known anyone who has helped run a nonprofit or been so invested in a stranger’s welfare. And she’s beautiful—insanely, sweetly beautiful. Which has nothing to do with us being friends. At all. Because I’m more than willing to be friends with a not-so-pretty woman too. It’s just a fact. A stated fact. I like facts. And I’m stating them.

And I need to stop stating them. Even to myself.

Pronto.

Bonnie: Hi. Morning! I’m fine. How are you?

Okay. So, either she is a three-greeter girl or she’s making fun of me. I ignore all those annoying options and just answer the question.

Time to get down to Gran’s absurd business.

Me: I’m good. Are you free sometime today? Gran was hoping we could stop by and visit again.

Bonnie: I’m working.

Me: Already? It’s seven in the morning.

Bonnie: Well, I schedule my dog-walking gigs early on the weekends. I work at the senior center at noon.

Me: Work, not volunteer?

Bonnie: Work. I organize their weekend activities, and they let Noel come. It’s the best.

Me: You have two jobs?

Bonnie: Three, if you count my little animal photoshoot business. I do—but I’m guessing most wouldn’t. I don’t even make enough to claim it on my taxes. But one day…

Three jobs? She has three jobs?

Me: Animal photoshoots?

Bonnie: Yeah, you know, portraits of your pets. I only have shoots once every couple of months, but it’s going to be a thing one day.

“A thing? Is she for real?” I laugh—not at her, but at the idea. She can’t hear me. And I’m smart enough to not type laughing emojis into our text thread.

Me: How much do you charge?

I am curious. Do people really have professional portraits taken of their pets?

Bonnie: Why? Did you obtain a pet in the last twelve hours? Because I know you didn’t have one before, Mr. Rule Follower.

Me: Hey, there’s nothing wrong with following the rules. And no, I didn’t get a pet, I’m just curious how much a puppy photo shoot would cost someone.

Bonnie: It depends on the animal, but normally around a hundred dollars. Sometimes less and sometimes free because the photographer is a sucker.

I chuckle, my eyes on my phone while I pour myself a cup of coffee. My eyes stay glued to the screen, and soon hot liquid sloshes over onto my fingers. “Crap,” I bark, looking away from the name lighting up my phone: Bonnie Your Girlfriend.

My hand stings from the hot liquid. I drop my phone to the counter and flick on the water faucet to cold. Holding my hand beneath the stream, I breathe out, my eyes returning like a magnet back to my smartphone and Bonnie’s name and last text. Her circle is pink with a capital B and Y in the center. I have the strangest urge to replace that pink circle with a photo—one that I don’t even have. Because why would I have pictures of the tenant driving me nuts for the last six months? That would make no sense. Neither does this sudden, strange urge to take a photo of the girl just for a place in my contact photos.

My phone pings with another text, and somehow I avoid running into my coffee cup and sending the entire contents down my flannel pants. “Whew.” Still, I snatch up the phone and peer down to see a text not from Bonnie—but from my mother.

Mom: Bonnie’s cutting down the tree with us tomorrow, isn’t she? Tell me she is. Because I need that to happen.

Holy smokes. Mom . This may have been my worst idea yet. One I started and one Gran is determined to see through.

Me: I don’t know her schedule.

This time I am smart enough to delete those words because shouldn’t a boyfriend know his girlfriend’s schedule? So, I make something up on the spot, and when I reread it, I decide it’s good enough to hit send.

Me: I’ll see if she can change her work schedule.

That way, if she’s working, I’ll say she couldn’t switch her schedule around. If she’s not, I’ll say she made it work and she’ll be even more of an angel in my mother’s eyes. Is that going to make me the devil when we break up?

Mom: Good! Make it work, Elliot!

One little messy breakup with a girl my mother didn’t approve of and now Bonnie is at the top of her favorite people list. I’m not sure Bonnie wants to be at the top. In fact, I’m pretty sure she thinks Marlene Eaton is loco.

Mom isn’t crazy, but overzealous. She really likes playing an active role in her children’s lives, and sometimes that active role involves a sleigh and live reindeer. She’s intense. But sweet. Should I tell Bonnie that?

I pick up my cup and lift it to my lips, cautious, knowing how hot that liquid inside my cup is. Another text lights up my phone—I am extra popular this morning—and I casually peer down to see what else Mom is insisting on. But this time, it’s from Bonnie—which has me sloshing more hot liquid over the edge of the cup.

I set the dangerous mug to the counter and decide I will not be caffeinated for the day .

With my right hand under the sink once more, I pick up my phone and read:

Bonnie: Bill will be at the center today. You should bring your gran by. We’re playing pirate bingo. It’s a fan favorite.

Me: The seniors like that? They don’t find it too juvenile?

Bonnie: It is juvenile. That’s why it’s fun.