12 Days of Mistletoe

24. Elliot

TWENTY-FOUR

elliot

It’s a good thing I don’t have school tomorrow. I’ve hardly slept a wink all night. Nope, I’ve got Bonnie Miller on my mind. I am too busy seeing her strawberry-blonde waves and blue-green eyes in my head. In my exhausted delirium, I’ve decided that her hair is like silk and her eyes resemble valuable gems. It’s weird. And abnormal. I shouldn’t be thinking these things. I’m running on fumes and my head is all over the place. I keep replaying that kiss in my mind over and over again.

I can’t even remember the color of Jess’s eyes this second. Okay, not true. They’re brown. But amber brown? Russet brown? Grey brown? Green brown? I honestly cannot recall. I bound myself to the girl for two years and I can’t come up with the exact hue of her eyes.

They are brown.

The end.

But Bonnie Miller’s eyes—they are the same color as the eggs a robin once laid in Gran’s backyard tree when I was thirteen. I can still see those eggs in my mind. There were three huddled together and they were the prettiest color I’d ever seen in my short life.

Bonnie’s hair must be as smooth as the feathers of those baby birds—soft and silky. Her cheeks are pink, especially when she’s a little embarrassed. And her lips are sweet—like pure sugar cane.

Yep, my thoughts are overflowing with things that shouldn’t be there.

But they have been all night. In fact, at this rate, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep for the next nine days.

Bonnie Miller is driving me crazy.

I’m not sure how to get out of seeing her today. I could fake an illness. But then would Gran take back her promises? It’s one thing to lose my dreams, but to take away Bonnie’s home is another thing entirely.

Still, it’s only day three and I’m losing my sanity. I’m not sleeping.

If I’m being honest, I want to see her. I am that masochistic. I have more questions, more thoughts, more I want to know about Bonnie. I even want to see which tree she’d pick out.

I am a jumbled mess when I remind myself it’s not up to me. Gran has a plan and we all know I won’t disappoint that woman.

My phone pings, telling my head to quiet down all its worries.

It’s a group text. With me, Bonnie, and my mother.

Oh, boy.

Mom: Kids, sad news. The tree yard where we normally pick out our trees has unexpectedly shut down this year.

Bonnie: Marlene?

Oh, snap. My mother is texting Bonnie? How in the world did she get Bonnie’s number?

Mom: It’s me. I got your number from Gran.

Bonnie: Lovely.

Mom may not, but I hear the sarcasm in that one-word text.

I open a new text thread, one with just Mom, and type?—

Me: Why are you texting Bonnie?

Mom: Are you saying I’m not allowed to text Bonnie?

Me: That’s exactly what I’m saying.

But then, Bonnie messages the group again.

Bonnie: I’m sorry to hear about the tree yard.

I am too. I like old man Warren. I wonder what’s up with his business.

Me: Too bad, Mom. I guess we’ll have to cancel our outing today.

And with the night I had, it’s probably for the best.

Mom: What about our tree? And Gran’s tree?

Me: The fake one Dad bought you two years ago is still in the basement. I can set it up today. And Gran already has five artificial ones up—one for each of her grandkids.

Mom: It’s not the same. And you know your grandmother loves a real tree.

Bonnie: My sister’s best friend runs a Christmas tree farm just an hour and a half from here.

Mom: You wouldn’t mind taking us there?

I switch over to my private text between just Mom and me.

Me: Don’t ask Bonnie to take you out of town. She signed up for an hour this afternoon, not an all-day event.

Mom: She’s offering. I didn’t ask.

Me: That’s because she’s nice, but don’t ask her to do it. She has other commitments.

Mom: Fine. No need to be Mr. Grumpy Pants. I hear you, Elliot.

A new text from Bonnie comes through.

Bonnie: I’d be happy to take you. I’ve only been once, but it’s a pretty little farm.

Me: I’m not being a grumpy pants. I just need my privacy respected .

Three little dots blink back at me. Typing… Waiting… Reading… Only those dots don’t belong to my mother.

I called myself grumpy pants … to Bonnie. And my mother, of course.

Grumpy pants —the name my mother used to call me when I was ten.

I sit. I stare, but no words come up on the screen. A drop-down message tells me Mom has sent another text between the two of us.

Mom: Well, this is just awkward.

I ignore the message and go back to our group text.

Three little dots still blink. What does that mean?

I make the decision to come clean and text only Bonnie.

Me: I texted my mom. I told her not to make you spend the whole day with us. She called me grumpy pants.

Bonnie: Okay, the world just became a whole lot clearer.

I blow out the breath I’ve been holding.

Bonnie: You don’t want to go?

I think for a minute. I’m losing a part of my mind spending so much time with Bonnie. It’s only been a couple days and already I’m not sleeping at night.

Me: I’d like to see the farm. But I don’t want my mom taking up your whole day.

Bonnie: I told Autumn I’d make it down before Christmas. I haven’t. She’s my sister’s BFF, not mine. But I’d still like to keep my promise.

I swallow. Another sleepless night… Why not?

Me: Okay, then. Let’s go.

Me: Are you prepared to spend the day with Marlene Eaton?

Bonnie: I think I’ll survive.

I can’t help but smile. Yes, it’s only been two days. Yes, I don’t know her well. But dang it, I feel it in my chest, stomach, and tipsy brain—I like her.

A text pops up in our group chat.

Bonnie: You can take your own car if you need to, Grumpy Pants. You can have all the privacy you need. Marlene and I are picking out a tree today.