A Christmas Date

by Camilla Isley

  “Hey, you’re the only person I know who ever got in trouble with the cops.”

  “I was a victim of the justice system, and we’re not talking about me.”

  “I thought you were asking how you could be supportive.”

  Blair sighs. “I was. Anything else you need?”

  I make big, Puss-in-Boots eyes at her. “Could you free some closet space in your room?”

  ***

  When the doorbell rings, Blair is already packed and ready to go back to Brooklyn. She’s called Richard, who’ll come to pick her up in a bit—she’s asked for enough time to make sure Diego is no Charlie Manson, I suspect.

  “He’s coming up,” I announce after buzzing Diego in.

  “Good.” Blair has settled with her butt against the back of the couch and is staring at the door with the same rapt expression of a hawk scanning the woods for squirrels.

  I wait by the threshold, keeping the door half open and feeling ridiculously nervous.

  When I spot Diego walking down the hall, I have a moment’s hesitation. With his leather jacket, dark looks, and biker helmet, he really is a “bad boy” personification. I just hope Blair can get past first impressions.

  “Hi,” I call. “I’m down here.”

  He sees me and waves, quickening his pace. “Hey, boss,” he greets me, more easygoing than he’s been in all our previous meetings.

  Good, I need him to be relaxed to withstand Blair’s sure-to-come interrogation.

  “My roommate’s here.” I give him a heads up on the situation before letting him in. “She’s waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up.”

  “Oh, okay. Do I have to act boyfriendly, then?”

  A thrill spider walks down my spine, making me wonder what his “acting boyfriendly” would entail, but I shake the thought away as quickly as it popped into my head.

  “No need,” I say. “She knows.”

  I finally nudge the door open all the way and let him in.

  “Diego, this is Blair. Blair, Diego.”

  My best friend does a good job of dropping her jaw only for a second before resuming her studiously scolding expression.

  “Hi, I’m Diego.”

  He offers her a hand, and she shakes it.

  “Blair.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, then turns toward me, asking, “Is there somewhere I can drop these?”

  I take the helmet from him and place it on the bar. “You can leave your bag in Blair’s room. This way.” I beckon him to follow me.

  He drops the bag on her bed, and before he can do or say anything, she’s giving him the rules.

  “I freed this side of the closet for you,” Blair says, opening the door to show him. “And the nightstand. Everything else is still filled with my things, so please don’t touch anything.”

  “I’m not diseased, you know?” Diego frowns, more jokingly than serious.

  “No, I don’t. Because I know nothing about you. For all I know, you could be a serial killer.”

  “I sense some hostility,” Diego says, again not serious.

  “Well, sorry if I’m not super-duper pleased about my best friend’s idea to invite a perfect stranger to live in the house with her.”

  “Hey, don’t take it out on me.” He lifts his hands in a surrender gesture. “I tried to convince her it wasn’t necessary.”

  We all move back into the living room. Diego sits on a stool while Blair walks into the kitchen. I lean against the back of the couch and observe warily as Blair takes a glass out of a cabinet and cleans it with a rag—even though it’s perfectly clean already. Then she disappears into the bathroom and comes back with one of those plastic bags you have to use for liquids on a plane. Still holding the glass enveloped in the rag, she hands it to Diego.

  “Hold this, please.”

  He takes it from her, looking rather puzzled. As am I.

  “Okay, now put it in here,” Blair instructs, keeping the plastic bag open.

  Diego drops the glass in the bag and, just as he’s looking back up with a questioning expression, Blair snaps a photo with her phone.

  “What the hell?” he asks, blinded by the flash.

  “All right, Mister, just be advised that if something happens to my best friend, I have your name, your picture, and your fingerprints.” She dangles the makeshift evidence bag in front of him. “The police will find you in no time.”

  Diego seems more amused than offended. “Paranoid much?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “She’s just being overprotective.”

  “You bet I am,” Blair snaps. “And you should also be aware that I have a trained attack dog who’d chew you to pieces if you so much as harm a hair on her head.”

  To describe Chevron as a trained attack dog would be like saying Diego is a Danny DeVito lookalike—oil and water.

  “And now…” Blair reaches into her bag, which is sitting on the stool next to Diego, and takes out a business card and a pen. She scribbles something on the blank side and hands it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “My business card,” Blair says, nonplussed. “There’s an address written on the back. We’re casting a New Year’s fashion photo-shoot. The screening starts at 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday. Don’t be late.”

  Diego smiles. “Do you always invite presumed serial killers to job interviews, or do you only need an extra mug shot?”

  Blair’s answer dies on her lips as the buzzer goes off, and the only thing I can think is, “Saved by the bell!”

  My roomie gathers the suitcase she’s prepared for her ten-day stay at Richard’s, and I walk her to the door. We pause just outside the hall to say goodbye.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “I know you don’t like this.”

  “Just be careful,” she whispers. “And lock yourself into your room tonight.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Promise,” she insists.

  “I promise.”

  “All right.” Blair hugs me. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll keep my phone on.”

