An Ex for Christmas(34)

I tell myself that I linger at my own door only so that I can verify that Rigby’s not left out in the blizzard, not because I want to know if Mark is awake.

He’s awake.

Through the white blur, I see his back door open just a crack, but it closes just as quickly.

Fine, then.

Refusing to let my irritable best friend ruin today like he did yesterday, I go to my iPhone, scrolling through my playlists until I find my Winter Wonderland playlist, which is pretty much every variation you can imagine of “Let It Snow,” “Winter Wonderland,” and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I hum along with all three as I make myself an elaborate breakfast of . . . cornflakes.

As I pour the milk, I allow a quick, wistful glance out the window toward Mark’s house. Bet he’s having pancakes. And bacon. Bet he’d put chocolate chips in the pancakes if I ask.

I look away.

Taking my cereal and coffee into the living room, I plop on the couch and turn on the TV to the Hallmark Channel, delighted when it’s one of their Christmas movies I haven’t seen yet.

It’s a particularly cute one, about a former Olympic figure skater who goes back to her small Midwest hometown and gets a job helping to choreograph the town’s “Holiday on Ice” show. She falls in love with the recently widowed father of one of the kids, a guy who’s cute in a shaggy, small-shouldered kind of way. Not really my type, and I’ve never really gotten into figure skating (sooooo much coordination required), but I get all the feels from the movie anyway.

Another movie starts immediately after the last one finishes, and I’m fully intending to indulge when I get a text from my mother.

Heard about storm. Deep freeze to follow, so don’t forget to shovel your doors and your garage entry, or you’ll get snowed in for days.

I wrinkle my nose, because . . . ugh, she’s totally right.

The thing about big storms like this is that they’re super-pretty at first, but if you don’t stay on top of the shoveling, you’ll regret it when two feet of snow becomes a solid block of ice preventing you from opening your door or pulling your car out.

I go to the window. Not too bad yet.

On it, thanks! I text my mom. Then I pour myself more coffee, grab a stack of Chips Ahoy from the pantry, and watch yet another cheesy feel-good Christmas movie. I watch all ninety-four glorious minutes about a Scrooge-esque CEO and the plucky diner waitress he gets snowed in with on the way to a swanky ski trip.

Spoiler alert: They live happily ever after.

When that one’s over, a glance outside tells me my time’s up. If I don’t bundle up and get to work with my shovel ASAP, I’m going to regret it.

I head upstairs to the spare bedroom, where I keep less-often-used clothing like swimsuits, snow gear, and fancy dresses that require Spanx in order to be zipped up.

As far as snow crap goes, mine’s pretty cute. I got it on clearance at the end of last year. The pants are white, with teal stripes down the side, and the matching jacket’s teal, with white fur accents. See? Cute.

Granted, my red gloves and green hat won’t go, but eh . . . nobody’s going to see me anyway.

I waddle into the garage singing “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” and rummage around my mismatched stuff until I come up with the snow shovel.

Outside it’s . . . well, not as bad as I thought. I mean it’s cold, duh. But not like yesterday’s cold. And while the snow is unrelenting in its effort to cover every possible surface, the wind seems to have died down a bit, making the shoveling process slightly easier than it could be.

I should do the garage first, but it’s the hardest, and I decide I need a warm-up. This is the first major snow of the year, and it’s been a while since I’ve shoveled.

Truth be told, Mark takes care of it more often than not, and . . .

Nope. Not going there.

In fact, I purposely start with the front door, the one that faces my other neighbors instead of him. The small slight feels good, even if he doesn’t know. Or care.

When the front porch is clear, I march around to the back of the house, delighting in how hard it is to walk now that the snow’s up nearly to my knees.

I’m so busy laughingly kicking snow out in front of me that I don’t realize there’s someone on my back porch until I’m nearly upon him.

Mark turns my way. And I know it’s him, even with a hat pulled low over his forehead, a scarf hiding all but the top of his nose and eyes.

Our eyes lock, and he slowly straightens from where he’s been shoveling my porch. Resting the base of the shovel on the porch, he braces his arm on the handle, and with the other, reaches up to tug down the navy scarf I got him for Christmas a few years back.

“Hi.”

Hi? That’s what I get? Not even a smile to go with it.

My response is the most logical, mature reaction I can think of in that moment. I drop my shovel, bend down, pack myself a tidy snowball . . . and hurl it at my best friend’s face.

I miss his face. Just as well, since that’s a bit harsh. It thwacks against the center of his chest, though, and I sort of love the drama of the moment. I love even more his surprised blink, and I know he’s thinking, What the—

My second snowball does hit his face.

Guess I’m a little mad about the way things have been going lately.

Without another word, he drops his own shovel, but I’ve turned my back and started running before it hits the snow.