An Ex for Christmas(21)

I pick up my wine and nod toward the living room, where Rigby’s going to town on the squeaker of his new toy. “You need any help in here, or can I go fuss with my tree?”

He waves me away, picking up a bushel of something bright green and sniffing it.

Knowing from experience that he’s in the zone, I wander back into the living room, turning up the music as I do so we can both hear it.

I go back to the neglected strand of twinkle lights and finish wrapping it around the tree. Then I add another, and another.

I’m about halfway done with the lights when I realize that I’m smiling, and, well . . . happy.

I’m still decorating the tree by myself, true, but I’m no longer lonely. Rigby’s squeaky toy mingles with the sounds of Mark’s kitchen noises (and the occasional curse), all blending wonderfully with Sammy Davis Jr.’s festive voice.

That album runs its course, and I change it to another, one of those Christmas compilations that have a bunch of modern vocalists putting fun twists on old favorites.

I’m just climbing to the top of the ladder, putting on the last string of lights, when Mark comes in with two bowls and the wine bottle.

“You know, right, that those are going to be a bitch to remove. You’ve got all the cords tangled.”

“He who does not deck the halls does not get a say,” I reply, purposely twining some of the cords excessively.

“Ah, I see. So does it also go that she who does not cook does not eat?”

“Nope, does not go that way,” I say, climbing rapidly back down the ladder. I free the wine bottle from his arm and top off my glass before going back into the kitchen to fetch his, along with napkins, since he never remembers those.

When I come back, both bowls are on the coffee table, and Mark’s sitting on the couch, Rigby by his side, looking at the tree. “There are more lights than pine needles on that thing,” he says.

“Exactly as it should be,” I say, plopping down beside him and picking up the bowl. “This smells amazing.”

“Tastes amazing, too,” he says with zero modesty. “I’m thinking of putting it on the specials menu next week. Calling it Christmas by the Bayou, since it’s got kind of a Creole thing going on.”

“Ohmygah,” I say around a huge mouthful. “So good.”

“Told you.”

He picks up his own bowl and winds some of the pasta around his fork, taking a bite nearly as big as mine.

Rigby huffs in frustration at the lack of sharing, but neither of us pays him any attention as we stuff mouthfuls of pasta in our months. In the way of people who have been friends for a long-ass time (and who skipped lunch), we don’t talk until the bowls are empty.

I rub my stomach as I slump back on the couch, wineglass in hand. “And I wonder why I’m pudgy. Being friends with you is not exactly a recipe for a size four.”

He glances over at me, his expression moody. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“No body talk, I know,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”

He looks back at the tree, sips his own wine. “It’s not about being a size four. It’s not about being a size anything.”

I look over, surprised. For as long as I’ve known him, Mark’s always refused to indulge any body image woes on my part. Sometimes I’ll get the “You’re not fat, and we’re not talking about it” line, but mostly he just glowers.

This is new.

“What’s it about?” I ask curiously. I genuinely want to know, since Mark’s not exactly a guy who has a type. He’s dated blondes, brunettes, redheads. Short, tall, skinny, curvy. Of all the guys I know, he seems to truly be more interested in a girl’s personality than her looks, and yet he’s also a guy. He’s got to have something that turns him on.

Instead of answering my question, he gestures toward the ornaments still in their packaging on the ground. “Shouldn’t you start with those?”

Got it. Conversation over.

“Yeah, probably,” I say with a sigh, rolling into a standing position. Despite the big, carb-heavy meal, I feel more energized than anything. For starters, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” has just started playing, and that’s kinda my jam.

That, and like for most people, the ornaments are my favorite part. The lights are kind of a pain in the ass, if I’m being honest.

I tear into my jumbo assortment of ornaments, as well as the little package of another brand, and begin placing them around the tree, taking breaks to peek at the picture of my dream tree on Pinterest.

“Isn’t that cheating?” Mark says, coming back into the living room.

I look up in surprise, not realizing he’d gone into the kitchen in the first place. “Tell me you didn’t cook and clean.”

He shrugs. “Beats watching you dance around the tree agonizing over the placement of each snowflake.”

“Admit it,” I say, hanging up one of the few remaining glittery aqua balls. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s pretty,” he says dutifully, sitting back on the couch.

Rigby hops up beside him, melting my sappy heart by putting his sweet face on Mark’s knee. Then my heart turns into even more of a puddle, because Mark’s big hand rests on the dog’s head, his fingers rubbing gently.