Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

9

He even smells good. Like sandalwood and cinnamon took a hike in a mountain of butter and sugar.

“Alley,” he nudges my nose with his as the moment stretches and fills me with warmth until I want to curl up inside it forever.

“Yeah, Danny Boy?” I can’t help it. Sorry not sorry.

He rewards me with a soft, cookie scented chuckle.

“I really like you.”

Effervescent bubbles of happiness tempt me to shriek and dance in place, but the earnestness in Dan’s eyes melts those bubbles into a warm gooiness.

He said it first, but I’m so ready to be brave and take my secret crush out of years of denial and into the open.

“I really like you too.”

Dan

The school vibrates with a hum of equal parts anticipation and fear with a splash of chaos—a contagious energy that began on Monday morning and has steadily grown more intense the closer we get to Wednesday’s noon dismissal. I get it, though.

Three days have passed since I last saw Alessia, and I find myself growing as restless as the students, which is why I’m ditching out on the parent-sponsored faculty luncheon and heading straight to Valle Encantado as soon as the bell rings.

“Fifteen minutes.” I call out the warning for my sake as much as the students’.

My two troublemakers in the back squirm in their seats, refocusing their attention on the essay question on the last page of their final exam. I walk one more observant lap around the room before returning to my desk and the book I’ve been reading.

As the dismissal bell sounds over the intercom, my tenth graders race to exchange their exam booklets for their phones from the lockbox on my desk and flee the room. I slide my book into my messenger bag, give the room a quick onceover before shutting off the lights, and lock the door.

Free at last.

After dodging and weaving through the throng of students, I’m halfway to the exit when our principal, Ms. Farouq, steps into my path. I feel like a kid getting caught ditching class with the way she holds her covered head high and stares down her nose at me, a feat for someone a head shorter than my five-feet-eleven.

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Stevens? Will you not attend the luncheon?” The censure in her tone gives me pause.

“I’m sorry, no. I have an appointment at one.”

Which is true. I’m picking Alessia up to take her to the flower shop to find out if it’s possible to import tropical flowers this time of year without spending the gross national income of a small country.

One precisely lined eyebrow lifts. “I see.”

Uh oh, more censure. That does not bode well.

“This is not the first faculty social event you have missed, Mr. Stevens. Positive relationships within the faculty foster a supportive environment which is vital to the success of our school community. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I will make more of an effort to engage with my coworkers socially after the break.”

“Excellent,” she says with a regal air before dismissing me with a nod.

Air puffs from my cheeks as I finish my trek through the now empty hallway and out the doors to the parking lot. I had a feeling this might become an issue, but I’d been hoping to fly under the radar a little longer.

Alessia asked if there was another reason for leaving Texas when my family called about Brian’s passing. There certainly was, and I have zero regrets about leaving. I also have no intention of forming relationships with anyone from work, either.

Been there, done that, and lost my job because of it.

“I’m in shock.” Alessia sighs as we exit the flower shop. She elevates a flat, dramatically trembling hand. “Look at this. Actual shock!”

“Sticker shock,” I roll my eyes, opening the passenger door. She’s rubbing off on me. “Exaggerate much?”

As she climbs inside the SUV, Alessia screws up her face and sticks out her tongue. It’s ridiculous, and much cuter than her eyerolls. I close the door and round the vehicle, returning the goofy face through the windshield. Her laughter washes over me as I climb into the driver’s seat and blow onto my frozen fingers. I needed that sound after three days of exam energy and getting reprimanded earlier. It warms me faster than the old heater in this vehicle will.

“I can’t go to Peggy and Silas with these numbers. They’re on a fixed income!”

“Als, you do realize how much an apartment at Valle Encantado costs, right? That kind of lifestyle doesn’t come cheap.”

“I know, but—”

“All-inclusive active lifestyle community,” I add, parroting their tagline. “It’s not the kind of place people with limited income can afford to retire.”

“Not true, Valle has options for—”

“I promise. Peggy’s not going to feel the same sticker shock as you. She’s loaded.”

“Really?” She rears, eyes widening in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Silas was grousing about blowing money on a big theme wedding last week. Peggy threw a wet dishrag at his chest and said, ‘what happened to if that’s what the love of my life wants, then that’s what she’ll have, huh?’” I chuckle at the memory. “Then she told him it was her money, and she couldn’t take it with her in the end, so why not. I’ve surmised from conversations with Silas that her family’s money played a big part in why they broke up in the first place.”

