Christmas Kisses

6. Angel

6

ANGEL

W hen I hear the hiss of a man with numerous cuts on his feet, I shove an empty peroxide bottle and the ugly Christmas sweater Mrs. Roach from apartment 18B knitted for me beneath the entryway table before snatching up the food Christian’s generosity purchased.

I don’t know the name of the wool that Mrs. Roach knitted into a Christmas sweater with a matching scarf, but its shedding resembles a Maremma Sheepdog with a severe skin condition. I lived off its spawns for days after she made me try it on in the foyer of our building last week, and they clung to every article of clothing within a two-mile radius.

One also lodged up my nose.

When it sent my hay fever into a frenzy, I stored it at the bottom of my laundry basket, hopeful one ungentle cycle would destroy it beyond repair.

Laundry day is tomorrow—thank god.

The reminder of my sweater’s existence conjured up the perfect this-is-why-I’m-single ruse.

With one tactic devised, a hundred more steamrolled into me. The next twenty-four hours will be the most fun I’ve had in the week leading to Christmas in years.

“Hey.” I make my voice extra cutesy, giving it that babyish edge most men hate when I spot Christian’s arrival in the corner of my eye. “Do you like Indian?” I jingle the takeout bag that cost him over two hundred dollars. “I ordered enough for an army. I hope you don’t mind. I’m famished.”

Christian takes in the many dishes I ordered, before smiling. I wish he wouldn’t. He’s dressed now, so his smile shouldn’t affect me how it did earlier, but I’d be a liar if I said my heart didn’t break into a trot at the first turn of his plump top lip.

“No problem at all. I love Indian food, and I’m also starving.”

He’s quick to hide the grimace crossing his face when his wallet is closed without needing to squash down the bundle of bills it was housing only minutes ago.

“I couldn’t go light on the tip. It is only days until Christmas. We all need a hand at this time of the year, and I can’t think of someone more deserving than the people forced to work through the festive season.” I lock eyes with him before lowering my bottom lip. “It is lucky for us we don’t need to work, hey?”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, his agreeance not as firm as earlier. I can’t blame him. The delivery driver’s tip was five times the bill. I cleared out every denomination in his wallet, including his minimal number of coins. “Though I might need to run to a teller before tomorrow’s delivery.”

His reply shunts me out of improv, but I hide it well. “Tomorrow’s delivery?”

He follows me into the kitchen, where I unload all the dishes I purchased onto the island where I scarfed down a semi-stale chocolate croissant without coming up for air. “The tree I ordered while you were showering is being delivered tomorrow morning.” He flops his backside, which looks mighty fine in a pair of gray sweatpants, onto a backless swivel stool. “I should probably order you some more shampoo, too. I didn’t realize I had used so much until I couldn’t get it to rinse out.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile. I laughed so hard while watching a YouTube clip of a prankster pouring shampoo over bodybuilders’ heads when they attempted to wash off the sweat of a beachside workout. Shampoo suds went everywhere. They were coated head to toe—as was Christian when I tested out an internet prank on a real-life victim.

Don’t look at me like that. Not once did my eyes veer below his belly button while implementing my ruse. I was too busy dodging the hand he speared out of the shower curtain minutes earlier than predicted to ogle a cock I’m confident is massive.

The outline in his sweatpants is gigantic, and it has me suddenly starving.

I’m snapped from my inappropriate thoughts when Christian says, “Is there a particular brand you’d like me to purchase, or shall I leave it up to the DoorDash driver to decide?”

“I don’t need more shampoo.”

I fight not to melt under the heat of his gaze. Anyone would swear he’s on to me. I doubt it, but I need to be careful with my skits tonight to ensure he’s hit with their full impact.

“I also don’t need a tree. I’m… ah…”—I take in the aroma of the dishes in front of me before blurting out—“Hindu.”

