12 Days of Mistletoe

36. Bonnie

THIRTY-SIX

bonnie

I stare down at Elliot’s painted Bonnie with the T-Rex-sized mouth. I press my lips together, wishing I had some balm. Warm air blows out through the vent of Elliot’s hatchback, washing over me wherever my bare skin peeks out from my winter coat.

Elliot glances over to me from the driver’s seat. But when my eyes meet his, he quickly looks back at the road ahead. “Bonnie, I’m—I’m no artist, clearly.”

I smirk. “Neither am I.” Although, in my painting, Elliot’s lips are human size—as opposed to the Jurassic magnitude.

“I just couldn’t get them quite right, and I kept trying to, and they just kept getting bigger and bigger every time I tried to fix them.”

He’s stumbling, and I might be a dork or a sucker, but it’s cute. The fact that he tried so hard to get my lips right is endearing.

“Your tattoo is perfect.” He spares another glance in my direction before turning into our building. “Don’t you think? You saw your tattoo, right?”

“Sure. I mean, except for the fact that it’s below my ear instead of behind it.”

“Behind it wouldn’t work; I wouldn’t get to paint it at all.”

I smirk. “Okay.” I draw out the word.

“What does it mean?” he says, peeking over at me again.

“Why do you think it means anything?” I keep my eyes on him.

“Okay—I might have googled it. But I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me about it. Your version.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” And because it’s just too easy, I add, “Your thoughtfulness is huge , it’s enormous . In fact, it’s almost as big as my lips.”

A rumble sounds from his throat. “I told you?—”

“Right. I know. You’re not a painter.”

He pulls into a parking space, a spot marked reserved, something I’m noticing for the first time. But I don’t get out. I twist around to look at him better and wait.

When he doesn’t say anything, I am forced to. “So? What did Google tell you?”

He clears his throat and runs a hand through his dark brown hair—something in that small action stirs up the butterflies in my stomach. “Google said it’s a symbol for strength, solidarity, and hope for people who have struggled with mental health.”

I’m not sure why that makes me nervous. I’ve been open about my anxiety. He even knows I carry medication in my pocket and that my dog will pressure me into taking a pill if I’m being stubborn.

“Is that… right?” he says .

My turn to swallow down the nerves. “More or less.”

“May I?” He leans a little closer, lifting his hand near my face but pausing before he touches me.

I turn my head to the left, giving him better access to my right ear. His fingers tickle at my jaw as his soft hold cradles my face in his hand. I keep my eyes on him, unable to stop, while he studies the mark behind my ear.

“You are strong. You know that, right?” His fingers are still a feather at my jaw, giving my arms goosebumps beneath my coat. But his eyes have found mine, locking there, keeping hold of me.

“I do. Most of the time,” I whisper.

“All of the time,” he says, and for half a second, his eyes drop to my mouth. “You don’t give up—that’s why you’re strong. All of the time.”

I swallow and mentally calculate how close we are—his face is ten inches from mine, ten inches of Bonnie’s mental math. “You should stitch that on a pillow,” I say because I need something not-so-serious in the air right now. Something to distract me from those ten annoying inches.

“Oh, I will. I’ll have matching throws made for each of us.”

“Throws?” He learned that word from his gran. My lips twitch and I nibble the loose skin on my bottom lip. “Perfect.” I lean, deleting one, then two of the ten inches between us.

A loud tap on Elliot’s window has me back in my seat. Elliot’s hands fly to the wheel—ten and two as if he were being tested—and a whole slew of inches now lie between the two of us.

“Elliot! Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Beard from A1 taps and taps and taps—though we’re looking right at her. She can see our faces, but the woman won’t stop tapping. My heart might leap out of my chest if she doesn’t stop that soon.

Elliot rolls down the window of his driver’s side door. Funny enough, the blue-haired woman might have the biggest set of lips I’ve ever seen—of course she outlines them in red an inch wider than her naturally shaped mouth, but still, the irony is too much.

“Would you be a dear and help me put my Christmas tree in its stand? It’s been lying on my living room floor for three days waiting for my son to come help.”

“Sure.” Elliot nods, and that one word is winded. It hints that his heart might be beating as fast as mine. “I’ll come by in a few minutes.”

“Oh, that would make me as happy as the little drummer boy. Thank you, dearest.” The older woman leans into the car and presses one large kiss on Elliot’s cheek. She’s left her mark and nothing but a decent makeup remover cloth is going to take that red stain off. “I’ll see you soon.” She stands straight and wraps her floral robe tighter around her. Her matching slippers have probably soaked through with snow and slush.

She turns to head back inside, but I can’t help myself. “Mrs. Beard!” I call. “Yoo-hoo!” I say, repeating her greeting to us.

The little woman turns back, one of her penciled brows lifting in question.

“Elliot painted a picture of you.” I hold up the painting of me for the woman to see.

“I—” Elliot starts but bites his tongue.

Janice Beard beams right at Elliot. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She bends down, taking a closer look. “My eyes are more brown than blue, but this was my exact hair color once upon a time. Maybe I’ll go back to red?—”

“It’s supposed to be strawberry-blonde,” Elliot says.

“Nonsense. This is my exact auburn. You little sweetheart.” Her head tilts, looking at the canvas from a new angle. “Though, I’m not sure what this is all about.” She taps the semi-colon below my painted ear. “Some sort of code?” She looks at Elliot, waiting for confirmation.

He gives none—only a weak smile for Mrs. Beard and a quick, accusatory glance my way.

“But those lips.” She holds a hand to her heart. “You captured me perfectly, Elliot.” She leans in for yet another red-staining kiss.

“You should really keep this,” I tell her, tapping the canvas.

“Oh, can I?” She looks at Elliot, lashes batting and full lips pursed. “Were you planning to hang it in your bedroom?”

A sputtering cough chokes from Elliot’s mouth. “Um, nope. It’s all yours.” He rips the thing from my hands and shoves it out the window toward the joyful woman.

Elliot rolls up his window before Janice can think about kissing him a third time.

“That was pretty dirty, Bon Bon.”

“That was hilarious,” I say, not caring one bit that he’s teasing me with a nickname.

“I guess I should go help her with that tree,” he says, eyes roving over my face.

“Yeah. I guess I should go too. I’ve got Canine Compassion paperwork that refuses to read itself. Ready, Noel?” My pup perks up on the backseat, ready for our next adventure of snuggling on the couch and dozing off while reading through CC applications.

I’ve got one foot out of the car when Elliot has me turning back.

“If you can’t find me tomorrow, come looking for me in A1. Just in case I’m being held against my will.”

I clutch the painting I created of Elliot to my chest. “Noted.”

“Don’t I get to keep the painting of me?”

“This one?” I say, holding up the carefully crafted Elliot face. “It’s going in my bedroom, of course.”