“I had no idea. She’s not flashy about it.”

“Most wealthy people aren’t flashy. That’s how they stay wealthy.”

We head to Valle Encantado and greet Pam on our way to Ms. Peggy’s apartment. Without warning, Alessia jumps with her hand raised above her head and slaps the top of the doorframe as we pass through. I didn’t think anybody over the age of seventeen did that.

Her cheeks turn bright pink.

“What was that about?”

She shows me a small cluster of green pinched between her fingertips. “Mistletoe. I remove them, and somebody puts them back up. It’s annoying!”

“Wait, you mean there’s a Christmas decoration you don’t want up?” The place is a veritable showcase of holiday décor thanks to her.

“It’s mistletoe, Dan. What do you think?”

I trip over my own feet, barely managing to catch myself before plowing into Alessia, but she keeps walking—oblivious to the way her use of my name now has me following her like a panting stray.

She must notice I’m lagging behind. Cocking her head to the side, she gives me a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“First of all, this moment must be documented for posterity. Let the record show, at 5:08pm on Wednesday, December thirteenth, Alessia Catano first called me Dan.”

I love her eyerolls. She follows it up with an adorably amused smile. “You’re such a goof. What’s the second?”

I grin. “What’s wrong with mistletoe?”

Alessia groans dramatically. “So many things.”

Each of which she enumerates the rest of the walk to Ms. Peggy’s door. The older woman greets us with a warm smile and ushers us inside. Alessia glances around with her mouth falling into an awed O shape. I told her the woman had money.

The place is pristine, professionally decorated in varying shades of white, according to Grams. To me it just looks like white walls with white floral paintings, white furniture, and white knickknacks on white shelves. The stark white is broken up by the occasional glimmer of gold trim and dark orange throw pillows on either end of her sofa.

“Your home is beautiful, Ms. Peggy,” Alessia says, still taking everything in. “I love all the windows.”

“The windows are what sold me on this unit. Now, dear, what did the florist have to say?” Peggy ushers us to the loveseat and takes the adjacent chair. “Thank you both for going on my behalf. I’ve been slowing down, you know, and don’t have the stamina for going out I used to.”

A load of baloney. Ms. Peggy takes daily walks around the entire community. While she doesn’t leave the property much anymore, she told me it’s because she prefers her peaceful bubble over the pace of city life.

“We were happy to do it,” Alessia says, patting the older woman’s hand gently. “I mean, being surrounded by flowers in the middle of December? Such a hardship.”

Peggy’s laugh is as soft and sweet as the woman herself. The women talk through the floral details, which is great because Alessia took half a million pictures on her tablet, and I only retained about ten percent of what the florist said. Als shows the bride-to-be her final photograph—the official cost estimate including rush order fees and premiums for the holiday season and imported blooms.

“Did you get a second bid?”

Alessia nods. “This one is willing to give a ten percent discount since they deliver to the community regularly.”

“They’re a chain though, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go with the local shop. I’d prefer to pay extra to support a small business.”

“I wish more people did the same, Ms. Peggy. I’ll be honest, their arrangements looked better too. A clear case of getting what you pay for.”

“It usually is. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to handle this for me, sweetheart. My goodness! It’s twenty after. I’m meeting Silas in the bistro at five-thirty. Would you two care to join us?”

“No, ma’am,” I say, in case they’ve forgotten I’m still here. “We have plans.”

Alessia’s head whips around on her neck so fast she’ll need a chiropractor. Before she outs me, I pump my eyebrows. She, of course, rolls her eyes.

“Well, wonderful!” Ms. Peggy gushes. “You two enjoy your date.”

“Oh!” Alessia gasps. “It’s not—”

“We will, thanks,” I interject, leaning to give Ms. Peggy a quick hug goodbye before tugging Alessia out the door.

She’s protesting before we’re halfway down the hall.

“Dan, why did you let her think we’re going on a date?”

I grab her by the hand and spin her to a stop with her back against the wall. Careful not to crowd her too much, I tilt her chin until our gazes meet.

“Alessia,” I say darkly. She has no idea what she does to me. “That’s the second time you’ve called me Dan.”

Her eyes widen. “So?”

“So, I like you. You like me. I very much want to take you on a date. Tonight, or any other. What do you say?”

