That we didn't jive in the intimacy department? Judging by the mistletoe kiss and the little incident in his bed and about a half dozen other moments since our Christmas dates started, I didn't think that would be an issue either.
So what was the problem?
The answer was simple: there wasn't one.
I'd just let my uncertainties run away with me. And in doing so, hurt someone I loved. Enough that he decided he was "done" with me.
I had to do something.
On that, I hopped off the couch, going into the bathroom, ready to wash my face and rush over there, only to see the mess I was. I wasn't usually the self-conscious sort, but I didn't want to tell my best friend that I wanted to be more than friends with him with swollen eyes and red cheeks.
I wanted it to be something to remember. I wanted to put effort in so that he knew I was being genuine, that I wasn't just impulsively saying things because I was scared of losing him.
So I washed my face, I brushed my teeth, then I went through my closet, picking out the best outfit I could find for the Christmas Eve party we were both going to attend the next night. I knew there was no way he was going to skip on it. It had been a tradition for him even longer than it had been for me. He would be there. And I would be there. In that dress. Looking rested and sure of myself.
Then I was going to tell him.
That, like the song went, all I wanted for Christmas was him. But, you know, less cheesy. Or not. Crosby loved cheesy and Christmas and, it seemed me.
It was time to tell him I felt the same way.
CHAPTER TEN
Crosby
I picked up my phone at least a dozen times between her leaving my house the night before and getting ready to head out for the Christmas Eve party.
I'd seen it in her eyes before I'd shut the door. I'd heard it in her voice.
And as I leaned against the door, immediately regretting my words, I could hear her sob catch in her throat before she practically ran out of my apartment building.
I'd been weak enough to walk across my apartment, watching out the window as she threw herself into a cab, burying her face in Lock's back.
Sleep proved all but impossible as I tossed and turned, at times patting myself on the back for standing up for myself or, just as often, beating myself up for springing it on her out of the blue, for hurting her with the suddenness of my dismissal.
I wasn't the kind of guy who went around hurting women. I certainly never wanted to hurt Dea, of all people. But the situation just seemed to get more and more hopeless with each passing day, and the disappointment of that had been weighing on me. It put me in an uncharacteristically low mood. I hadn't been able to shake it off, or fake it for just one more day.
I just wanted to stop feeling like shit.
Apparently, the only way to put an end to that was to create some boundaries with Dea, so it didn't continue to be confusing to me as I hoped for something it was becoming clear I would never have.
It didn't feel any better, of course. I had a hunch that it wouldn't feel better for a good, long time.
But it was what needed to happen.
Or, at least, that was what I told myself on a seemingly endless loop as I forced myself out of bed after a sleepless night, walked the dogs, fed them, showered, walked them again, played with them.
As it turned out, anytime I looked at Dasher, though, I thought of her. And that love in her eyes when she'd looked at him.
"You look rough," Clarence said as he breezed into my apartment carting at least a dozen bags. Knowing him, Christmas presents that he had yet to wrap or even buy wrapping paper for, so he was going to steal mine while he watched the dogs. "What happened to—oh, now, look at your sweet little smushy face," he said, dropping down on his knees to grab Dasher's face, booping his nose. "See, if I liked chicks, you'd be getting me so much tail. We are going to have so much fun later while Daddy goes out and schmoozes his lady into mistletoe kisses."
"About that," I said, feeling a crumbling sensation inside.
"Uh oh," Clarence said, standing, giving me unwavering eye-contact. "What happened?"
"I told her last night that I was done chasing her."
"You... what? Why the hell would you do that?"
"Because she doesn't love me, man. Not that way. And it's time to stop pretending. So I just put an end to it. Said I needed some distance. Set some boundaries."
"You're an idiot."
"What?"
"You heard me. You're an idiot."
"You don't know what it's been like?"
"No? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the one you've been talking to about it for years. I know all about it. I feel like I've lived it with you. And I think I have the right as an objective third party to say you're a coward who didn't give it the chance it deserved. And, what, now you are going to make that poor girl sit all alone in her apartment on Christmas because you couldn't give it the full shot you said you were going to?"
I hadn't given much thought past the current day. But Clarence was right.
Dea would be alone for Christmas.
Just like before I stepped in.
She would be abandoned.
Just like her mother had done to her.
She would have no one to exchange presents with, no one to sing carols with, no one to eat dinner with.
"Now you're seeing how stupid it was," Clarence said, rolling his eyes. "Maybe I will crash over to her place after our dinner. Bring her some dessert. I have presents for her anyway."
There was an accusation in his voice, something that said I should be the one going to her, making amends.
Almost every part of me wanted to.
But I knew that was just the part of me that was hopelessly in love with her, that wanted to be near her, that wanted to share special moments in her life.
But I couldn't have what I wanted most.
And I needed some room to come to terms with that.
As much as it was going to ruin my holiday to ruin hers, I didn't see much other choice.
