Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

6

Elvis’s character redeems himself a little when he repeatedly refuses the advances of a seventeen-year-old, until he spanks the fit-throwing teen a half hour later.

“Yeah, that scene did not age well,” I say, noting Alessia’s as uncomfortable as I am.

“I can’t wrap my head around this being okay in any time period,” she says, shifting her body toward me. “Like, who wrote this scene and said, ‘you know what an emotional female needs? A spanking.’ It’s demeaning. And it happened often in movies back then. John Wayne turned Maureen O’Hara over his knee in McLintock! Totally ruined an otherwise great movie.”

“One of Silas’s favorites.” While I may not have seen as many older movies as Alessia, I’ve definitely seen the entire catalog of John Wayne’s over the years. Clint Eastwood, too. “And I agree. No man should lay a hand on a woman like that. Worse is the implication it’s not only acceptable, but romantic.”

Alessia props her elbow against the couch, leaning her head against her fist as she examines me as if I’m the one who’s been body snatched by aliens.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she says after a moment.

Over the next hour, as we comment on parts we do or don’t like, laugh over the more ridiculous elements and groan over others, Alessia and I somehow inch toward each other until we’re nearly touching.

I’m not sure what the right call is here. Does she realize how close she is? Does this mean she’s revised her opinion of me?

As much as I want to scoot another inch closer, possibly slide my arm across the back of the couch until she’s tucked into my side, that’s not a reality I anticipate ever happening. Not loathing me is still a far cry from welcoming my touch.

Sure, as It’s a Wonderful Life dragged on last night, she slowly slumped toward my side until her head landed on my shoulder. But that was more about fatigue than interest. If she’d been more awake, she’d never have allowed herself to get so close, which is why I gently shifted her onto her own seat before the lights came on.

As Elvis’s character sings to his bride during the final wedding scene, Alessia sighs. “This is what Ms. Peggy wants, and I have no idea how we’re supposed to deliver. I mean, look.” She motions to the screen. “They’re standing on a flower-covered raft in the middle of a pond in Kauai, draped in leis. How are we expected to pull this off with less than a month’s notice in the desert at the end of December?”

She sounds so dejected, I take a chance and slip my arm over her shoulder, drawing her into a side hug. Surprisingly, she leans into the hug and rests her head against my chest. My heart’s beating the Hawaiian hula band’s bongo drums.

“Want me to talk to her?”

“No,” she sighs. “If this is her dream wedding, we’ll have to pull it off somehow. I’ve been researching ideas online, but having seen her vision firsthand, I still don’t know where to begin.”

“Hey,” I say, pulling away and waiting until she meets my gaze. “You are the most organized woman I know. You’re brilliant and creative. I know you’ll do everything possible to ensure Silas and Peggy have the wedding of their dreams.”

“You honestly believe all that?”

The surprise in her brown eyes is killing me.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

She blinks several times in a row like there’s something in her eyes—or she’s about to cry. The way I grew up, I’m no stranger to crying jags. In all the years I’ve known her, though, I’ve never seen Alessia come close to tears. Yet, there, a single droplet escapes despite her efforts to quelch it.

With the barest touch, and slowly, because this is completely new territory for us and I don’t want to mess up, I brush away the teardrop.

“You’re amazing, Alessia. They’re lucky to have you.”

Her gaze lifts to meet mine once more, and it’s torture to see the uncertainty there. She’s usually so sure of herself, it’s easy to forget she’s capable of vulnerability too.

There’s a question that’s been eating at me for weeks, and I have to ask. I whisper it softly against the shell of her ear as I tighten my hold. “But who helps you?”

Every time I’ve seen her around Valle Encantado, she’s hard at work. Alone, except for the brief moments I’ve caught her chatting with the residents or delivering coffee to Pam.

She’s leaning, or maybe I am. I’m aching to throw caution to the wind and touch my lips to hers, but I can’t be sure I’m reading her correctly. The last thing I want is to make the wrong move and have her decide I’m exactly the kind of guy she’s always thought. If she only knew how long it’s been since I’ve kissed a woman…

No. Better to wait until she knows for sure it’s her I’m into, not just any female. That if—when, I hope—we kiss, I’ll be true to her and her alone. She needs more time to know the real me.