  “I will, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

  We hug again, and then I watch her go until she disappears inside the elevator.

  So! Time to enjoy my first cozy evening with my fake boyfriend.

  Filled with trepidation, I push the door open and walk back into my apartment.

  Six

  The Twelve Days of Christmas

  Inside, Diego is standing in the living room, looking around as if he’s afraid to touch anything.

  “So that went well,” I say sarcastically, shutting the door behind me.

  “Are all your friends that feisty?” he asks.

  “Forgive Blair, it’s my fault. I totally blindsided her with”—I wiggle a finger between us—“this. Told her you were moving in only an hour ago.”

  “Smooth.”

  “Well,” I snap. “Buying a boyfriend wasn’t on my Christmas shopping list until a few days ago.” That came out too harsh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that this whole situation is stressful for me, too. Can we pretend my best friend just told you mi casa es tu casa and move on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. This is a spare set of keys.” I grab it from the cabinet in the hall and hand it to him. “So you can come and go as you like. The blue is for the main door downstairs, and the big one opens this door here. The others, you won’t need.”

  “Got it.” Diego stashes the keys away in his jeans pocket.

  Gosh, this is super awkward. Well, what did I expect? I don’t know this guy, we’ve got nothing in common, and the situation per se is less than relaxing.

  “So,” I say, trying to loosen up the atmosphere. “What would you do if this was a regular night at home?”

  “Probably play on the Xbox with my roommate.”

  “Sorry, no Xbox here, only that.” I gesture to the small TV in the living
room. “How about an old-fashioned chat?”

  “Okay. You want to start scripting our relationship?”

  “Nah, it’s late, and I’ve no energy left. No creative juices flowing right now. Why don’t we cover the basics for tonight? Where we’re from, what our families are like, stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “You want a glass of wine?”

  I need a drink. I’m definitely too nervous around this guy, and the feeling has to go quickly if my charade is to be believed by anyone.

  “Yes, please.” Diego nods and goes to settle on the couch.

  “Red or white?”

  “Whatever is fine.”

  I pick a bottle of red, grab two glasses, a corkscrew, and join him on the couch—sitting on the opposite, farthest end of it. I start maneuvering the corkscrew, damaging the cork more than I should in the process, when Diego says, “Here, let me.”

  I hand over the bottle and, in a couple of quick moves, Diego has the cork removed and undamaged. He pours two generous glasses.

  “You’re pretty handy with a bottle,” I comment.

  “Well, modeling and acting only pay for a small part of the bills. I’m a part-time server at a steakhouse downtown.”

  “When you’re not busy being a Santa impersonator.”

  “Hey, I need all the money I can get. Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Yeah, right. We might need to get comfortable with each other, but I have to remember this is still an employer-employee kind of relationship.

  “Is it going to be a problem for the restaurant—you not showing for a whole week over Christmas break?”

  “Nah. I only work there three nights a week, and I’ve asked my roommate to cover for me. Screech could use the extra money, too, and the owner doesn’t care as long as someone shows up to do the job.”

  “You guys call each other weird names. He called you ‘Dunk’ over the phone.”

  “Those are our gaming avatars.”

  “Oh, cool. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t mess with your work schedule.”

  “On the contrary.” He flips Blair’s business card between his fingers. “Is your friend’s magazine legit?”

  “Pretty new, but legit. Just a few months ago they did a fashion shoot with Saskia Landon.”

  Diego low whistles. “Then I’d better stay on your friend’s good side.”

  “Blair is very friendly, usually. Earlier, she was just being overprotective. It’s nothing personal.”

  “So, you two have been friends long?”

  “Forever.” I sip the wine, and its warm taste helps me ease into the conversation. “We grew up across the street from each other in Old Saybrook, a tiny coastal town a hundred miles north of here.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Small town.” I shrug and take another sip of wine. “You from around here, too?”

  “No, I’m originally from Chicago. My family still lives there.”

  “Is your family big?”

  “Yep. I have three brothers, one older and two younger. And too many uncles, aunts, and cousins on both my dad and my mom’s side to count. I guess that’s what happens when an Irish man marries an Italian woman.”

  Oh, so that explains his uncommon name, the Mediterranean colorings of his skin and hair, and the fact that he speaks Italian paired with the Irish surname, green eyes, and freckles.

  “What do your brothers do?”

  “Johnathan, the older, is a cop, just been promoted to detective. Greg, the other middle child, is a fireman. And the baby, Adam, is a cop, too, but he’s trying out for the FBI next year.”

  “Whoa, sounds like a committed public-service bunch.”

  “Well, my dad’s been a cop for forty years…” He grimaces. “I’m the only one not to have followed in his footsteps, more or less.”

  “Do they give you a hard time about it?”

  “Used to. I can’t even remember how many sermons I had to hear about how acting wasn’t a sound career choice. Now, I think they just feel sorry for me.” Diego looks away in the distance. “My dream was easier to sell ten years ago. But after so many years without a breakthrough, they must wonder what I’m still doing in this city working as a server, and what my plan is.”