"That would be nice of you," I agreed, walking across my apartment to grab my coat and the hideously wrapped package that would work for the White Elephant game that was always played at the party.
"Are you prepared to see her tonight?"
"I doubt she's coming," I said, patting Lillybean and Dasher, and making my way out the door to avoid any further questioning.
I figured what I said was right.
Rebecca and Zach were my friends. And the rules of breakups—friendship and otherwise—said that whoever had the friends first, got to keep them after the fallout.
Dea knew that. After her last semi-serious relationship, she'd cut ties with a girl she'd really clicked with because she was the ex's sister.
She wasn't going to show up at my friends' Christmas Eve party.
Rebecca and Zach lived in a top floor open-concept loft that they'd lovingly renovated over the past eight months. It was all dark wood and exposed brick with a square-shaped sectional surrounded by packed low bookshelves.
A massive dining room lined the back of the sectional, butted up close to the floor-to-ceiling windows. To the right of that was the kitchen with its stainless steel everything—countertops included—subway tile, and open shelving.
There was a room to the side of the kitchen that was likely intended as a third bedroom, but was being used as a home office.
There was a hallway just inside the front door that led down to the giant bathroom that was still missing its walls, and then the two bedrooms.
Rebecca and Zach were platonic life partners. They had been for longer than I had known them, so going on six years. Neither had any interest in marriage or children, but liked having someone around to work on projects with, to eat dinner across the table from, to go to events with.
And aside from being incredibly self-aware and forward-thinking in their unique lifestyle, they also threw the best parties known to mankind.
No
thing was overlooked. Which meant the entire loft was decked out in twinkle lights. They lined the walls, draped the ceiling, wrapped around the massive tree that was decorated in ornaments they'd carefully picked out together along their travels over the time they'd known each other.
The kitchen island was covered in finger foods. The sideboard was loaded down with liquor. The speakers were pumping out carols. And the people were crushed into the large space.
I knew a handful of faces, but found myself avoiding them as I drank my first, second, and third drinks, starting to feel a warm numbness that was chasing away the aching sadness inside.
Maybe I should have just gone home. But I knew there was nothing for me there but thoughts of her.
And I was also acutely aware of the fact that a part of me was hoping I was wrong, that she would show up.
I was a glutton for punishment.
I needed to get a grip, to stop thinking about her, to stop hoping to run across her.
But then... there she was.
In a tight silk red wine dress that dipped low in the front and cut short in the thigh, looking like far too many dreams I'd had of her.
It was a kick to the gut and a knife to the chest to see her standing there, looking like she looked, her gaze moving around the room, likely looking for Rebecca and Zach.
But then her gaze fell on me.
I half expected her to turn and bolt, to go anywhere but near me.
Then she was taking a deep breath.
And making a beeline right for me.
My heartbeat skittered in my chest, and I didn't know if it was from nerves or excitement. Maybe both.
She seemed nervous, too, as she made her way through the crowd. There was no warm, open smile like I'd gotten so used to seeing on her face when she spotted me.
There weren't tears, either. And that was a relief since I wasn't sure I could stand my ground if faced with them.
Nor did there appear to be any anger on her face.
The look I found there, instead, seemed unexpectedly determined. Like she had a mission. One that involved me.
"Deavienne!" Rebecca shrieked over the music, arms going up over her head as she rushed through the crush of people to wrap her arms around Dea, turning her away from me.
What did I do?
The cowardly thing.
I ducked behind a large group of people I didn't recognize, but who all must have previously been basketball and football players due to their size, and carefully made a wide circle around the room, slipping down the hallway, and disappearing back into Zach's room.
The bed sat on a wooden pallet frame that was painted a deep navy color. The bedding was completely obscured by the dozens of coats piled across the surface.
Zach was, by profession, a scientist. But at his core, he was an artist. His room was evidence of that with an easel set up by the windows, various hand-sculpted bowls and cups lining the sill. The man even had a loom half-blocking the door to his closet, some multi-colored cape thing mostly finished on it.
"Hey, if you need somewhere to fuc—" Zach's voice trailed off as he came into his room. "Oh, hey. Sorry. Thought a couple was trying to do it on my bed again."
Zach was average in about all ways. Average height, average built, average facial features, though he'd begun to obscure some of them with a blonde beard that matched the curly hair on top of his head.
"Again as in like last year?"
"Again as in twenty minutes ago," he told me, shaking his head. "I have seen things, Crosby, that I am afraid I can never unsee," he added, eyes playfully wide. "Why are you hiding in my room?"
"Dea," I admitted, shrugging.
"She just got here. You two are usually attached at the hip."
"Not anymore."
"Did you finally hook up? Was it awful?" he asked, voice a grave whisper.
"No. I gave up. And I told her I wanted space. I didn't think she would come tonight."
"Right, since you got us in the divorce," Zach agreed, nodding. "Did she tell you she didn't want to be with you? Rebecca and I were actually just talking about you two the other night. The fact that she looks at you just like you look at her."
