An Ex for Christmas(27)

And we’re not talking a subtle once-over with his eyes. He actually turns away from our conversation so that he can stare over his shoulder at anything female.

He’s currently in the middle of story 909 about his fantasy football team, and I can’t stop glancing at the doorway where the mistletoe hangs threateningly.

When I first came in, full of hope and misplaced excitement that I might feel butterflies, I was delighted to see that the manager had hung it, and even more delighted to see surprised patrons making use of it. Over the course of the awful evening, there’ve been goofy, playful kisses among friends, sweet and flirty kisses among couples who look like they’re on a first or second date, and a couple of get-a-room kisses.

It took me all of five minutes to figure out that tonight’s dilemma isn’t finding a way for Doug and me to get beneath that mistletoe, but ensuring that we don’t.

I don’t need a mistletoe test for this guy.

He’s not the one.

I mean, he’s good-looking. I’ll give him that. Of all my exes, he’s the most, well, beautiful. He’s got bright blue eyes, thick blond hair, and great dimples he shows off to perfection with a Hollywood-worthy smile.

It’s his soul that stinks.

So far I’ve heard him whine about his Christmas Day skiing plans falling through, so now he has to go to his parents’ for the holiday. Which is apparently “a downer” now that his dad’s been diagnosed with cancer.

Yeah. I know.

Oh, and his sister-in-law’s pregnant, and he doesn’t like watching her eat.

I just . . . I mean, there are no words. It’s like he’s a cartoon villain or something.

And to think I’ve wasted my best outfit on this guy. I’ve got on a pair of dark skinny jeans that do slimming things for my thighs while managing to make my butt look perky. My red sweater is off the shoulder and deceptively demure, but it fits nicely in the boobs and is somehow cut to give me a waist that I don’t normally have.

I’m even having a good hair day, and my smoky makeup? Totally on point.

Like I said, wasted on this guy.

Don’t get me wrong—Doug noticed. I got the same degrading once-over that every other woman in the bar’s been subjected to, but it didn’t make me feel beautiful. It made me feel like a piece of meat.

“Another?” the bartender asks, coming to stop in front of us as he polishes a wineglass.

I’m grateful both for the interruption and for the escape route.

“Oh gosh, no, I think I need to get going,” I say with a bright smile, hands going for my purse. I’ll gladly pay for our drinks if it’ll get me out of here.

Doug’s hand closes on my arm. “Not yet. It’s way too early.”

My smile stiffens a bit, because the way he says it is more command than request. “I really should be getting home.”

“For what? You said you have two weeks off.” Doug gives a derisive snort. “Must be nice to be a teacher. Some of us actually work full-time.”

I take a long, deep breath. Oh, goodie. His attitude’s not unfamiliar. Most people aren’t quite so derisive, but I’m no stranger to the “teachers barely work” mantra. Never mind that our summer “breaks” are spent making lesson plans, and that we get paid beans to care for other people’s darlings. Most of the time I’m more than willing to go to bat in defense of myself and all the hardworking teachers out there, but some people just aren’t worth it. And the guy next to me is one of them.

I turn to ask the bartender for the check, but he’s already shifted his attention to a group of women.

“So anyway,” Doug says, letting his hand slide away as though it’s decided that we’re extending the evening, “what’s been going on with you?”

I glance at the time on my phone. Not bad. It’s only taken him an hour and twelve minutes to ask anything about me.

It’s too little way too late, but since the bartender’s still not looking my way and I’m not quite rude enough to just walk out and stick Doug with the bill, I take a deep breath for patience.

“Not much. I’m on my own for Christmas this year, since my parents are on an Alaskan cruise for their anniversary.”

Doug rests his chin on his shoulder, ogling one of the waitresses as she walks by with a tray full of beers. Nice.

“And I’ve decided to quit my job, shave my head, and move to the South Pacific and collect turtles,” I say, to test if he’s listening even a little bit.

He merely nods distractedly and reaches for his beer. “Cool. Well, I can tell you this, you look good. If anyone gives you shit for gaining weight, send ’em my way. I’ll happily let them know that some women look better with a little padding.”

For a second I don’t think I’ve heard him right. The jab is so offhand and casual, as though it’s his right to tell a woman when she’s attractive and when she’s not. As though it’s okay to tell a woman he hasn’t spoken to in years that she’s gained weight.

It’s not very often I’m speechless—I like to consider myself a think-on-my-feet kind of girl—but right now my mind is blank with rage and hurt. Maybe a little humiliation.

Unfortunately, it’s the latter two that are winning out, because instead of giving him the blistering tirade he deserves, I’m horrified to feel my eyes watering.