12 Days of Mistletoe

38. Elliot

THIRTY-EIGHT

elliot

Sure, I was utterly confused by Bonnie’s text, but one thing she made clear: she wants me to come up. She wants to hang out.

And I want that more than I should admit. Playing it cool in that text was an Olympic gold performance. She’s in this for her dog, her mental health, and… possibly a kiss to her blistered finger?

That was a joke. Right? I’m not sure I get it. But I’m sure it was a joke, a reference to the giant lips I gave her in that painting. I need to remember to simmer if I want to keep Bonnie as a friend. And I do.

I’m lucky she’s forgiven me for almost evicting her—not that Gran ever would have let that happen, I’m realizing now.

Sure, I’m feeling things that I shouldn’t be. And yes, that kiss in her hall felt a whole lot different than the friend zone. But friendship is good too. I can be a friend. I repeat this mantra to myself all the way up to Bonnie’s apartment. I will not flirt or hope, and I certainly won’t kiss her again—I will be a friend . We’ll talk. We’ll eat. And if I get to be around her, I’ll consider myself a lucky man.

I stand in front of her door, trace the B and 4 with my eyes, and then I knock. I know this door well—I taped enough friendly reminders to it, anyway. There’s a tapping, almost like she’s jogging, and then a pause before Bonnie opens up. She’s in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, one that hides her small form. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and her pointer finger is wrapped in a bandage.

“Hey,” she says, breathless, as if she just ran here from Great Falls.

Noel is beside her and jumps up onto my thighs, her furry paws stretched out, telling me hello.

“Hi, there.” I pet the top of Noel’s head, scratching behind her left ear—right where she likes it. My pulse runs quick at the sight of Bonnie’s oversized sweatshirt slipping off the edge of her right shoulder. There’s a scar there—that I shouldn’t be able to see, but I’m studying that shoulder like a paleontologist studies fossils. Studying in a friendly way, of course.

If that scar were on her head, I’d call her the next Harry Potter. But the jagged mark is on her shoulder, making me wonder just how she got it.

If I ask, I’ll be giving my friendly eyes away. So, I blink and turn back to her bandaged finger. It wasn’t like that earlier today.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, this?” She backs up, letting me inside. “Um, just a little burn.”

“Wait, you do have a blister on your finger?”

Her eyes skirt mine, though I’m not sure why—that is what she said. “I do.”

“Let me see. What happened? I only left you a few hours ago.”

A skittering laugh falls from her lips, but she doesn’t hand over her finger. She patters into her kitchen and pulls two mugs from a cupboard. Keeping her right pointer stretched out, careful not to touch her bandaged finger to the mug.

She already has ingredients on the counter.

“I thought you didn’t bake. I was expecting a prepackaged cake.”

“I don’t. At all! Except for this . I’m pretty great at cakes in a mug. Don’t ask for a full cake or you’ll get a hot mess. But a mini one, inside of a mug, using the magic of the microwave? I’m your girl.”

I swallow— my girl . It’s not my imagination. Bonnie’s cheeks go pink with her words. My girl. Why do those words sound so nice?

She rolls one of her shoulders before measuring and mixing each ingredient right inside each mug. “I made one before you came but didn’t use a hot pad to retrieve it. That’s how I got burnt. She holds up the bandaged pointer I asked to see and nods toward the trash next to the wall not far from me. Inside is glass from what looks like a Scooby Doo mug and the remnants of a chocolate cake.

“Oh dang. And you lost the Scoob in the process?”

Bonnie smirks, her dark lashes fanning as she peers down at her work. “I did indeed. Sad. It was my favorite mug.”

“That is a shame. I’m grateful you didn’t lose your finger too.”

“Oh, I almost did.” She gives me a wide-eyed, teasing glance.

I take two steps closer and lean my back against the counter, close enough to breathe her in. Raspberries… Or is that the sugar from her cake? I clear my senses and say, “I better take a look at it, then.”

She straightens up, her eyes roving over my face. “Okay.” She thrusts her hand out to me. I pick at the bandage, getting a handle on the thing, and she winces.

“Shoot. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The most perfect lips known to man quirk with a smile. “Kidding,” she says.

“Ha. Ha,” I mutter, trying to clear my head of those lips. Because we’re here to spend some friend time together. That’s what she wants, right? “You’re hilarious.”

“I try.”

Careful, I unwind the Band-Aid from around her finger. There’s a small blister on the pad of her index finger with a mean red rim around it. Her other fingers are pink, too—more so than normal, maybe, but no other blisters.