  “So, you’re a member of the sibling-to-be-pitied club, huh?”

  He frowns. “Why? Your parents aren’t happy with your career?”

  “Unfortunately, it has more to do with the lack of a diamond ring on my finger at the late age of thirty, and my inability to supply chubby grandkids.”

  “Oooooh, I know the drill,” Diego sympathizes. “Two of my brothers are already married, and both have kids.”

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you had a big family.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll have to write me a family tree so I can learn their names.”

  “Why? It’s not like you’ll ever meet them.”

  “No, but my mom or sister could ask questions.” Knowing them, they certainly will. “It’d be weird if I knew nothing about your family, at least the basics.” I grab a pad and a pencil from the coffee table and hand them to him. “Just put down your mom, dad, brothers, and their spouses and kids’ names.”

  Diego sets his almost-empty wine glass on the table and takes the notepad.

  “Refill?” I ask, as he writes down the O’Donnell genealogy.

  “Yes, please.”

  I top up his glass and wait for him to be done before asking my next question. “Why New York? Wouldn’t LA have been the more obvious choice for an aspiring actor?”

  Diego sighs. “Call me a romantic, but my heart is in the theater. Nothing can top performing in front of a live audience. The adrenaline of walking onto a stage, knowing you have to deliver every single time, and that if you make a mistake, there won’t be a second take. It’s priceless.”

  “So, what’s your favorite show?”

  “Ever, or recently?”

  “Let’s keep it recent.”

  “Then Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.”

  “Oh, I read the book—script, whatever—but it was a bit of a letdown.”

  “Of course, because it wasn’t supposed to be experienced that way. You need to buy a ticket and go see the actual show. It’ll blow your mind, I promise.”

  “Really? I don’t know… I grew up reading Harry Potter… Do you remember the excitement when a new book was about to come out, and the desperation when you finished it and knew there’d be at least another two years to wait before the next one?”

  “Yeah, it was the best and the worst.”

  “It’s my favorite series ever, and I’ve read it so many times I think I’ve consumed the books beyond repair… so when The Cursed Child came out I was over the moon, but then I read it and… meh!”

  Diego nods understandingly. “Nothing will ever top a new Harry Potter book, I agree. But if you approach The Cursed Child as a play and not a book, it’s so much better. You won’t regret watching it.”

  I smile. “Okay, maybe I’ll try it…”

  Diego’s enthusiasm when he speaks about Broadway is contagious. This guy is turning out like nothing I would’ve expected from just looking at his picture. I thought he was going to be one of those vain, self-absorbed male models who pay more attention to their skin products than I do. But he’s no egomaniac.

  “What about you?” Diego asks. “Have you always wanted to work at an advertising agency?”

  “I studied marketing and visual design in college, but I ended up in my line of work more by chance. I met my former boss at a recruiting event, and he gave an inspiring speech on what they did at KCU, on how they fostered new talent, and how a college graduate would thrive at their agency. So, I guess I chose a mentor more than a profession. And it worked out pretty well. I love what I do and the people I do it with, so…”

  Diego grins. “Now you’re only missing that
diamond ring on your finger, and to pop out the standard two point five chubby babies before you turn forty.”

  I laugh. “Nailed it.”

  I’m not sure if it’s the wine or the fact that we’ve been talking for a while, but I’m getting more relaxed around him. Same as if there was a regular person on the couch next to me, instead of an impossibly sexy hunk from another planet.

  We chat a little more and finish the wine before I realize how late it is.

  “Sorry,” I say, getting up. My head is dizzier than I’d like. “I have an early morning tomorrow. You?”

  “I switched my shifts at the restaurant to lunch, so I’ll be free in the evenings.”

  “Perfect. Well, you have your keys, and the Wi-Fi password is on the back of the box.” I point at the modem sitting next to the TV. “The fridge is stocked if you want to eat something; just beware of Blair’s vegetarian crap.”

  “I will.” Diego smiles and gets up. And I watch, astonished, as he gathers both our glasses and the bottle and rinses the former in the sink after throwing the latter in the recycle bin. Good looking, down to earth, and with perfect manners. Impressive!

  “Mind if I use the bathroom first?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “It’s your house.”

  Feeling again awkward, I wave. “Good night, then.”

  “Night.”

  When I come out of the bathroom, Diego is in Blair’s room, out of sight. I slip into my room, change into my PJs and, feeling a bit silly, I lock the door.

  ***

  The next morning, my phone starts ringing the moment I resurface above ground from the subway station closest to work.

  I lodge my earbuds in place and pick up.

  “Are you alive?” Blair demands, as I begin the short walk to my office building. “Where are you?”

  “I answered the phone; that should be a good indication I’m still breathing,” I say, stopping at a red traffic light and wrapping the collar of my coat tighter around my neck. “I’m walking to the office. You?”

  “Me, too. Sorry, I’ve just been so worried all night.”

  The light turns green and I cross the street. “No need to be; Diego is a perfectly nice guy.”

  “Nice or not, Richard agrees with me: you were reckless to invite a total stranger into our house.”