A Christmas Date

by Camilla Isley

  “You want to read or something?” I ask.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Should I kill the lights, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  I turn to switch off the bedside lamp, and burrow deeper under the covers. “Good night.”

  “Night,” comes Diego’s whispered answer.

  I lie there, with my arms along my sides rigid as a mummy, staring into the dark with all my senses on high alert. From the utter silence on my right, I can tell Diego isn’t sleeping, either. Not a single breath coming out of him. What is he doing? What is he thinking?

  Something brushes against my right pinky. At first, the touch is so light I think I’ve imagined it. But then Diego’s fingers tickle mine again in an unmistakable move, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles in a soft caress. And the simple skin-on-skin contact is enough to make me experience a charge like a static shock. A flow of current that shoots up from my hand to my arm, then to the rest of me.

  Swallowing my sudden agitation, I return his touch, keeping my movements just as gentle and light. Until our fingers are intertwined in a firm lock. Diego’s thumb massages my palm in slow circles. I never thought of my hands as erogenous points, but I was wrong. This seemingly-innocent fondling is doing the weirdest things to me.

  Our feet touch next. Just a tentative exploration at first, and then another joining of limbs.

  I can’t stand this tension any longer. I gently tug Diego toward me, and he doesn’t seem to need much more encouragement to partially roll on top of me, the pressure of his body on mine divine. With his free hand, he cups my left cheek and… He doesn’t kiss me. He teases my lips with his, never allowing them to stay in contact for long. Nibbling at me with his teeth, and kissing me everywhere—cheeks, jaw, neck—but on the mouth.

  Just when I think I won’t be able to stand this sweet torture any longer, he finally gives in to my silent prayer. The kiss feels much more intimate than the one we shared this morning, but no less heated.

  We make out for hours. And I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’re in my old room and have to be careful not to make too much noise or to keep the bed from squeaking, but I feel like a high school junior exploring boys for the first time.

  Why don’t adults spend more time kissing? Once we discover the main act—sex—we forget everything that used to come before. How good it is to just kiss. How intimate. How soul-baring. But now I’m back to being sixteen, and kissing Diego is all I want to do tonight. I’m not sure if he feels the same way, because we don’t say a word to each other the entire time. But he never tries to go further than kissing, and a very chaste version of second base. In fact, every roaming of our hands on our bodies is strictly clothes-on, with no skin coming in contact except for our hands, feet, and lips.

  We kiss, kiss, and kiss, until my lips are so swollen they hurt. Still, I wouldn’t want it to ever stop. But at one point my body seems to have expended all its energy. I let Diego’s mouth go and burrow my head in the nook between his neck and shoulder, wrapping my legs around his in a tight embrace. I fall asleep almost immediately.

  ***

  For the first time in I don’t know how many years, I wake up happy on Christmas Day. I’m smiling even before I can remember why, which doesn’t take long considering I’m sleeping all over him.

  “Hey.” I shyly lift my head to look at Diego.

  He has his arms wrapped around me, and gently pushes a lock of hair away from my forehead to kiss me there. “Morning.”

  I blush and hide my face back into his neck.

  Last night, in the dark, it all seemed simple. But right now, I don’t know what to tell Diego. We kissed. Real, non-job-related kissing. What does it mean? Are we dating for real now? Am I still his boss? What the hell is happening to us?

  “Last night was…” I start tentatively.

  “I know.” Diego holds me closer and kisses my head again.

  I’m gathering enough courage to ask the hard question—What did last night mean to you?—when an explosion of Christmas bells from one of Mom’s favorite old songs invades the relative quiet of the morning.

  My mother’s shouting quickly follows. “Come on, kids, time to get up! The buns are just out of the oven, come down before they get cold… and Merry Christmas, everyone!”