And while I have vowed not to kiss anything on or around or within reach of this woman, I very much want to. Our kiss in the hallway with poor Mrs. Bell watching felt urgent and natural all at the same time. Bonnie had said she needed practice. She didn’t. Not even a little bit.

I’m starting to confuse myself. Does she want to be friends? Does she want to kiss me? And is there a chance for both? Can we explore door number three?

“I’d kiss it better,” I say, “but I think it might make it worse.”

Her fingers curl and she pulls her hand back. Her jaw clenches. “Yeah, well, that was a joke. ”

Turning back to her work, I study her as she carefully measures and stirs each ingredient into one mug.

“Is chocolate okay?”

“It’s great,” I say.

“Good.” She nibbles on her bottom lip, still looking at the work in front of her. “Because I only know how to make chocolate.” Her head tilts to the side and ponytail strands rain down over her bare, scarred shoulder.

I snicker, and because my curiosity can’t stand it any longer, I add, “How did you get that scar?”

She breaks an egg into one of the mugs and stirs, her brows lowering with my question. She peers at me as if she has no idea what I’m talking about.

Did I promise not to touch her or was that another Elliot? Because it’s instinct. I glide my finger over the soft skin of her shoulder, right over the jagged two-inch scar. Goosebumps rise on her skin, only making me want to touch her again.

“Oh. That scar.”

My fingers twitch, begging to touch that spot one more time. “Do you have a lot of scars?”

“A few.” She licks her lips and goes back to work, this time on the second mug. “This one,” she says, tipping her head to her right, directing to her shoulder, “was a painful one.”

I cross my arms over my chest—mostly to control my rebellious hands—and keep my eyes glued to her face. “What does that mean?”

Her gaze darts to mine before dancing back to her mugs. “When we were kids?—”

“You and your sister?”

“Yeah, Meg. We’d visit our grandparents in the country. ”

“In—” I say, finding I need every single detail of her life. We may be here all night.

“Colorado. Mom’s parents are in Colorado. That’s where I grew up too. We’d visit my grandparents for two weeks each summer. One year Grandpa kept talking about the peacock the neighbors owned?—”

“Wait, a peacock. Do people often own peacocks?”

“Sure—at least, Grandpa’s neighbor did.” She taps her spoon on the edge of the mug, then cleans the chocolate-covered utensil off by diving it into her mouth and out again.

The girl is killing me.

“Excuse me—” She points, and I realize I’m standing right in front of the microwave.

I slide over and watch as she sets our mugs inside of a small oven and sets the timer. “Keep going,” I tell her. “The neighbor’s peacock…”

“Grandpa hated the thing. It woke him an hour before his alarm every morning. I’d never seen it, but I’d heard it too—they are loud things. So, I decided I needed to have a talk with the bird. Seven-year-old Bonnie had all the answers.” She snickers and a small sigh falls from her chest. “Meg was too smart to come with me, so I went alone. This wooden fence with horizontal slats separated my grandparents’ home from the Lougherys—their neighbors. I was too short to climb over the top and too big to climb completely beneath it. But I could fit between the slats in the middle. So, I slipped through and went on a secret search for Grandpa’s number one enemy?—”

I blink, picturing little red-headed Bonnie. “The peacock.”

She nods. “Yep. The peacock. ”

“I’m afraid,” I say, watching her. “I’m legit afraid for your life even with you standing right in front of me.”

She smirks. “With good reason.”

The microwave dings, but I ignore it. I’m too entranced with Bonnie’s story.

But Bonnie’s not about to leave her carefully crafted baked goods unattended. She opens the microwave door, and I am reminded of her broken Scooby mug and burnt finger.

“Whoa—” I say. “Hot pad?”

She snuffs out a laugh. “I’ve got one. This time.” She lifts her hand, already covered in a mitt, and retrieves both mugs. She doesn’t motion to give me mine and I am happy to wait. The thing is steaming and I’m waiting for her to finish.

“Did you find the peacock?” I ask, reminding her that we weren’t finished.

“Oh, I found her. It didn’t take long. She was on the other side of the Loughery’s shed. So, I simply started to explain to her how rude she was being. I wanted a very civil face-to-face chat. Very pacifist of me, don’t you think?”

I run a hand over the back of my neck. “Holy smokes. You were seven?”

“Yep. And about to learn a valuable lesson. Peacocks don’t like chatting. They don’t believe in pacifism. Who knew? At first, the bird just stared at me, and I thought she was really listening. I was thrilled. When her feathers came out, I thought maybe she was showing off. Or possibly agreeing with my suggestion to sleep in and leave my grandpa alone between the hours of four and six. But when she started making loud calls and strutting toward me, I knew I was in trouble. ”

Beads of sweat pool over my forehead, and in a nervous gesture, I fold my arms into a cross.