Only, her lashes flutter closed as she lifts her chin a fraction. A clear sign she’s in this with me right now.

One small kiss wouldn’t—

“Sorry!”

Alessia leaps into her corner at the sound of Tory’s voice. I relax against the cushion more casually than I feel.

“Izzy forgot her princess bear and won’t go to sleep without it.” Tory reaches behind the couch and bounces up with the pink plush I bought Iz for her first birthday. “Carry on. I didn’t mean to barge in on… anything.”

“You didn’t!” Alessia springs off the couch. “Nothing happened. I was about to leave.”

In ten seconds flat, she’s got her belongings and is out the door already. Tory pauses to give me an apologetic shrug before racing across the road. I’m barely off the couch and onto my porch as Alessia backs out of my driveway.

Well, that could’ve gone better.

Could’ve gone worse, too. For the first time ever, I have hope Alessia’s not as immune to me as she pretends.

Alessia

Embarrassment is much easier to manage with distance and time. This is the prevailing theory I’m working with, anyway.

It’s been five days since Danger Stevens wiped away my tears and lured me this close to a kiss. Well, that’s what I think was about to happen. It’s been a while.

I still cringe whenever I think about it. At this rate, our near-kiss could haunt me for two more years, which means I’ll need to rely on the second half of the equation—distance.

I’d work from home if it were an option, but overseeing activities, verifying transportation, and most everything else I do for an entire community pretty much requires a hands-on approach. Thankfully, I have a storage room in desperate need of organization. Since I finished decorating the public areas for the holidays before my cocoa run on Friday, I can afford to hole up here for a few days on the off chance the confusing man tries to stop by. Bonus, the door locks automatically. So long as I have my keys, I’m happy to close myself inside and only come out to pee.

While moving boxes from their current homes and sorting through their contents, I’ve got a clipboard nearby in case inspiration strikes. My mind processes best when my hands are busy. Hopefully, I’ll figure out a few wedding details in my head as I work.

But who helps you?

Danger lived up to his name with his question. My knee-jerk response? No one. I don’t need help. Unfortunately, his question has turned itself over and under, inside out, and back again on a M?bius loop in my head ever since he whispered it.

I don’t have anyone, at least not locally, who helps me with anything. And that’s been fine up till now. Why should things change?

Any friendships I had in high school and college didn’t stick. When enough people tell you you’re “kind of a lot,” and you’re comfortable being by yourself, you don’t miss the so-called friends you never really had. Besides, I get enough social interaction here at work.

Mom has Gerald and the kids. They enjoy having me around now and then, especially when they need free childcare for a night, but it’s rare they reciprocate. Shortly after they were married, my car broke down. I was a college freshman living on my own (because newlyweds are not fun to live with, trust me), funded by a part-time job and no savings to speak of. I didn’t have a credit card yet. You’d have thought I was asking them for an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas instead of a couple hundred bucks for car repairs.

No one wants to be reminded how much they owe their parents (to the penny) for what most would consider an unavoidable necessity. I learned very quickly to tackle my own problems after that. And don’t get me started on my dad.

The man has never had more than a widow’s mite to spare. In fact, I remember a few times in college Dad called me from some friend’s couch asking if I could Venmo him a few bucks (read: my next paycheck) to help him out till the next gig.

He’s better now that he’s built a reputation as a reliable studio musician, plus he signed on with the popular metal band White Hellebore a few years ago. His wife Cherise is some kind of model, so her income helps too. But with forty-two kids (five or six, whatever), it’s not as though he has spare time or cash when I need him.

So, I don’t. Need him, I mean. Or anyone.

Pulling out an unlabeled tub, I roll my eyes at the contents. Nice. Danae left an entire shelf of empty plastic tubs in here. Five containers without a single item inside. Not stacked, either. Side by side, taking up an entire shelf while the ground overflows with piles of junk. In no time, I have the bins open and am sorting and filling, allowing my mind to wander again.

Paige would be here in a heartbeat if I asked, but with law school, she can’t pick up and fly here on a whim. I bought her a ticket for the twenty-third, but that’s weeks from now.

Which leaves Danger. Stinking. Stevens.

I could probably text him right now and ask for his sisters’ numbers, and Tory and Mave wouldn’t hesitate a second before diving right in. Grams or Ms. Stevens, either. But doing so doesn’t help me with my whole distance/time theory at all.