  This is my mom’s idea of a jolly wake up call. She pumps holiday tunes at top volume on the stereo and calls us down to all have breakfast together with her famous cinnamon rolls. Usually, this treatment turns me into Miss Cranky MacGrumpy right away. I’d drag myself out of bed, join the breakfast table with a frown, only half-appreciate the deliciousness of my mother’s buns, and ready myself for a day of misery spent defending my dating life—or lack of thereof.

  But not today. Today, I’m ready to gorge on buttery cinnamon rolls, I want to unwrap the presents, eat the turkey, and I might even start humming holiday tunes under my breath. Not even Aunt Betsy can ruin my mood.

  “Better not make her wait,” I say, sitting up, glad I have an excuse to postpone The Conversation. “And the cinnamon rolls are worth it, I promise.”

  We get up and awkwardly bump into each other as I side-step him on my way to the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in just a few minutes,” I tell him.

  In the bathroom, I take extra care to make myself as pretty as possible without giving the impression of trying too hard. I wash my face, brush my teeth, fluff my hair, and pinch some color into my cheeks. My lips are already red and plump, so they don’t need any extra pinching—a night of making out will do that for you. I’m tempted to apply some concealer under my eyes but decide against it. Julia might notice and call me out on it in front of everyone.

  I hop down the stairs, skipping steps, and promptly barrel into Diego on the landing just as he comes out of the guest bathroom.

  “Whoa, careful there.” He catches me by the waist and kisses my temple, whispering, “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I repeat, out of breath.

  We walk into the dining room holding hands and smiling like two fools.

  “Morning.” I beam at everyone.

  My mom immediately starts fussing around, serving coffee and placing two trays of cinnamon rolls on the table.

  “Which ones are mine?” I ask.

  Mom points to the tray on the left. “These are half raisin-free regulars.” For me, I hate raisins. “And the other half is the vegan version,” she adds for Julia.

  Gosh, we’re two spoiled-rotten kids. At this moment, a surge of appreciation for my mom swells in my chest. I’m an awful child. I never call, I come home the bare minimum, and always try to avoid my family like the plague. True, whenever I talk to Mom she finds a way to work my non-existent love life into the conversation, driving me mad. But I know she does it out of real concern for my well-being. I should try to be more patient with her, and call her more, and visit more often.

  But this year I can enjoy all her maternal love, with no discussions. I dread the moment I’ll have to tell her Diego and I broke up.

  The thought hits me in the stomach like a punch with more force than I could’ve ever expected. To stage a fake breakup with my fake boyfriend has always been the plan, but after last night… What are we going to do? Are we still going to break up at the end of the week? Can you really break up if you’ve never even been officially together? Are we together?

  The questions that have been swirling inside my head since I woke up, keep on spinning, chasing one another around my poor brain. I fend them off with a bite of warm roll and a sip of steamy coffee. Today’s my first chance at a merry Christmas, and I’m not going to waste it roasting in self-doubt all day. Que será, será…

  Sixteen

  Santa Baby

  On a whim of daughterly love, I offer to help Mom in the kitchen after breakfast, sending her over the moon with joy and a bit of shock. My standard MO for Christmases past had been to hide in my room until
all the guests had arrived and get as little involved in the preparations—ahem, and celebrations—as I could.

  Although my offer of help is welcomed with warmth, poor kitchen skills relegate me to vegetable-peeling duty. But I don’t mind. The task is easy and repetitive; it has a steadiness to it that’s keeping me Zen. I’m so at peace with the universe today. I even manage not to roll my eyes whenever Julia takes Mom’s perfect recipes and mangles them with her new vegan creed. Thankfully, the special menu will apply only to her today—and to any volunteers. I doubt there’ll be any. Maybe Paul will taste something out of sheer love—or duty.

  I wait for the usual pang of the heart, or the tightening in my chest, that I get whenever I think about how Paul is in love with my sister. But it doesn’t come. Zero. Nada. No pain. No wistfulness. Was one night with Diego really enough to make me forget Paul? Okay, it wasn’t really just one night. We’ve been living together for two weeks, learning everything about each other…

  A sudden rush of heat spreads over my cheeks. Oh gosh, the guy knows so much about me. Too much. Like my non-existent romantic track record. I can’t date someone who knows all my secrets. I need a consultation ASAP.