I watch her throat pulse around a swallow. She has a lovely neck, and one day soon I’m going to press my lips right on the tiny mole below her ear.

“Yes,” she says on a feathery exhale, and it takes every ounce of restraint I can muster not to kiss her before we have a first date. Especially when she gives me a look like it’s me she wants, not dinner.

“Great. Shall we?” I nod toward the exit.

At the next doorway, she groans, reaches up, and removes another green sprig, tossing it into the nearest receptacle.

“Oh, and Alley Cat?”

She tilts her head, waiting.

“You’re wrong about the mistletoe.”

Alessia

This is the point I should probably explain my history with Danger Stevens. It’s perfect timing since I’m hiding out in the bathroom while waiting for our table to be ready and all.

Why am I hiding in the bathroom?

Excellent question. I wish I had the answer.

Maybe because I AM ON A DATE WITH DANGER STEVENS.

I want to be here. I do. I’m only having a teeny tiny, itty-bitty freak out, that’s all.

Because feelings.

They’re bombarding me, making me feel all kinds of awkward right now. If I leave this bathroom before I’ve had sufficient time to get the Everything Everywhere All at Once level chaos that is my head fully sorted, this date’s going to be weirder than the blind date Paige sent me on four years ago where the guy let one rip at the table and proceeded to make a case for normalizing flatulence.

I shudder to rid my mind of the foul memory.

Ahem, so, history.

I met Danger Stevens in sixth grade. The first year of middle school is a fresh kind of misery. You’ve just left the safety of elementary as the top dogs, and now it’s a repeat of kindergarten, only with hormones. And those hormones hit everyone differently, and no one knows how to deal with them. Everything constantly feels SO BIG, the stakes higher than high.

Danger Stevens was the boy all the girls had a crush on. He had Jesse McCartney’s eyes and Chad Michael Murray’s hair and smile. Good student, fast runner. Comfortable in his own skin—or did a better job of faking it than the rest of us. Those days even I thought his name was cool. Best of all, he was nice.

So, when he started sitting next to me in social studies, talking to me as if I were the only girl in the world, it was only natural I developed a crush too. Unfortunately, shortly after I discovered boys could be fascinating and flirting could be fun, my world bottomed out.

Dad’s multiple affairs and Paige’s existence came to light, and suddenly I couldn’t look at any male without wondering if he was destined to be the same kind of guy. My mom was a blindsided mess of tears and bitterness for the remainder of my formative years, which I’ll admit left me more than a little jaded as well.

My crush on Danger persisted despite my extreme efforts to squash it. I watched from the sidelines as the same attention that had made me feel so special was lavished on other girls too, and it was more than my young heart could bear. So, I made a game of quips and digs to keep him in his place. To remind him not all the girls wanted to be kept on his leash.

Remember, though, Dan was nice. Especially to females.

He never actually strung anyone along. In truth, he didn’t really date much in high school, and the few times I saw him with girls in college, he was the same respectable guy he always had been.

I know it now and I knew it then, but when a girl is drowning in huge, ugly, angry feelings for her father she can’t express in a healthy fashion, she finds other ways to lash out. Namely at a boy who speaks charm and banter fluently and can do no wrong in the eyes of other women.

Like Daddy.

I’d like to take a moment to say a prayer of thanks for my therapist. She helped me unpack much of this years ago, and while I bounce my troubles mostly off my rabbit now, the skills I learned are the reason I’m melting down here in this bathroom instead of getting my kicks still tormenting Dan. Someday I pray for a nice, happy middle ground.

The bathroom door swings open as I finish washing my hands. The hostess, who tried (and failed, by the way) to flirt with Dan as she put us on the list, walks in.

“Your boyfriend is looking for you.”

“Oh he’s—” I cut off my own protest. It’s none of her business what my relationship with Dan is.

Drying off my hands with a paper towel, I thank her and turn to leave, but my feet don’t obey because I now realize I’ve been in here too long. He’s going to think I have a gastrointestinal problem.

Oh my gosh, I already feel my face flaming.

I’m stuck in limbo. As much as I want to go out there and enjoy my first date with Danger Stevens—

That’s it. I’m not giving up the full name. It’s grown on me, and henceforth shall be used to refer to the crush version of the man.

Wait, so which version am I on a date with?

Both, genius.

I’m staying in here forever. He can’t see me post-meltdown. He’ll see my crazy and run the whole way back to Texas.

