My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(7)

Mags frowned. “Maybe I do.”

He looked devastated and pulled his head back. “You wouldn’t tell me something like that?”

“No,” she said, “no—Noel, of course, I would. I’d tell you. I just don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know why I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“It’s going to get worse,” he said. “You’re going to keep changing.”

“Well, so are you,” she said.

“I never change.”

Mags laughed. “You’re a kaleidoscope. You change every time I look away.”

“Don’t you hate that?” he asked.

Mags shook her head. Her nose rubbed against his. “I love it.”

They’d stopped swaying.

“Are we still dancing?” she asked.

“We’re still dancing. Don’t get any big ideas, Margaret.” He let go of her hand and wrapped that arm around her, too. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I never go anywhere,” Mags whispered.

He shook his head like she was a liar. “You’re my best friend,” he said.

“You have lots of best friends,” she said.

“No,” Noel said. “Just you.”

Mags held on to his neck with both arms. She pushed on his forehead. He smelled like skin.

“I can’t get close enough,” Noel said.

*

Somebody realized that the song was on repeat and skipped to the next one.

Somebody else realized that Mags and Noel were gone. Natalie came looking for Noel. “Noel! Come dance with me! They’re playing our song!”

It was that Ke$ha song.

Noel pulled away from Mags. He grinned at her sheepishly. Like he’d been silly on the stairway, but she’d forgive him, wouldn’t she? And there was a party downstairs, they should be at the party, right?

Noel went downstairs, and Mags followed.

The party had changed while they were gone: Everybody seemed a little bit younger again. They’d kicked off their shoes and were jumping on couches. They were singing all the words to the songs they always sang all the words to.

Noel took off his jacket and threw it to Mags. She caught it because she had good hands.

Noel looked good.

Long and pale. In dark red jeans that no one else would wear. In a T-shirt that would have hung on him last year.

He looked so good.

And she loved him so much.

And Mags couldn’t do it again.

She couldn’t stand across the room and watch Noel kiss someone else. Not tonight. She couldn’t watch somebody else get the kiss she’d been working so hard for, since the moment they’d met.

So, a few minutes before midnight, Mags scooped up a handful of Chex mix and acted like she was going into the hall. Like maybe she was going to the bathroom. Or maybe she was going to check the filter on the furnace.

Then she slipped out the back door. No one would think to look for her outside in the snow.

It was cold, but Mags still had Noel’s jacket, so she put it on. She leaned against the foundation of Alicia’s house and ate Alicia’s mom’s Chex mix—Mrs. Porter made the best Chex mix—and listened to the music.

Then the music stopped, and the counting started.

And it was good that Mags was out here, because it would hurt too much to be in there. It always hurt too much, and this year, it might kill her.

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Mags?” someone called.

It was Noel. She recognized his voice.

“Margaret?”

“Four!”

“Here,” Mags said. Then, a little louder, “Here!” Because she was his best friend, and avoiding him was one thing, but hiding from him was another.

“Two!”

“Mags…”

She could see Noel then, in a shaft of moonlight breaking through the slats of the deck above her. His eyes had gone all soft, and he was raising his eyebrows.

“One!”

Mags nodded, and pushed with her shoulders away from the house, then Noel pushed her right back—pinning her as much as he was hugging her as much as he was crowding her against the wall.

He kissed her hard.

Mags hooked both arms around the back of his head, pressing their faces together, their chins and open mouths.

Noel held on to both of her shoulders.

After a few minutes—maybe more than a few minutes, after awhile—they both seemed to trust the other not to go.

They eased up.

Mags petted Noel’s curls, pushing them out of his face. Noel pinned her to the wall from his hips to his shoulders, kissing her to the rhythm of whatever song was playing inside now.

When he pulled away, she was going to tell him that she loved him; when he pulled away, she was going to tell him not to let go. “Don’t,” Mags said, when Noel finally lifted his head.

“Mags,” he whispered. “My lips are going numb.”

“Then don’t kiss,” she said. “But don’t go.”

“No…” Noel pushed away from her, and her whole front went cold. “My lips are going numb—were you eating strawberries?”

“Oh, God,” she said. “Chex mix.”