  “Mom.” I throw the last peeled carrot into the bowl. “The vegetables are ready; you need something else? I wanted to drop by Blair’s house and wish her Merry Christmas.”

  “No, sweetheart, you go right ahead. And please wish Mr. and Mrs. Walker happy holidays from us.”

  “Will do.”

  I wash my hands, put on my jacket and boots, and march across the street.

  ***

  I barge into Blair’s room. “We need to talk.”

  “And Merry Christmas to you, too.” Blair smirks at me from the mirror on her dressing table, then turns around in her chair to look me in the eye. “Did Julia make you eat cold mashed potatoes or something?”

  “No, way worse.”

  “Worse than when Ross says the wrong name at the altar?” She starts playing our usual game of comparing situations to things that happened in TV shows and movies.

  “Worse. Everyone hated Emily.”

  “Mmm… Better or worse than when Ben Stiller rescues the wrong cat in Meet the Parents, sprays his tail with paint, and then gets caught?”

  “Funny one.” I chuckle. “Worse.”

  “Okay.” She concentrates. “Better or worse than when Patrick Dempsey was killed off of Gray’s Anatomy?”

  “Ah! Dead McDreamy, that’s a low blow. Better.”

  With a smug smile, Blair orders, “Tell me what happened.”

  I bite my lower lip. “I made out with Diego all night.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound bad at all. Why the pout? Is he a bad kisser?”

  “No, it’s not that.” I drop on her bed. “The kissing was great. Epic.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t understand.” I sigh. “The man knows too much.”

  “What does he know?”

  “That I’m such a screw-up with men I needed to hire a fake boyfriend for the holidays…”

  “And apparently he doesn’t care; he wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise… Did you start it, or did he?”

  Well, he brushed his hand against mine first. And he was the one who suggested we kiss in the garden, too.

  “He did, I think.”

  Blair flashes me an evil grin. “Was it only kissing?”

  “Yeah, same as I used to do with Jackson Spencer and you with Andy Bryant before, you know, we discovered sex?”

  My best friend stares at the ceiling in awe. “Those were the most romantic afternoons of my life. I don’t think anyone ever kissed me like that after junior year.”

  “Not even Richard?”

  “Richard is a great kisser, the best, really. But we never spent a whole night just kissing.”

  “Try it when we get back to New York. Last night, I was sixteen again.”

  Blair’s face lights up. “I’m so happy for you.”

  I scoff. “There’s nothing to be happy about. Do you really think Diego could like me?”

  “He spent the night kissing you silly… Seems like a good hint.”

  “But he’s so good looking, and we’re so different. Could it ever work between us?”

  “Wait, you want this to get serious? So you’re not just having fun?”

  I hesitate to answer.

  “Oh, gosh, are you falling in love with him?”

  That’s too scary a thought to even consider, so I deflect the question. “I’m definitely falling in lust.”

  Blair narrows her eyes at me. “And what about Paul?”

  “See, the weird thing is, the more time I spend around him the less I see him that way…”

  “Seriously? Just like that, you’re not in love with him anymore?”

  “Was I ever?”

  Blair’s face turns smug.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” She shrugs. “You came here to hear my wisdom, and I’m going to give it to you. The thing between you and Diego is great. Don’t you dare go all insecure about it and try to sabotage yourself for no reason. He’s a wonderful guy, and he’s clearly into you. And, no, he’s not too hot for you, because there’s no such thing.”

  “You’re forgetting a little detail…”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m still paying him to be here.”

  Blair waves me off. “I’m sure he’ll give you the money back on the first occasion. And once you’re back in the city, you can start dating like two normal people. Who cares how you met? On the record, you two met through work; doesn’t matter if the job setting wasn’t exactly conventional.”

  I stare at her still half-unconvinced, but also relieved.