Gah! Why am I so embarrassed?

Tears are nothing to be ashamed of. They’re a perfectly normal expression of emotion. Just because my father can’t handle tears and my stepdad equates them with manipulation doesn’t mean all men view them poorly. Dan handled them in the sweetest way possible.

The way his eyes flared with concern as he brushed my cheek so gently…

Stop! Not helping, brain.

That’s it. I’m done letting my mind wander to Mr. Warning Label anymore today. There’s too much to do and inspiration has yet to strike.

My checklist—precisely what I need to refocus and untangle my thoughts.

Feelings.

No, brain. Thoughts.

I jam the lid onto the last previously-empty bin and slide it into place on the shelf, then scan my list at the bottom of the clipboard bulleted with the requisite wedding tasks.

We’ll handle the cake and meal in-house. Peggy said her daughter would take care of the invitations. Silas recruited Pastor Johns, our middle-aged chaplain—who coincidentally bears a passable resemblance to The King—to officiate. That leaves venue and décor, by far the most complicated parts of any event.

It’ll be far too cold to host Silas and Peggy’s wedding outdoors, but maintenance would come after me with pitchforks if I brought sand inside. I’ll have to ruminate on this one.

The only venues available on the property are the common area or large dining room. If their guest list is short enough, the clubhouse attached to the indoor pool is feasible. Picturing the greenery and natural-looking boulders around the lagoon-like pool, it might be our best option.

I make a note to ask Peggy for her list right away. If I were thinking clearly the past week, I’d already have it in hand.

What’s next?

A knock on the door interrupts my percolating ideas. I’d be annoyed, but frankly, I need a bathroom break and a snack.

I grab my keys and insert them into the slot on the knob. It’s such an inconvenient, poor design, but my requests to change the lock have so far been met with a hard no.

“Hang on! Almost got it.”

With a quick twist and push, the door swings outward fast, nearly taking out Pam and Peggy.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” With a quick yank, I free my keys and pocket them. “What’s up?”

“Are you free to go over a few wedding details?”

Someday, if I’m blessed enough to marry the love of my life, I hope I’m as serenely happy as Ms. Peggy. I’ve heard of blushing brides and the love glow, but I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen it in person before her.

“Absolutely. Thanks for helping her find me, Pam.”

“Of course, sugar. If you make a cocoa run later…”

A smile pulls my lips. “You got it.” Motioning for Ms. Peggy to walk with me, I adjust my pace to match hers. “Let’s head to my office, shall we? Wait, my list!”

Fiddling once again with my keys, I unlock the door and kick the decorative wooden wedge I use to prop it open on days I’m not in do not disturb mode into place. Once I have the clipboard in hand, I reverse the process and resume our walk toward my office. Ms. Peggy watches in silence with a curious tilt to her head.

“Sorry,” I say. “The storage room lock is tricky. My first week, I didn’t know it requires a key to open from either side and locked myself in. Took Danae two hours to find me.”

“Oh dear. I imagine that was nerve wracking.”

I nod in agreement, chuckling at the memory of how stupid I felt, then how desperate once my bladder began protesting.

“Especially since I left my phone on my desk.”

It’s one of those mistakes I laugh about now, but at the time was humiliating. Nothing says “incompetent noob” quite like locking yourself in a glorified closet without means of contacting anyone for hours. Another life lesson I learned never to repeat.

“Oh! I love it!” Peggy gushes, pointing at something ahead. “You’re so clever in your decorating, Alessia!”

If it weren’t the worst idea ever, I’d gladly take credit. But I can’t because over the double door entry to the hallway where my office is located hangs a sprig of mistletoe.

Mistletoe is a horrible Christmas decoration. Nothing says, “hey baby, let’s kiss” like a poisonous plant. And it’s so cliché. I mean, how many cheesy holiday rom coms are out there coercing the main characters into a kiss to further the plot?

Some women eat that up. Me? I think it’s lazy writing.

“Thank you, Ms. Peggy, but it wasn’t me.”

Reaching to my tiptoes, I’m able to pinch it between two fingers and pull the green bunch down. Thankfully, it’s fake. I’d hate for somebody’s grandchild to get ahold of the real plant and ingest it.