Like all Indian food novices, he pushes the curry to my side of the island before snatching up a less ominous-looking dish. “Then we will call it a Bana Din tree.” When my brows scrunch, he gives me a look as if to say, Busted! before he spears his fork into a green bean salad. “Nearly all Hindu people in India celebrate Diwali, but just as many also celebrate Christmas. They call it Bana Din. It means Big Day.”

His knowledge is as sexy as his face, but I refuse to let him know that. “Whatever they call it, I don’t care. I don’t want a tree.”

“But—”

“No, Christian.”

My snapped reply displays too many emotions, but it can’t be helped. This is one thing I refuse to budge on. I’d rather tell him I know about his ruse than act like Christmas is a big deal.

He takes a moment to authenticate the sheer determination on my face before giving in. “All right. I’ll cancel the tree.” He shoves another forkful of beans into his mouth before talking around them. “But you’re going to need to suck it up when it comes to selecting a costume.”

When I stare at him, lost, he boinks my nose with the end of his plastic fork before he continues to explain and eat.

I wish I could join him, but even with my ex being Korean, I can’t handle the level of spice I requested the restauranter to put into our selected dishes.

They’re about to set Christian’s stomach on fire.

“When you were breaking into my apartment”—he talks faster when I attempt to interrupt him—“the man accompanying you said the invite is for a Christmas costume party.” He guzzles down half a bottle of water without coming up for air. “Going to an event like that without a costume would be like not a single sophomore dressing up as a slutty cheerleader for Halloween.”

My mouth drops open. “I dressed up as a slutty cheerleader my sophomore year.”

He’s smarter than I wish to give him credit for. “I said during Halloween.” He swivels his tongue around his mouth before arrowing another forkful of his chosen dish toward his mouth. “Everyday wear doesn’t count.” He fans the collar of his plain white shirt that’s had my head in a tizzy as well as the dish he is consuming is about to do a number on his intestines. “Is it hot in here? I get it’s Florida, but damn. I wasn’t expecting it to be so warm.”

He scans the dishes and then my clean fork.

Quicker than I can snap my fingers, suspicion hardens his features. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Oh. Um. I ate earlier.”

“Then why did… you… order… so… much.” His words are separated by breathy exhales.

I can’t feel what he’s feeling, but I’m reasonably sure he is acting like a man getting stabbed in the rectum with a big-ass knife.

“Are you okay?” My voice is back to the disgustingly chipper one I was using earlier. It seems to come out when I’m struggling not to laugh. “You don’t look very good.”

“I’m fine…” Christian’s eyes bulge before he folds in two. “Sweet mother of God. What the fuck is that?”

“Maybe you have an intolerance to spices? I once had kimchi jjigae. Within minutes of eating it, I felt like my insides were on fire. Is that how you’re feeling?”

He nods before his hand shoots for another bottle of water.

“You should try yogurt or milk. Water will only double the scald incinerating your tastebuds.” I point to the fridge when his tongue sticks out as if my theory is proven accurate with only one swish of water. “There could be milk in there. It’s most likely out of date by half a decade, but you’re welcome to it. ”

In his desperation, and since I am whispering, he either misses my last sentence or is willing to risk food poisoning to stop the burn melting his insides.

He snatches the milk jug out of the fridge and downs it so fast that several clumps of curdled milk slide down his throat before he remembers you’re not meant to chew liquids.

“Oh no,” I murmur again, faking innocence when he stares at me with spoiled milk spilling from his mouth and the glare of a murderer. “I forgot about the power outage last week. Is it bad?”

He grits his teeth, fighting like hell not to yell the words I see in his eyes. “You could say that.” Again, his eyes bulge before a noise I’ve never heard before gurgles through his stomach. “No. This is not happening.” His voice is on the verge of a sob—as fast and unhinged as the steps he uses to race back to the bathroom.

I feel bad this time when he pops several pronged Christmas lights during the short trek, though it has nothing on the disappointment that rains down on me when I remember my bedroom butts against the bathroom Christian will most likely hog the entire night, and I have only one toilet.