12 Days of Mistletoe

30. Bonnie

THIRTY

bonnie

Elliot opens the door and looks at me like I’m a new puppy, all wrapped up for Christmas.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I study his face. “You look… weird.”

“Thanks.” He snickers and shakes his head. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“Well, I’m not so happy. Baking? Really?” I wrinkle my nose—because I am officially a child not getting her way.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. The Eaton’s have a lot of Christmasy get-togethers.”

“It’s tradition,” May says just behind him. “You’ll love it, Bonnie. Now, shall we get down to that practice kiss before we head out?”

Our time at May’s went way too quick. Sure, she made me practice kiss her grandson before the live show at Marlene’s. But at least I could breathe at May’s .

The house before me is terrifying. Elliot is beside me, May behind me, Noel at my feet. And the house—the scary, scary house, well, it’s right in front of us. It’s Marlene’s house. It’s decorated with lights, plastic reindeer on the roof, and a life-sized nativity on the lawn, as in death by Christmas, and inside waits women, aprons, raw ingredients, and expectations I will not be able to meet.

“It’s going to be okay.” Elliot rests a hand on my back.

“But I don’t bake. I don’t know how.” And except for the occasional mini cake inside of a mug, the kind that can’t go wrong, my words are fact.

“How about a little more hand-holding?” May sings behind us.

“It’ll be okay. They’ll show you. You’re smart. No big deal.” Elliot’s hand slips down to mine and he cups my hand in his. Warmth penetrates from his palm into my skin and bones, making me feel just a little stronger.

Still, my brows knit. I am smart, but not baking smart. This is not how I want to be judged in life—not by my horrific baking. Noel is close to my side, her head bobbing up into the fold of mine and Elliot’s hands. See, a sign of distress. She gets it, so why doesn’t Elliot and his big, crazy family get it? “What do the men do? You’re smart . Are you baking?” I ask because this feels like a valid question. If I have to suffer, then so does he.

Elliot clears his throat and skirts my eyes as if he doesn’t want to answer me. This only transforms my stare into a glare. I tilt my head to make certain he sees me. I raise my brows, asking again with my silence. I know he heard the question.

He opens those sweet, minty lips back up and says, “We… ah, well… we watch… football. ”

“While the women have to bake?” My heart pounds. And I am offended for liberated women who hate baking everywhere around the world.

“Yeah.”

“Yoo-hoo! Thread those fingers, please,” May instructs, not paying attention to anything we say to the other.

I ignore her, though I am aware that obedient Elliot follows her instructions right away. “Well, I don’t want to bake,” I say. “I want to watch football.”

“You can’t watch football, dear, you have to bake with the women,” May tells me—okay, so maybe she was listening.

I swallow and glance back at Elliot’s grandmother. “No offense, May, because I can honestly say you’re super cool and we are friends?—”

“I am super cool,” May says, a sweet twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Yes, but that plan sucks. This is not the 1950s?—”

“Oh, great years,” May says. “Sock hops, poodle skirts, drive-in?—”

“What about women’s lib, May?” I turn halfway around, keeping Elliot’s hand in mine but making sure I can see May better. She seems like the kind of woman who’d be all for strong women. So, where’s my freedom from the kitchen?

“I am all for women’s lib.” She gives me a big thumbs-up. “Girl power, one hundred percent. This has nothing to do with women’s lib.”

“Yes.” I puff out a breath and point at her. “ Girl . Power . And—this girl doesn’t bake.”

Elliot eyes his Gran. “She doesn’t have to bake. Nowhere in our deal do we talk about baking. She can watch football.”

“ Fine .” May wilts, huffing out a breath. She glances from Elliot to me, and then the corner of her mouth perks up mischievously. “As long as you sit on Elliot’s lap.”

“Gran!” Elliot and I spout at the exact same time. I’ve never called the woman Gran before. It came out automatically, loud and alarmed.

May’s bottom lip protrudes in a pout. “Fine. Next to him, while holding hands. But I will have to require two more kisses today if there’s no lap-sitting and no baking.”

I squeeze Elliot’s fingers around mine until I am sure a bruise is forming over his tan skin.

“Gran, that’s too much. Bonnie has been very agreeable. You need to give her this.”

I ease out a breath beside my very wise fake boyfriend. At least we’re on the same side.

“Goodness sake,” she says. “I’ve been wanting to share my secret gingerbread recipe with Bonnie. I know you like gingerbread, dear.”

I pull my brows together and pause my ascent up Marlene’s decorated walk. I ignore the four-foot-tall nutcracker staring at me and think about what May has said. “I do. How do you know that?”

“You told her,” Elliot says. “Uh, you know, in one of the cards you sent her.”

“You read them?” I say, unable to stop the warmth blooming into my cheeks. I have sent May a card almost every month since the day I moved in. They’re dumb “dad” joke cards. And then I rambled inside each and every one. I didn’t exactly think they’d be something anyone else would ever see. I thought they’d all be at the dump by now. I swallow and attempt to reign in my embarrassment. “How did that happen?”

Elliot runs a finger beneath his collar, stretching it out a little and drawing my eyes to his neck—tan and smooth, and sort of kissable. Is that a thing? Kissable necks? It is. I’m sure of it. And I’m simply making an observation about Elliot’s.

“Gran shared them with me.”

My brows knit and I force my eyes back to May. “You kept them?”

Her lips curve up in a sweet, kindly grin, and for an instant, I understand why Elliot gives in to her. “Of course I kept them. They came from a friend.” She pulls a breath in through her nose. “Or at least, they felt like they did. We became friends long before we met, didn’t we?”

My eyes sting with unshed tears, and I let go of Elliot to pull May in for a hug. “We did,” I tell her. I’ll sit on the man’s lap all day if that’s what she wants me to do. “Thank you, May. I like Billings. But I’m far from my family and I miss them. Thank you for being a friend and for allowing me to keep Noel.” My anxious chest calms with the kindness she’s shown me. And because I need to, because I should, I add, “And I’m sorry I kept her from you.”

“Oh, she’s a lovely pup. I don’t mind her one bit. And yet—she only stays if you stick to my grandson like the Christmas star zip-tied to the top of my tree for the next eight days.”