The Mistletoe Motive(18)

There’s no response for a minute. Then he finally writes, Have I ruined my chances if I admit I’m not very festive myself?

I breathe out slowly, weathering my first disappointment as the daydreams that I’ve indulged—Mr. Reddit and me window shopping, admiring the Winter Wonderland show at the conservatory as snow falls around us, skating at the downtown rink, hand in hand—dissolve. But he has every right not to be festive. Like Eli said, for some people, the holidays just don’t feel celebratory, and that’s valid.

He said that so you’d consider showing Jonathan some compassion, the angel on my shoulder reminds me. How’s that going for you?

The devil on my other side reaches for the extendable handle of her pitchfork while the angel’s wings pop out this time, prepared for an attack and ready for flight.

Have I ruined my chances? I mull over those words. Do they mean what I think they mean?

I force myself to be brave and type, Of course not. Though, what kind of “chances” are you talking about?

There’s a pause for a moment, then he’s typing.

I want to be your friend, MCAT, not just online but in person—that goes without saying. And when I talk to you, all I can think is I want a hell of a lot more, too, but I’ve tried to stop myself from going there. There are a hundred things you might not like about me in real life. I haven’t wanted to get my hopes up. I’m still afraid to.

I’ve been thinking that way, too, I admit, relieved that he’s felt how I have. Worried you won’t like me once you see how different the real me can be from the online version.

The chat’s silent, no typing alerts, no cheery chimes. He’s thinking. We both are.

So…this might sound extreme, he types, maybe a bit harsh, but hear me out—what if we stop talking until we meet? Give ourselves some time to reset our expectations, to separate the people we’ve been behind these screens from the people we’ll meet in real life?

My stomach drops. I think about how much I’ll miss talking to him, how empty my evenings will feel. But, as I mull it over, what he says makes a lot of sense. If we take time away from each other, it’ll be a fresh start. A chance to meet each other with a blank slate. And I can use this time to focus solely on work and kicking Jonathan Frost’s ass at sales. As much as it bums me out, I think Mr. Reddit’s on to something.

I think that’s smart, I type. Pulling Gingerbread tight into my arms to console myself, I earn her sleepy, half-awake meow. It’ll be weird not talking.

It will, he writes. I’ll miss it.

Me, too. But it’ll be worth it in the end. Like Marianne’s heartbreak.

SPOILERS, CATWOOD!

I snort a laugh, happy for a reason to smile rather than feel sad.

Another message from him pops up on a chime. I’ll message soon with some ideas about where to meet and when, and you can tell me what sounds good. Does that work?

That’s perfect, I type.

Good. Take care of yourself, MCAT. And sleep well.

Spoiler alert: I don’t sleep well at all.





Chapter 6


Playlist: “Winter Wonderland,” She & Him


I feel like the walking dead. I’ve barely slept in a week. Because every night, I’m scared to pick up a romance novel—audio or otherwise—to read myself to sleep and risk another erotic aristocrat dream starring Jonathan Frost. And then I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, because when I deviate from my bedtime routine, my sleep is shit.

Too bad. I can’t cave. No romance novels by night, no salacious duke and bluestocking fantasies starring Jonathan Frost and yours truly. Not only because I don’t want to fantasize about Jonathan Frost, but because it’s not smart to, either, when I’m doing everything I can to take that sucker down as well as counting down the days until I meet Mr. Reddit, the man who used to star in my dreams, until Jonathan Jerkface Frost shouldered his way in like a pushy, decadently sexual, cunnilingus-obsessed lover who— Stop it, brain! Stop!

I’m losing it. I’m sleep-deprived and suffering, missing Mr. Reddit, and furious with Mr. Frost. I’ve spent the first week of our bargain busting my butt at work while running on fumes, and I don’t even have the most sales to show for it.

Jonathan was right, that thriller flew off the shelves. And not just that title—he’s been selling all kinds of slashers like hotcakes. So much for holiday cheer. Who buys violent novels portraying the worst human impulses in the time of year dedicated to peace on earth and goodwill toward all?

I can’t dwell on it or I get really angry.

I have to focus on the positive. Yes, I’m behind on sleep and on sales, and no, I did not see such an ass-whooping coming this past week, but this suffering won’t last forever. One exhausting week down, only two more to go. And today I have Eli, who’s going to get me back on track with my sales.

“Have I told you you’re a lifesaver, Elijah?”

“A time or twenty,” he says, shouldering open the coffee shop door and holding it for me. We shiver as we step outside, clutching our hot to-go cups against the frigid outside air. “And I’m inclined to agree with you, considering I already came in and read Hanukkah books just a few weeks ago. Speaking of, you’ve been thin on the details about story time today. What’s the plan?”