A Christmas Date

by Camilla Isley

  “You told him?” I almost stop in the middle of the road, but the Manhattan pedestrian crowd prompts me forward.

  “Of course I did. How else was I supposed to explain my late night pick up request?”

  “Saying you wanted to spend time with him?”

  “Oh, please, I’d just left him, he would’ve known something was up. He also said he wants to meet this guy before we drive home with him.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I sigh, exasperated, as I open the door of my favorite Starbucks. “Richard is just as paranoid as you are.”

  “No, we’re both responsible adults.”

  “Hold on a second…” I say, then mouth, “The usual,” to the barista, switch my phone to the Starbucks app to pay, and go wait in line for my order. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Responsible Adults, you can both relax…”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Diego’s entire family is in law enforcement. He’s hardly serial killer material.”

  “Mmm, hello? Have you seen Dexter?”

  “Dexter only zapped the bad guys, so I should be safe anyway, no?”

  “Unless one of his serial killer buddies decides to take it out on the girlfriend.”

  “Fake girlfriend, and, Blair, life isn’t a TV show. But if Richard really wants to meet Diego, tell your boyfriend to come to the casting on Tuesday. But please also tell him to be subtle and not to interrogate Diego, deal?”

  “Oh, great, I wasn’t sure he’d come.”

  “Why? Because you took his fingerprints? It’s a good opportunity for him. He’s a professional; why wouldn’t he come?”

  “I don’t know… He could be busy planning his next murder?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No, nooo. I was just kidding. So, how did your first night go? What did you guys do?”

  “Skinny mocha vanilla latte for Nikki,” a barista shouts.

  I shove the phone back into my coat pocket and grab the coffee, gladly wrapping my hands around the warm paper cup, before returning to the freezing temperatures of a New York morning in December.

  “We opened a bottle of wine and chatted, you know, to cover the basics: family, education, career…”

  “And how was it?”

  “Pretty cozy; he’s an easy guy to talk to. I mean, for someone that looks so, mmm…”

  Blair supplies the definition for me, “Freaking hot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re not getting too cozy, are you? He’s there only because you’re paying him.”

  “I’m aware, thank you. I was just saying that I expected a narcissistic showoff, and instead, he’s rather easy going, funny, even… But don’t worry, he’s not my type at all.”

  “Yeah, about that… I was wondering why you picked someone so… not you. Isn’t your family going to get suspicious?”

  I stop a few steps away from my building’s main entrance. “You want the ugly truth? The one I could tell only my best friend without being judged?”

  “Yeah-ah…”

  “He’s Julia’s type,” I confess. “For once, I want her to be jealous of me, even if it’s just for a second and it’s all fake. Am I too pathetic?”

  “No, you’re not, and I don’t have any siblings to compete with, so I’m really not an expert on the subject of sisterly envy. I can’t even begin to think what I’d do if my imaginary sister was marrying Richard, so…”

  “Thank you,” I say, relieved she’s in my corner no matter what crazy ideas get into my head. “Listen, I’m at the office, I gotta go.”

  “Yeah, I’m almost there, too. Okay, I’ll talk to you soon, and please send regular texts to let me know you’re alive.”

  I roll my eyes but smile. “I will.”

  ***

  I haven’t been seated at my desk five minutes before my cell phone goes off again. It’s Julia. Ugh, majorly not in the mood for another wedding planning rant. I let the call go unanswered. Three seconds later, my internal line rings, signaling Melanie is calling me.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “I have your sister on line two.”

  I could tell Melanie to make an excuse for me—that I’m in a meeting, or not at the office—but I know Julia. If she’s decided we have to talk now, she’ll just pester me until I surrender and answer. Compared to my sister, my mom is a restrained serial caller.

  I sigh. “All right, put the call through.” Melanie hangs up. I wait for the external line’s button to flash and push it. “Hello?”

  “Mom says I can’t have your room.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I reply. “And, yes, Mom would be correct.”