“Oh sweetie, leave it up. It’s so romantic.”

“Therein lies the problem, Ms. Peggy.”

Too many Valle Encantado residents already treat me as their personal romance concierge. The last thing we need are dangling sprigs of inspiration around here. If I don’t get inundated with a rash of weddings to plan, things could swing the other way and the medical staff will hold me personally responsible for the rise in STDs. I shudder to think.

The plastic plant plinks as it lands in my empty wastebasket.

“Please, have a seat.” I usher Ms. Peggy into a plush guest chair, glad I was able to clear my office of last week’s chaos before she came. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to connect yet this week. Do you happen to have your guest list?”

With a nod, she reaches into her pristine cream leather handbag and retrieves a folded sheet of paper. meticulous cursive. After a quick scan of her meticulous cursive, I heave a sigh of relief at the thankfully small guest list.

“I meant to ask—are you envisioning a full scene recreation for your wedding or more of an homage?”

Her answer has the power to make or break my stress levels for the rest of the year. Is it bad I wish I could be mean and tell her no way, pick something easy like White Christmas instead? At this point, I’d settle for any vaguely Christmasy movie instead of a Hawaiian beach one.

“First, let’s see where we’re at with the basics.” Her request is so reasonable, I agree.

After comparing the progress made on each of our to-do lists, I feel a bit more settled. Until she makes a plea that changes everything.

Again.

“I need my son there.”

“Alright…” How will this involve me?

“He refuses to come down from Santa Fe. Sara and Jillian are happy for me, but Peter considers my remarriage a betrayal of his father’s memory. My husband was never comfortable at the mention of Silas. Peter’s a smart boy. I’m not surprised he picked up on his father’s feelings.”

“I’m so sorry.” My hand covers hers. “Must be quite difficult for you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Peggy says, but her eyes are glassy with emotion. “He needs to move on. It’s been ten years.”

I nod, though I’ve never lost anyone close to me, so I can’t speak to how long a person should grieve.

“But there’s nothing I want more, aside from finally becoming Silas’s wife, than to have my boy walk me down the aisle. Do you think…” she swallows hard, her eyes pleading.

My stomach already knows what she’s going to ask before she finishes her sentence. It’s flipping and flapping like a spastic fish lives in there.

“Do you think you could go and persuade him to come? Please? I sold my car after my eyes got too bad to drive at night, and it’s hard on these old bones being in the car so long.”

I’m going to regret this. “Of course, I’ll go.”

She sighs with a grateful smile. “Bless you, sweet girl. Oh, I’ll feel so much better knowing Dan has company!”

Um, what?

“Dan?”

“Oh yes,” she nods emphatically. “He’s got a nice SUV that’ll be safe in the winter weather.”

Winter weather. Right. It’s the desert. We’ll be lucky to see any real weather before February. I can count on one hand the number of white Christmases I’ve seen in Albuquerque in my lifetime.

“Besides, I’m not sure Peter will agree to see Dan. But he’s a… what’s the term they use now? Girl dad. You remind me of my granddaughters. I know he’ll hear you out.”

So much for my distance/time theory.

Half a day or more trapped in an SUV on the road with Danger Stevens. Doesn’t sound like a recipe for trouble at all.

Dan

“You want me to go where?” I heard them the first time; I just don’t understand why. “What’s in Santa Fe?”

Ms. Peggy launches into a literal sob story about needing her son to walk her down the aisle and her wedding will be ruined if he doesn’t agree to come. For some reason this can’t be accomplished by phone. It must be done in person.

Unlike their current ask, which is happening on my lunch break via FaceTime. Why did I have to teach Silas how to use his “newfangled iPhone thingy”?

Ms. Peggy sniffles, wiping her eyes with a tissue Silas handed her from offscreen. I can’t refuse a woman who reminds me of a sweeter version of Grams when she’s crying buckets over her baby boy. It hits far too close to home. My conscience prods with what would I want someone to do for Mom or Grams if they were this desperate?

“All right,” I concede on a long exhale.

Guess I’m going to Santa Fe on Friday afternoon.

“Got a bead on an Elvis suit for Pastor Johns,” Silas adds, his face coming into view as Peggy hands off the device. “An old buddy who was a Vegas impersonator. Easy to pick up while you’re there.”