“Your table’s ready. Has been, for like, five minutes.” Hostess girl’s sour attitude yanks me out of my meltdown, and now I’m embarrassed all over again.

“Sorry,” I squeak and flee the restroom.

The hallway is mercifully long enough to compose myself and think of an excuse. It doesn’t take long to spot Dan across the restaurant in a dimly lit corner. He smiles and stands when our eyes meet. I feel all glittery inside with an urge to pick up the pace.

Gosh, I really like him, don’t I?

“Hey,” he greets me warmly, pulling out my chair.

Because this is a date.

“I wasn’t—” I stop myself before blurting about details best left unspoken on a date where food is present. “You know. In there.”

Weirdly thumbing toward the restroom, I blather on. “I was washing my hands and giving myself a peptalk.”

“Peptalk, huh?” He adds the smirky half-smile that used to tick me off (because I loved it, gah!).

“Needed more intelligent conversation?”

I love his recall of what I consider a Top 20 quip.

“Relax, Als.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms from behind as I take my seat. “Doesn’t take a mind reader to see you’re nervous. Full confession, I am too.”

He is? He looks so calm. Not fair.

“So how about this,” he says, resuming his seat. “Let’s simply enjoy our meal with conversation. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people who’ve known each other the better part of twenty years without ever truly knowing each other.”

I don’t understand why his words work, but my mind and body calm in a heartbeat.

“Okay.” My response comes out on an exhale. “I can do that.”

Our server brings an oblong white plate to the table. “Here are your eggrolls. On this end,” she points a long, manicured nail to the closest corner. “We have two of our Burque rolls, which are stuffed with carne asada, green chile, and our house blend of carrots, jicama, taro, and bean threads. Next, we have our take on the fusion classic kimchi quesadilla in eggroll form. And on the far end are two traditional pork eggrolls filled with our house blend vegetables.”

My eyes grow wider with each new description. I glance at Dan, and he’s positively mesmerized.

“Thanks,” he tells her without glancing up.

She smiles and saunters away. I notice the way Dan’s eyes are fixed on me.

He gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry for ordering without you. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be and thought an appetizer would buy us some time to choose entrees.”

“They look amazing.” I reach for one of the traditional rolls first and sink my teeth into the crispy outer layer.

While I’m an adventurous eater, I’ve never been to a Latin-Asian fusion restaurant. The crunch is satisfying, but it’s the blend of flavors inside that inspires a groan.

“Right?” Dan says with a grin, biting into one of the kimchi ones.

I try that one next, and while I’m not so sure about the texture, it’s loaded with cheesy spicy goodness I devour greedily. By the time the server delivers our entrees—pad thai tacos for me, a sushiritto for Dan, and kamikaze fries to share—I’m in love.

“How did you find this place?”

He shrugs as though he hasn’t completely changed my culinary future. “Couple of teachers at work.”

Figures he’d have friends at work already. I mean, how can he not? The man’s a people magnet.

“So, you’ve eaten here before? With your friends?”

“Oh, no. Coworkers. I overheard them talking about it. Sounded good, and I always dread the ‘what do you want’ merry-go-round.”

“Me too. Glad you suggested this. I enjoy trying new places.”

The food chips away the last of my awkwardness as we review our selections, playacting as food critics. He delivers a description of the kamikaze fries that’s so spot on I wouldn’t be shocked to learn he’s one of those people who leaves detailed, novel-length reviews on Yelp. He is a word guy, after all. I am, however, taken aback at how hard he’s got me cracking up.

Also, his presence inexplicably quiets my overactive mind. Have I ever noticed before?

I’m noticing other things, too.

The way he gives me his full attention, for one. The fact he hasn’t noticed our hostess playing refill-bringer instead of our server or how she leans so far forward I fear she’ll have a wardrobe malfunction isn’t lost on me.

My favorite, though, is how easily the conversation flows once I’m not stuck inside my head or trying too hard. He’s always brought out my snarky side, but now I have this desire to tell him all kinds of crazy things I wouldn’t normally share with anyone but Paige.

I tried dating for a while. Never clicked with anyone enough to push myself past the awkwardness or desire to stay home on the couch in my jammies with Audrey HepBun. Tonight’s been a welcome change.

It’s late by the time he takes me to my car in the Valle Encantado parking lot. In the pitch dark, he insists on rounding the vehicle to get my door and “see me safely inside.”