  “But Nikki, I’m bringing my fiancé home for the holidays. We can’t stay in my room. Yours is bigger.”

  “Our rooms are exactly the same.”

  “Okay, but I can’t make Paul sleep in my castle princess bed.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but when given the chance to choose a bed, you should’ve picked something more practical.”

  “I was eight.”

  “And I was ten. Didn’t stop me from ordering a perfectly sensible queen bed.”

  Truth is, my only guiding principle at the time was to do the exact opposite of what Julia did. So, when she opted for a fairy tale bunk bed—pink, complete with turrets, crenellations, and tulle drapes—I went for the most serious, adult-looking bed I found at the shop.

  “But Paul won’t fit…”

  “Then ask Mom to get rid of the princess bed and buy a replacement.”

  “But I love that bed.”

  “Well, sorry… You’ll have to pick: either Paul sleeps in the princess bed, or the bed goes.”

  I take a little smudge of satisfaction in knowing Julia is not going to have exactly everything she wants.

  “But why can’t you switch?”

  “Because my boyfriend won’t fit in the princess bed any better.”

  “Oh, so you really have a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Since when? I thought Mom misunderstood.”

  Sure, because it would be so impossible for me to have a boyfriend. No matter that it sort of is impossible. The fact that Julia would just assume… Grrrrrrr. I bite the receiver before I continue.

  “A few months.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Who is this guy?”

  “Jules, I’m just more private with my life than you, and right now I’m at the office, working. I don’t have time to gossip.”

  “Work, work, work. You always have to work. I’ve been trying your private phone for an hour this morning, and it was always busy.”

  “I was talking to someone else.”

  “Who, your boyfriend?”

  “No, Blair.”

  “Oh, the sister you wish you’d had.”

  I stare at the ceiling, trying to keep calm. It’s definitely too early for one of Julia’s dramatic scenes. “Why are you throwing a tantrum?” I ask.

  “Because you’re dating someone and didn’t even think of telling me. I had to learn it from Mom!” she whines. “How long has Blair known him? It’s like I don’t exist for you.”

  Julia and I have never been close, and since she’s been dating Paul, the distance has increased. I love her, she’s my sister, and if she needed a kidney I’d give it to her without a moment’s hesitation. But we’re so different, and with her dating the guy I love… It’s just hard.

  “I’m sorry, Jules, but until recently I wasn’t sure the relationship was that serious, or even worth mentioning.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me the other day?”

  “That was your moment, your big announcement… I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So who is this guy? When am I going to meet him?”

  “At Christmas like the rest of the family.”

  “Why? We’re both in the city; can’t we mee
t up earlier?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. I’m super busy until the agency closes, and Diego is super busy, too.”

  “Diego… Mmm, cool name. What does he look like?”

  “Julia.” I use my best older sister tone. “I don’t have time to chat, but I’m sure you’re going to like him.” Maybe a bit too much, an evil little voice adds inside my head. “I really have to go now.”

  “You’re a buzz kill.”

  “Love you, too. Bye.” I hang up and lean back in my chair, massaging my temples.

  Another twelve days to C-Day and I’m already about to explode. I just hope this mastermind plan of mine won’t epically backfire on me.

  Seven

  Baby, It’s Cold Outside

  When I get home that evening, the house smells like… mmm… my mom’s kitchen. For a second I panic, thinking she couldn’t resist meeting my boyfriend and decided to drop by unannounced. But I let out a breath of relief as soon as I step out of the hallway and see there’s only Diego seated at the kitchen bar, eating dinner.

  “Hey,” I say. “What smells good? Did you make dinner?”

  “No, the chef at the restaurant always feeds me scraps. Sorry I didn’t wait for you, but I was starving.”

  “Don’t worry, I usually don’t get home this late. What are you having?”

  “Homemade lasagna, best in New York. There’s plenty left, and it’s still warm. Marisa always gives me way too much. Want some?”

