12 Days of Mistletoe

42. Elliot

FORTY-TWO

elliot

I pace across from a sleeping Bonnie, phone in hand.

Me: We’re not going to make the second half either.

Mom: Oh no. Is Bonnie okay?

Me: Yeah. She’s resting.

Mom: What happened?

Me: I’m not sure. I don’t think there’s always a reason or perfect formula for someone experiencing an anxiety attack.

In truth, I don’t know much. Not firsthand anyway. I know what my elementary health textbook teaches children and what Bonnie has told me.

Me: Being separated from Noel probably wasn’t helpful.

Mom: Well, that makes me feel terrible.

Me: None of us knew, Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got her. We’ll see you at home.

Me: Can you get Gran home?

Mom: We’ve got room. Give Bonnie our love. And find out what you did.

What I did?

I didn’t do anything.

Did I?

I was so focused on how I could help. I never thought to ask what had triggered the attack. I could clearly see her chest heaving with rapid breaths. For a second I thought she might throw up. But the minute we left the symphony things improved. They got even better when we settled in here, at the Bozeman Planetarium.

I’ve been trying to remind myself that tabling our feelings was a smart idea. We both thought so. I’m also reminding myself that Christmas Eve is in two days. Gran’s Twelve Days of Mistletoe will be over, and anything fake will be off the table. No pun intended. All actions will be our own and not a manipulating grandmother’s sneaky plan.

I like Bonnie.

She’s fun and different from other women I’ve dated. She’s passionate about others and the causes she believes in. While she may consider her anxiety a disability, it’s helped me see her strength and how a person can rise above. She’s empathic and caring. She’s ridiculously beautiful. I’m not sure how the most beautiful, thoughtful girl in the room—any room, not just this empty planetarium theater—is still single .

Are men really that dumb?

I look up from my phone—the screen has gone black as I’ve stood here in thought– peering at Bonnie. Her long hair fans out over the bench seat and my coat, which dubs as a pillow beneath her head. Her eyes are closed and black lashes fan downward like a china doll. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are as full and sweet as ever. Her shoulders are bare, and because I know where to look, I can see the edge of her peacock-chase scar from here.

She’s working three jobs to work for free at her nonprofit. She might be Christmas in the form of a human. She is everything good and right in the world. And if I’m being honest with myself, I more than like her.

She stretches her arms at her sides and rolls to her left—then right off the small bench I’ve left her on. I lurch—but it’s too late.

Crap .

“Bonnie,” I call, my voice reverberating off the walls of this theater. I hurry over but she’s hit the ground, stomach and face first. I cringe. If I’d been ten steps closer, I might have caught her. “Dang. Are you all right?”

She grunts and rolls onto her back, peering up at me. “Ouch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” she says, her nose wrinkled as she pushes herself up on her elbows.

I crouch down and hold out a hand, pulling her to sit up all the way. “Your bench isn’t a great bed—that’s what happened.”

“I forgot where we were. I just—” She shakes her head. Huffing out a breath, she runs both hands over her face. “ Smooth move, eh?”

I snicker. “So, you’re no Simone Biles. The world already has one of her anyway.”

Her brows lower and she stares at me. “Are you saying my dismount was less than awesome?”

“Your dismount from the bench you were sleeping on? Maybe. Come on, let’s get you up.” I wrap one arm around her back and help her to her feet. Her chest bumps mine and I keep my arm around her, stabling her on those wobbly feet.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

I swallow. “No problem.” I don’t mind having an excuse to wrap my arm around her.

Walking over to the bench, we sit side by side. Bonnie rests her head back against the wall.

“I’m sorry for the whole night, Elliot. Your family’s lifelong tradition, and I ruin it with dumb emotions.”

She isn’t looking at me, so I slip my hand into hers—screw tabling, she needs this. And maybe I do too. “Your emotions aren’t dumb. They just are.”

Her blue-green eyes blink open. “I’m still sorry.”

“I’m happy to be here with you, Bonnie. I don’t know if you realize that. But this is where I want to be.”

She swallows. “You really hate the symphony, huh?”