The speaker crackles in my ear as Silas fumbles to disconnect the call. I crack my neck side to side to release the tension before scarfing the rest of my sandwich. My next class is in five minutes. I should be shifting gears to AP Lit, but my mind’s still on Santa Fe.

Ms. Peggy doesn’t drive anymore, but Silas still drives his beat up 198 Ford F-150 Lariat on the rare occasions he leaves Valle Encantado. Since I taught him how to order groceries online a few years ago, he doesn’t go anywhere, except to hang out with his Vietnam buddies at the VFW and the occasional checkup Valle’s services don’t cover. Santa Fe’s a long distance for him, though, so it’s no real surprise the out-of-town job’s been delegated to me.

I’m not mad about it, especially since Alessia hasn’t needed my help with anything so far. To be honest, I think she’s avoiding me. After arguing with myself for too long, I broke down and texted her a few days ago to clear the air after our movie night. She didn’t respond, and I can’t say I’m not disappointed.

I thought we’d had a moment.

Not a term most men would use, I know. But thanks to the number of chick flicks I’ve been forced to watch due to the overabundance of females in my life, I know a moment when I’m in one.

My guess is she’ll use her own capability (read: inability to accept help) to keep her distance for a while. She doesn’t need to reply for me to get the message. I’m not her type, and she’s not interested in getting to know me after the glimpse she got last weekend. Got it.

Am I disappointed? Of course.

I’ve liked Alessia since sixth grade social studies when I returned to school after a bad case of the flu, and she’d made me a hand-copied set of the notes I’d missed. For the rest of the year, I noticed her kindness and attention to detail with other people too. Plus, even then, she was beautiful with those big eyes and long, dark hair.

She never quite fit in with any one crowd, but I admired how she didn’t strive to fit in like the rest of us. I’d thought we were friends, but something happened that year, and she started acting as if my existence was a personal affront.

In high school, her digs and eyerolling kicked into high gear. That’s when I made a game of pushing her buttons and calling her Alley Cat. Even if she didn’t want to be friends or date me like the other girls did, I craved her attention.

We’re not twelve anymore. If she genuinely wants nothing to do with me, I’ll have to get over my disappointment and move on.

Still, I can help her from the sidelines. If tackling this one task for Ms. Peggy and Silas’s wedding will check another item off what I’m sure is a mile-long to-do list for Alessia, I’m in.

It’s not ideal, but if I run home and change after work Friday, I’ll be in Santa Fe before two. An hour’s drive, another two to chat up Ms. Peggy’s son and secure the Elvis costume, then an hour home puts me back in town by dinnertime.

Not like I had anything better to do except crash the next community Christmas movie with Silas.

I really ought to reconnect with friends my own age.

Not here at work, though. One takeaway from my time in Texas I won’t soon forget—work relationships are the surest path to finding yourself out of a job.

Turning my 4Runner into the Valle Encantado parking lot at 1:55p.m. on Friday, I quickly locate a space and jog to Silas’s apartment, waving to Pam as I pass the front desk. I got stuck in a last-minute parent -teacher conference that ran long, but Silas asked me to stop by and pick something up before heading out of town. A delivery to another “old buddy” while I’m conveniently already there, I’m sure.

Silas opens the door with a crooked cat-got-the-canary grin resembling a few of his old movie heroes and one of mine, Mr. Harrison Ford.

“How are the twerps?” he asks.

Oh, I’m supposed to let his sneaky grin slide? And what’s with the boyish heel-bounce?

“They’re fine. Finished Hemingway, now I get to torture them with grammar for the next week till finals.”

“Don’t you teach something else on Fridays?”

He knows full well Fridays are for the kids’ electives, which is why we dismiss early. As one of the few bookish teachers at a STEM school, the admins recruited me to head up the creative writing and yearbook classes. The other four weekdays are long and intense with college-preparatory classes.

“Silas,” I say in my most authoritative educator voice. “What’s going on?” There’s something fishy here, and I aim to figure out what.

“Nothin’,” he shrugs casually. Too casually.

“Uh huh. Then what’s with the self-satisfied grin, huh? It’s the same one you get after messing with telemarketers.”

He chuckles. “Hey, if they don’t want to be toyed with, they shouldn’t be toying with innocent folks in the middle of dinner.”

“Innocent. Right.”