  My dinner plan was to order something from the Thai restaurant down the street, which is what I usually do when Blair isn’t home to prepare a healthy dinner for the both of us. But homemade lasagna beats that a hundred to one.

  “Sure there’s enough for two?” I ask.

  “Yeah, even three or four.”

  “All right, then.”

  I grab a plate, a glass, and a fork from the cabinets and sit at the kitchen bar next to him.

  Diego scoops me a generous helping of lasagna out of the aluminum tray. “Here’s the best lasagna you’ll ever have—unless you meet my mom. No one beats my mom’s.”

  I take a bite and… “Mmm… this is delicious.” The lasagna is both creamy and rich, but not overwhelming. I could devour a whole tray of this.

  “Told ya.” Diego smiles. “So, how was your day?”

  “Stupid, yours?”

  “A regular shift at the restaurant, nothing exciting,” he says, then smirks. “What happens on a stupid day?”

  “Your boss poaches an unhappy client from another agency, and delivers the pitch but only brings the creative team with him…”

  Diego finishes up his plate and rounds the bar to rinse his dish and drop it in the dishwasher. Gosh, he really is tidy. I would’ve dropped the dirty dish in the sink and maybe splashed water on it. I tend to postpone house chores until they become overwhelmingly necessary.

  “So.” Diego leans against the counter as I scarf down the last bites of lasagna. “Did the creatives drop the ball?”

  “Oh, no, they wowed the client.”

  “And that’s bad because?”

  “Every creative pitch has to be vetted by a producer because we’re the reality check. We understand what can be done in how much time, and at what budget… You leave the creatives free, and they’ll go overboard.”

  “And they did this time?”

  “For sure. The ad they pitched is brilliant and witty, but it’s a production nightmare.” I finish the lasagna and lick the fork before dropping it on the empty plate. “Too many actors, too many locations, and too little time. Not to talk about the budget; we’ll be lucky if we break even on this one.”

  Promptly, Diego scoops up the plate, rinses it, and drops it into the dishwasher. “Where do you keep the dish soap?”

  “There’re pods under the sink.”

  He loads one, studies the dishwasher’s buttons for a few seconds, pushes a couple, and the machine awakens.

  “Your boss must really trust you if he put you on this assignment,” Diego says, coming back to my side of the counter.

  I stand up and move to the couch, where I kick off my shoes. “You have a future in management, you know?”

  Diego joins me on the sofa, sticking to “his” end. “Yeah, why?”

  “That’s exactly what my boss told me to sell me the project, ‘…You’re the only one who can pull it off… Can’t trust anyone else… Blah, blah, blah…’”

  Diego smirks. “Then it must be true.”

  “True or not, the bottom line stays the same: I’m screwed. There’s even a cat in the ad. I mean, a cat.”

  “You don’t like cats?”

  “I love cats. I’m one hundred percent a cat person. But on set, they’re a nightmare. Trained animals are expensive, and a scene to turn out decent needs a million takes, meaning long hours and money and time I don’t have. What about you, cats or dogs?”

  Please say cats, please say cats…

  “Cats…”

  Yay! I do a mental victory dance. “How come? Guys usually go for dogs.”

  “Blame my mom; we’ve never had less than three cats in the house. And she keeps feeding all the neighborhood cats as well, stray or not. So I guess I was groomed into being a cat person.”

  “Great, I can’t stand dogs.”

  “Why?”

  “They lick, they’re smelly… Ew, gross.”

  “Doesn’t your roommate have a dog?”

  “Chevron? She’s different. She’s a cat’s soul trapped in a dog’s body, know what I mean?”

  Diego chuckles. “Not really.”

  “You’ll see when you meet her.”

  He shakes his head, amused.

  “What?” I ask self-consciously.

  “You make little sense sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “A cat person who claims to hate dogs usually doesn’t own one.”

