An Ex for Christmas(54)

“What did she say?”

I swallow. “Something about how you’re only in relationships when I’m in relationships. And that when I’m single, you’re single.”

He shrugs. “If that’s true, it’s coincidence.”

“Right,” I agree quickly, relieved by his nonchalance. “Totally.”

If I were smart, I’d distract us both with brownies, but instead I have to go and open my mouth one more time, because I have to know . . .

“After you and I are done with . . . whatever this is, do you think you and Erika will get back together?”

“I don’t know, Kell,” he says, wrenching the lid off the brownie container. His tone is both tired and annoyed. “Does it matter?”

He meets my eyes as he asks the last question, and I wonder if it’s rhetorical or if he’s really asking me.

Would it matter if he started dating his ex-girlfriend again? Really dating, not just hooking up like he and I are doing? Would it matter if they got back together and stayed together? If they got married? Had babies?

Something terrifying and sour rips through me as I force my brain to keep traveling down that path. Because even if it’s not Erika, it’ll be someone else. One day Mark and I won’t be single at the same time. One day he won’t be single ever again, but in a relationship with someone who has a ring on her finger. Who gets to wake up beside him every morning and tease him every night. Who gets to taste-test all of his recipes, whose Christmas tree he’ll show her how to cut down . . .

“Kelly?”

I look up at him. He’s waiting for my response. A cavalier quip is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t make it come out.

Instead I reach out, setting my palm against his cheek. “The only thing that matters is that you’re happy.”

His eyes search mine for a moment, then he surprises me by reaching up and pulling my hand away from his face and planting a quick, sweet kiss against my palm.

“Brownie?” he asks, turning his attention to dessert.

I smile at the simple question. At the wonderful simplicity of us. “Yeah. Yeah, I want a brownie.”

And I’m terrified I want so much more than that.





December 23, Saturday Afternoon


“Well? What do we think?” I ask, turning back and forth in front of the full-length mirror in my room.

There’s no response.

I turn and look at the male lounging on the bed, who’s paying no attention to me. Apparently I can’t compete with the reindeer squeaky toy.

“Rigby, baby.” The dog lifts his head and wags his stubby tail. “Am I looking adorable or veering toward absurd?”

I hold my arms out to the side to show off my elf costume, turning back and forth so the dog can get the full effect.

Rigby gives me a sad look and rests his snout on the comforter, tail wagging even faster.

I sigh. “I was afraid of that. Is it too tight?”

I look over my shoulder at my butt in the mirror.

On the model online, the costume had striped tights with a cute green dress and a jaunty little hat.

On me? The dress barely covers my butt. Bending over is completely out of the question, as is breathing.

“Size medium my ass,” I say, pulling futilely on the snug belt.

It wasn’t this tight when I tried it on a couple of weeks ago. My five holiday pounds have officially arrived.

Upside? The ensemble makes my waist look tiny, boobs look perky. At least I’m pretty sure it does.

I glance over at my dog, who’s rolled onto his back, happily chewing his toy upside down.

Maybe I need a second opinion.

I finish up my makeup, taking a bit of extra care with my eye shadow. I’d thought I wanted to go with a bright red Christmassy lip, but at the last minute, I’d opted for a smoky eye and nude lip. And instead of the red manicure I’ve been visualizing for weeks, I paint my nails a bright snow white, with silver sparkles on top.

The shoes are different, too. Instead of the sexy platform heels, I’m going with my red rain boots.

I know it’s weird, but it feels important to change up my expectations for the evening. When I first envisioned this whole silly elf thing, I’d had a very different vision of my situation.

We’ve discussed this, right? My way too vivid daydreams of being up on that float, looking adorable and irresistible while one of my ex-boyfriends looks on and thinks, Damn, I was so dumb to let that one get away.

And of course I’d look down at him, thinking, That’s him. That’s The One.

At this point sometimes my fantasy would go off the rails: for example, that the fortune-telling lady from the train station would come out of the shadows, turn into, like, a beautiful enchantress, and beam happily as The One and I kiss.

There’d probably be music.

Maybe a proposal . . .

Rigby’s toy squeaks, jolting me back to the present—to the real world. Yeah, so that’s not happening. And to remind myself, I’ve adjusted my outfit accordingly to match my change in mindset.

The whole second-chance-at-love story is a good one, I’ll grant you that, but it didn’t work out for me. And I tried, I really did. With everyone except for Colin, but if I can’t find him, I can’t find him, right?

Rigby rolls back onto his belly and gives me a judgy look. Did you even try?