  “Have I been persuasive enough?” Blair asks.

  I nod.

  “Great,” she cheers. “Now that I’ve got you all wised up, you want to open your Christmas present?”

  ***

  Comforted by Blair’s words, I return to the house just in time to shower and get ready for the big day. Alone in my room, with my hair still damp, I pull on the dress I brought for today: black, simple, not a hint of cheer anywhere on it.

  Mmm… I stare in the mirror, unsure. My habit of dressing more for a funeral than for Christmas Day doesn’t seem appropriate this year. But I didn’t bring any other dresses elegant enough for the occasion. I could ask to borrow something from Julia, but would her clothes even fit me? And I’d gladly skip the chance to try one on and not be able to close the zipper. Yeah, it’d just give her another opportunity to tell me how I should cut back on carbs. So, black dress it is. Unless…

  I open the closet and shuffle all my old clothes to the side until I find what I’m looking for. At the back, hidden behind everything else, rests—abandoned and forgotten—my last attempt at joining my family’s festivities with any real enthusiasm.

  Blair forced me to buy this dress five or six years ago. She’s a fan of Christmas like everybody else and had me convinced the bright red fabric would help me get into the holiday spirit. The dress was gorgeous, and it fit me perfectly, so I bought it and brought it home to wear on Christmas Day. Then, my mom—or my sister, I can’t remember—majorly pissed me off with a stupid remark, which put me off any attempt of “joining in” the celebrations. And so my dress-for-a-funeral-on-Christmas-Day tradition was born.

  I take out the dress and press it against my body, studying the design. Square-cut neckline with cap sleeves, and a high, fitted waist with a peplum frill detailing. The cut of the skirt is midi length, and the whole shape has a tailored fit. Too much? And more to the point, will it still fit me? Only one way to know.

  In a fluid motion, I shed the black dress and replace it with the red one, glad the zipper closes all the way up. Still, it fits a little tighter than I remembered. To make sure the seams won’t burst apart the first time I sit, I try a couple of squats. Not exactly comfortable,
but doable. Actually, the snug fit has the positive effect of pushing up my boobs, making them seem bigger. Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all.

  I’m about to take it off when the door opens and Diego walks in. He’s wearing camel chinos and a deep-green sweater that makes his eyes pop. With his hair all messy as if he’s just finished drying it, and still slightly damp and curly around the nape, he’s breathtaking.

  Insecurities gnaw at my flanks; this guy can’t possibly like me. I wish I was still wearing the black dress; I’d feel less exposed. Diego, however, doesn’t seem to mind the red one. He gives me a once-over and low whistles. With two quick steps, he closes the distance between us, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me in for a kiss as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  So, kissing each other is fair game now, apparently. No complaints here. Still, as we pull apart, I can’t help but blush and, not knowing what to say, I use the first lame excuse to avoid saying anything. “I… err… need to go dry my hair.”

  “Sure.” He winks at me and gives me a gentle push toward the door. “I’ll catch you downstairs; your dad asked me to help him bring in logs for the fire.”

  I nod and, still equally randy and embarrassed, I make my way to the bathroom, glad I don’t have to hurry. Julia called dibs on first use and showered and did her makeup while I was at Blair’s. So I can take my time to style my hair with the blow dryer and flat iron and to carefully do my makeup. I pause only when I have to choose the lipstick. I’m about to go for my usual nude shade when one of Diego’s remarks about my grooming habits pops into my head: “…You like to paint your nails in the most obnoxious, shocking colors, but you’d never use a lipstick shade other than nude. Pity, because a bold red would look killer on you…”

  I stare down at my nails, which are painted black. Not a shocking color, but still a fierce one. I raise my gaze back to my lips in the mirror. Could I really pull off red lipstick? Why not? Today, I feel like there’s nothing I can’t do. Only problem is, I don’t own a red lipstick… but maybe Julia does. I shuffle through her beauty case until I find an almost new stick of Dior Addict lip gloss in a cherry shade.