  “Correction, my roommate has a dog. I’ve begged her to get a cat from the day we moved in together, but she always said the apartment was too small to have a pet. Then she found a stray puppy and suddenly we had enough room for a sixty-pound dog. So, really, it’s her not making sense.”

  Diego nods. “Agreed.”

  “Hey, you want something to drink? Sorry I didn’t offer. We have wine, beer…”

  “Are you drinking?”

  “No, my brain gets too scrambled if I drink two nights in a row, and I need to be on top of my game this week.”

  “Tomorrow’s the weekend.”

  “Well, yeah, but thanks to my new assignment I have to drop by the office. You have your Santa thing tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah, the afternoon shift from two to six.”

  “That’s perfect. We can go Christmas shopping together in the morning, work after lunch, and meet up again for dinner later. Sound good?”

  “Christmas shopping?”

  “Yeah, we need to buy each other presents. My family is big on present unwrapping on the twenty-fifth.”

  “Oh.” He frowns.

  “Don’t worry, I’m buying my present. We just have to think of something smart, and unique, and romantic…”

  Diego looks like he’s just swallowed lemons. “Fine, but I should warn you: I hate Christmas shopping.”

  I laugh. “That makes two of us, but we gotta do what we gotta do… Anything on your letter to Santa?”

  “Nothing you can put under wrapping paper…” he says, with that Broadway spark in his eyes.

  “Know the feeling,” I agree. My biggest Christmas wish has nothing to do with material things, either. And anyway, we’re all supposed to be good at Christmas, so I can’t really wish for my sister’s life to crumble to pieces… But I could wish to feel less freaking alone all the time, or to forget Paul, or to fall in love with someone who loves me back for a change… Yeah, those would all be much better wishes…

  “Are you okay?” Diego asks.

  “Yeah, w
hy?”

  “You sort of went all glassy-eyed.”

  “Sorry.” I massage my temples. “I’m just exhausted. What do you say we call it a night so we can start early on the shopping tomorrow morning?

  Diego grimaces. “Ho ho ho,” he chants in a deep voice nothing like his own.

  “I never understood how you actors do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Change your voice on command.”

  “It’s all diaphragm, throat, and nose work.” With every word he changes his voice—throaty, nasal, husky—making me laugh. “And many hours of practice.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “All right, boss,” he says, back to his normal tone. He gets up and offers me a hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

  I take his hand and he lifts me up, and for a second we end up standing really close to each other. So close I can smell his clean soap scent… simple, but intoxicating. And I haven’t had sex in too long to stand this close to the sexiest man I’ve ever met. And even if I don’t like him that way, well… I’m still made of flesh…

  “Okay, then,” I say, sounding like an awkward teenager and trying hard not to blush. “Good night.”

  I move past him and go hide in my room. I barely hear his soft, “Night,” reply before I shut the door and lock myself in.

  ***

  I blink my eyes open to the sound of a blow dryer running.

  What time is it?

  A quick peek at my watch tells me it’s already ten. So much for an early start. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those early risers, people who wake up at five a.m. on autopilot to go for a run. Someone like Blair. My roommate is so healthily annoying. But put me in a cozy bed and I could sleep in until noon every day. I don’t know why I didn’t set an alarm last night. Easy, because my phone has a weekly alarm programmed to let me sleep on the weekends.

  I throw away the covers, get up, and swap PJs for a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. In front of the wardrobe mirror, I try to flatten my hair, preventing it from sticking out in all directions. I so wish it was still long enough to pull up in a bun. I miss buns.

  Bun-less and still crazy-haired, I venture into the hall and almost collide with a semi-naked Diego. He’s wearing only a towel around his hips, presenting me with the kind of naked chest usually reserved for steamy romance book covers. I try not to look, but my gaze gets drawn to the inviting V of muscle disappearing just below the towel, and I involuntarily bite my lower lip. I mentally slap myself, and my eyes snap back up to his face. His hair, fresh from the blow dry, is wilder than mine and gives him a tousled look that’s hard to resist.