“Whipped cream?” she says, interrupting herself.

My brows knit. “Oh. Um, sure.”

She spoons on a dollop of cream, then taps the mug with her middle finger, testing how hot it is. She hands me the no-longer-scalding cup, along with the spoon still covered in cream. She does the same for herself and takes off for her living room.

Bonnie’s living room is festive, but not Marlene Eaton-explosive. Green garland rounds the two windows, she has a tree in the corner, and two stockings hang on a small wooden post standing near the tree. I like it—it’s warm and inviting without shoving the holiday down your throat.

She sits on her yellow corduroy couch, tossing the red Merry Christmas pillow to the side, and I sit beside her, Noel at our feet.

“You’ve got me on pins and needles. What happened?”

She holds one scooped bite in the air. It hovers in front of her pretty mouth. “I ran. The peacock ran. Bo, the blue shepherd, ran too—but for the bird, not me. I’m pretty sure Bo saved my life that day. Still, I flew between the slats of that fence, and when I caught myself on a nail, I just ripped right through. I wasn’t about to be peacock food.”

I grimace, hissing through my teeth at the thought. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what hurt worse, the nine stitches it took to close me up or the tetanus shots I got after. I do not like peacocks.” She shakes her head, slow and emphatically. “They are the only animal on the planet I can’t stand.”

“I bet.” My eyes fall to her shoulder again. I’d like to stroke that scar one more time, knowing how she got it now. I’m pretty sure it would feel different. I squint, looking a little closer and wanting to know more. “Is that when your anxiety began?”

She presses her sweet lips together—always the lips. I swear, Bonnie Miller’s mouth will be the death of me.

“No,” she says, her eyes casting down and landing on Noel. “I’d always had this brain that envisioned the worst possible outcome in a stressful situation. But then, one day in junior high, I envisioned the worst, like always, but this time, it happened. The worst became reality.” She swallows, her eyes drawing up to mine once more. “My anxiety isn’t really social. Though social things can be stressful. It’s more situational. After that situation came about, I could no longer handle the unknown. There are too many possibilities. And no one could assure me the worst wouldn’t happen—it had. So, sometimes in stressful situations, my body panics. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. My heart attempts to explode. It’s all very annoying.” She gives me half a smile, attempting to blow off the seriousness of her words. But I know better. None of this is funny.

Before I can ask what happened in junior high, she’s talking again. “What about you? Any scars?”

“Um.” I knit my brows, still back in junior high with young Bonnie with a need to know that story. “Sure.”

Bonnie eats her entire cake in a mug, cross-legged, sitting across from me while I tell her about the scar on my right knee after my bike accident two years ago. It’s not nearly as exciting as her peacock story. But she wants to hear it just the same.

She sets her finished mug next to my hardly touched one on the coffee table. “Let me see.”

“You want to see my scar? ”

“Yeah. You saw mine. I want to see yours.”

I smirk and shrug. “Um, okay.” I lift my pant leg just high enough to show Bonnie the rippled little mark just below my kneecap.

“That’s not even an inch long,” she teases.

“I never said it was impressive or a good story.” I lift my mug and shove a spoonful of the chocolaty goodness into my mouth.

“Well, that’s pathetic. You should stop bragging about that thing.”

I’m tempted to wrestle the girl to the ground and shut her up. I don’t—because… well, I’m not sure why at this point. All the reasons not to like Bonnie, not to kiss Bonnie, not to be with Bonnie, are muddled into mush inside my head. I like Bonnie, so why aren’t we kissing again? Maybe I should go for it.

But before I can decide, Bonnie’s stretching out her legs and peering at the little tree in her living room. No ornaments adorn the three-foot tree, just twinkling white lights.

It’s beautiful. And so is she. She looks at the tree and I look at her.

“Elliot,” she says, her eyes sliding over to me, her tone playful. “You’re staring.”

“Bonnie.” The room is dim and quiet, and I’m done trying to resist her. Words fall from my mouth as if she summoned them, as if I have to say them. “I like you.”

She swallows and turns her head to stare back at me. “You do?”

“I know it’s weird with this whole deal we have with Gran. And I know I tried to get you to remove Noel before. And I know it hasn’t been that long since we’ve known one another.” I sit up a little straighter. “But I do. ”

She breathes, and it isn’t lost on me how shaky that breath is. This girl may be anxious, but she’s brave too. She slides her body until she sits right next to me. She lifts my arm, slipping it around her shoulders, then leans against my side, her legs curling up on the couch and her head resting on my chest. She has snuggled right up to me in answer. I’m not complaining.

“I like you too, Elliot.”