"You were mistaken," I said, shrugging.
"Man. I can't imagine a world where you and Dea aren't finishing each other's sentences and being attached at the hip."
"Yeah," I agreed, feeling that ache in my chest again. "There is going to be a lot of adjustment."
"I bet," Zach agreed, nodding. "If you need to cut out early, we would understand. I will fill in Rebecca later."
"I probably won't be staying too much later," I admitted, shrugging. "I have a new puppy at home."
"And we haven't received ten-thousand puppy pictures yet because..."
"I will get on that," I said, giving him a tired smile.
"Okay. Well, if I don't see you before you head out, Merry Christmas, man. We will see you for the New Year's party."
"Merry Christmas," I said, giving him what I hoped was a halfway convincing smile even if I didn't feel it in the least.
It was strange to feel so down around the holidays. I guess this was what some other people experienced who equated holidays with a loss of some sort. There was a hole that felt like it couldn't be filled. It made even the twinkle lights look lackluster. It made the carols on the stereo sound forcefully cheerful.
I just needed to go home.
Maybe if I got some sleep, I would be better at faking it at the family gathering the next day. I was going to need some rest if I was going to deal with all the questions about where Dea was, how I was feeling about stepping away from her. Sometimes kindness from family felt a lot like cruelty when they kept dredging up something you wanted to stop thinking about.
And I did want to stop thinking about it.
About her.
Or so I thought.
Until I turned, ready to find my coat and head out, and I found her standing in the doorway.
Because what was my first thought?
Thank God.
Again, I didn't see any sadness, any anger, only that same sort of determination I'd seen before.
Determination to do what?
Talk to me?
Talk me out of my decision?
"Dea..." I started, shaking my head.
But then she was moving inward, slamming the door behind her.
I had no idea what her intentions were when she made a beeline for me.
But what happened was probably the last possible thing I expected.
She stopped right in front of me, taking one big, deep breath, then both arms raised, framing my face, drawing it down slightly just before she sealed her lips over mine.
It seemed like something inside me short-circuited in that moment because I couldn't seem to do anything but stand there with my body and mind frozen for a long second.
But then her chest pressed into mine, her soft curves meeting my firm lines, and it all came rushing back at once. The soft pressure of her lips, the cool fingertips of her hands on my cheeks, the crush of her breasts to my chest, the sweet smell of her perfume.
My body unstuck all at once, one arm going around her lower back, feeling her body heat through her thin dress, pulling her flush against me. My other hand went behind her neck, fingers sifting slightly into her hair as my lips took over, claiming, likely almost bruising in their intensity.
I'd spent far too much time thinking about getting a chance to really kiss Dea. I figured I'd played out every fantasy to its fullest extent.
But none of those fantasies came close to what the reality was like.
Her hands moved down from my face, arms wrapping around my neck instead, making her body press even more firmly to mine.
Her lips parted as my tongue traced the seam, inviting me in, letting out a low, sweet little whimper when my tongue teased over hers.
My lips ripped from hers, my forehead pressing against hers for a long moment as I tried to bring some rational th
ought back into my head.
"Dea," I started, pulling back slightly, waiting for her eyelids to flutter open, finding them heavy-lidded even when they did.
I didn't want it if she was doing it just to try to keep me in her life. And I didn't trust myself to stand strong on that point if things went any further.
"No, you got to have your say. It's my turn now," she told me, chin jerking up. Normally, stubborn wasn't a look she pulled off, always a little too sweet to be believable. But she was determined to get something off her chest.
"Okay," I agreed, nodding, watching her hands settle onto her hips, pushing her back a step, while barely able to concentrate with her body pressed against mine. "That's fair."
"You didn't give me a minute to think things through," she accused, jaw getting tight. "You said what you had to say, then you slammed the door in my face before I had a chance to respond."
"Because I thought I knew your answer."
"Well, clearly, not," she said, brows arching up, giving her a haughty appearance that seemed out of place in her sweet face. "I just needed a couple of minutes to think."
"Think, or try to talk yourself into wanting the same things I want because you were afraid of losing our friendship?"
"At first, I thought the latter," she admitted. "But once I got home and had a couple minutes to sort through some things, I came to other conclusions."
"Sort through what things?" I asked, feeling a swell of hope that I was praying wasn't about to be dashed if my fears about her motives proved true after all.
"This whole Twelve Days of Christmas thing we've been doing. I've had... things have been a little confusing for me," she told me, gaze slipping away, her eyes studying my shirt.
"Confusing how?" I asked, that hope burning a little brighter.
"I don't know. I was getting this feeling like things had very suddenly and very drastically changed between us. But then, well, nothing ever happened, so I told myself I was being crazy. Or I was getting caught up in the, you know, feelings of the season or whatever. But it just kept happening each day."
"I was trying to be more obvious," I admitted. "That was why you were confused. Because I was trying to make you see that there was something else between us."
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