I chuckle. “Actually, I love it.” I pull her fingers to my lips and kiss the back of her hand, silently confessing that I like her even more than I like the symphony.

Pink blooms in her cheeks again, but she hides her face by laying her head on my shoulder.

“Can I ask questions?” I’m hesitant, but I want to know. There are things I want to ask and know, but I’m not trying to pry or make her any more uncomfortable.

“You just did,” she teases. Her fingers are laced through mine, her thumb tracing over the soft skin between my thumb and index finger.

“Right,” I say, not letting it go so easy. “But can I ask about what happened?”

She doesn’t lift her head. She doesn’t look at me. “Sure.” The word is so small, so fragile. I am treading on sacred ground.

“My mom—well, she said something—” I’m fumbling, trying to get out my thought and it’s not going well.

“What?”

“She asked what I did.”

Bonnie’s head tilts and she peers up at me, those blue-green eyes piercing me. “I don’t follow.”

“She wanted to know what I did wrong—” I realize I don’t know the proper etiquette here. What do I call her attack?

“As in, what you did to cause my anxiety attack?”

“Yeah. I never asked. I just wanted to help. But if I did something wrong?—”

“Elliot,” she says, her free hand covering our knotted fingers. “You didn’t do anything. And honestly, I appreciate you asking how to help before asking why it happened. I hate that word.”

I clear my throat. “At the risk of getting hit—can I ask why you hate that word?”

She breathes out a non-humorous laugh. “Because there isn’t always a why. Because sometimes, like today, it’s a really stupid why . I lost it and I shouldn’t have.”

“You didn’t lose it.”

“I couldn’t breathe. I was shaking. My mind wouldn’t stop reeling with worry—all over nothing. Logically I know it’s dumb, and yet it feels so real. ”

“Will you please stop calling your feelings dumb? I may not be an expert, but I am an elementary school physical education teacher.”

That makes her smile like I’ve shared something funny. I don’t mind. It is a funny brag. But also—it’s legit.

“I teach health to more than a hundred children every year. I would never ever want them to believe that their feelings are dumb . And be honest, you wouldn’t either. Your emotions are how your body tells you what you need. You need Noel. You need quiet at times. You need breathing exercises. You’d never tell a diabetic they were dumb for needing an insulin shot.”

I’m not telling her anything new. She knows this. Still, her eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“You just—” I start, but Bonnie stretches her neck, lifting her face closer to mine, and shuts me up with a kiss.

Pulling back, she takes in a shaky breath, her eyes locking with mine once more. They’re filled with regret, so it’s no surprise when the first word out of her mouth is, “Sorry?” Though it’s more a question than a statement.

“You really need to learn when to apologize,” I say. Her warm breath tickles my chin, and I lean down to peck her once more.

“But we’re tabling,” she says, her lips against mine muffling each word.

“Right.” I’m starting to really dislike that idea. I roll my neck and swallow.

There are unanswered questions in the air, things that probably need to be addressed before I go breaking rules Bonnie and I put into place. Those rules had reasons… didn’t they? I forget .

“So, I didn’t do anything?” I say, rather than use that three-letter word she hates so much.

“It wasn’t you.” She breathes out, leaning her head to my chest once more. “I don’t have a dress.”

“Sorry. A dress?”

“Gran said your Christmas Eve party was big and fancy and formal. I don’t have a casual dress, let alone a nice one, Elliot. I’m going to embarrass you and your family and?—”

“Hold up,” I say, because that sentence is starting to sound like a dark, spiraling tunnel. “You don’t have a dress for Gran’s party?”

In Bonnie’s defense, it is a fancy party—a dress-up, elaborate-finger-foods, champagne, my-gran-starts-planning-in-June kind of a party.

“I do not,” she says, and her voice is so small, my heart breaks at the sound of it.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say.

“I have no money. I spent everything extra I had on Abby’s dog.”

“All of it? Woo , expensive dog. Okay. That’s okay. I’m sure Evelyn or Jocelyn have one you could borrow. And if you’d rather, we’ll come back here, spend another day at the planetarium instead of going to the party.”

“You’d do that?”

At the risk of my life—because Mom and Gran might ban together to murder me. “I would.”