An Ex for Christmas(14)

When I quietly sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” I sing all the lines rather than just the first line over and over, so as not to drive him nuts . . . and wonder whether or not I should mention that I’d heard through the grapevine that my high school boyfriend works at Holly Tree Farm.





December 17, Sunday Afternoon


“No, not that one.”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

I turn around to where Mark stands stubbornly beside a tree that is so not the one.

I take in the seven-foot, impressively symmetrical evergreen. “It has no character.”

Mark crosses his arms, the tree saw dangling just slightly threateningly from his hand. “How do trees have character?”

“You know, quirks. Flaws. Bald spots. I never trust anyone that’s too perfect.”

“I’m perfect.”

I smile at his matter-of-fact tone. “Yes, honey. Maybe that’s why we’ve never dated, you see? You’re too smart, too good-looking, too confident.”

He narrows his eyes, as though trying to gauge my level of sarcasm, and the thing is . . . it’s sort of true. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before now, but Mark is, well . . . hot. Like, super-hot. As in, when we were seniors in high school, I’d dragged him to the mall so I could get shoes for homecoming, and a modeling scout from Manhattan had practically forced Mark to take her card.

He still gets mad whenever I bring it up, but the truth is he’s even better-looking now than he was back then. The jawline’s even more defined, the little chin dimple even more compelling. Add in the slightly crooked smile, intense eyes, and perfect amount of scruff, and, well . . .

He’s far more beautiful than I.

In lipstick, Spanx, a push-up bra, and high heels, I’m a 6?. In his wool coat, scuffed work boots, and cheap jeans, Mark’s a 10. I’ve seen him in a tux once, for his brother’s wedding, and my head nearly exploded.

Let’s just say it’s a good thing I friend-zoned myself before he had to.

Rigby comes bounding through the trees with a muddy stick in his mouth, and I bend down and wrestle the stick away, hurling it—okay, fine, awkwardly tossing it—so he can go chase it.

“I’m still pissed you put a sweater on my dog,” Mark says, trudging after me through the trees.

“Our dog,” I corrected, “is wearing his holiday outfit.”

I went with a snowman motif this year. Much better than last year’s reindeer sweater, which Mark had rightly argued made the dog look like a turd.

“Speaking of clothing choices, what’s going on with yours?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping to inspect a promising tree. It’s nearly perfect, but a touch too tall for my living room.

“I mean, you’re looking awfully dolled up for trudging through the forest.”

“I’m not dressed up. And it’s only because you’re helping me that I’m not going to make fun of you for using the phrase ‘dolled-up,’” I say, halting in front of a tree.

No, the tree.

“This one.”

Mark stands beside me and gives it a skeptical once-over. “What about that patch of dead branches in the middle?”

“Beauty mark.”

“The way the top curves to the right?”

“She’s curvy.”

“’K. What about the dead bird on the left?”

I gasp and frantically look for the dead bird, then sock his shoulder when I realize he’s joking. “Wait, one more thing . . .”

I dig my key chain out of my coat pocket, giving my travel Magic 8 ball a quick shake.

It is certain.

I show the response to Mark, who rolls his eyes.

“Come on. Let’s get cutting,” I say, shoving the key chain back in my pocket.

“Oh yes, let’s.”

He doesn’t move, and I turn to see what’s up.

Mark’s watching me with a little smile. “I said I’d help. Not that I’d cut it down all by myself while you watch.”

I frown a little. “But you always—”

“Times are a-changing, Byrne,” he says, using the saw to indicate the frost-covered ground. “Here, get down. I’ll walk you through it.”

“I can’t lie on the ground in this,” I say, glancing down at my faux-fur parka. My white faux-fur parka. And my best jeans, the ones that, even half off, are far too expensive for rolling around in the dirt.

“Thought you weren’t dressed up,” he says, tucking his tongue in his cheek.

Oh. Ohhhh. So that’s how this is going to be.

If I had even a lick of sense I’d just tell him that I dressed up because I know Joey Russo, high school boyfriend extraordinaire, is working the checkout stand today and I need to look my best.

But there’s nothing—and I mean nothing—more insufferable than letting Mark get his way when he’s got that smug, I-outsmarted-her look on his face.

So instead I smile prettily and lower myself as gracefully to the ground as I can, considering my jeans are tight from too many holiday treats and my boots have a three-inch heel. A chunky heel, but still.

He blinks in surprise, and it’s almost worth the dirt I’m getting on my outfit.