Holiday Spice & Everything Nice

by Conn, Claudy

  In some ways that statement is true. The good ones never live long enough, no matter how old they get. I join Rox, Jacqueline, and Bailey in the toast to Mama Cass.

  Rox turns to Jacqueline. “I’m surprised you know her real name.”

  Jacqueline puts her arm around one of her two, true best friends for life. There is no doubt that if one of us slipped into the gateway to Hell, the other two would dash in after her. “You have got to be the biggest rock and roll fangirl on the planet,” Jacqueline says. “We met twenty-five years ago because our fathers were in a band together. We went through every grade of school together. We were roomies in college and we have been roomies for all of the seven years since. Do you really think I can escape knowing something as basic as Mama Cass’s real name when you constantly rattle on about music? I do always listen to you.” Jacqueline turns the partial embrace into a hug. “Always.”

  Rox snuggles into Jacqueline’s shoulder. “Aw, you really do love me.”

  “Just like anyone would love her annoying little sister,” Jacqueline tells her.

  Bailey smirks. I give her arm a playful smack in return. She follows it up with a bear hug that crams my face into her shoulder, smashing my nose. Crammed face or not, I miss the hell out of her. Why couldn’t she have gotten a killer job in Hollywood instead of all the way across the continent? The moon seems closer than she does. Regardless, I am so blessed; my sister is one of my best friends, and my best friends are like my sisters. How perfect is that?

  Rox takes a sip out of her Milky Way Martini. Suddenly her eyes widen. I then become their target as they narrow. “You keep looking at the door.”

  “What? I do not!” Do I?

  “Yeah, you do,” Jacqueline adds.

  “Face it,” Bailey says, “you may be annoyed at that jerk, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Something about the situation has your attention.”

  I come to my own defense. “That’s ridiculous. Besides, he’s not even in town now.”

  “All the more proof that Bailey is right,” Jacqueline says. “It’s okay. Feeling that way is fine, but acting on it is another story. He sounds like an ass.”

  My sigh isn’t one of longing but more of frustration. GranGran gave me a lot of food for thought. It was so much easier when Chris was just a hot guy who turned out to be a jerk. Now I have no idea what to think. Then again, maybe I do. “The whole night was like watching a puppy who can’t figure out what his paws are for, so he barks too much to cover his insecurity.”

  Jacqueline shrugs. “One day, the dating game has got to work out for one of us.”

  Rox’s tilted head tells me I am being sized up. “Is that why you are thinking of giving him a second chance?”

  How did she know? Once more, why does everyone else look unfazed?

  “You are playing with your hair,” Bailey says. “A woman twirls her hair around her finger when she is either flirting with a man or is thinking of the one she wants to flirt with.”

  I look to my finger and see some of my green locks wrapped around it. Crap! She’s right.

  Truthfully, everything about the whole situation makes me feel awkward. I hate people who come off as fake. All interference from GranGran aside, it is obvious that there is a genuine side to Chris that I find fascinating. Thing is, it should not be up to me to dig for it, just like no person should think he or she has the ability, let alone the right, to try to change someone. “You know how James Dean always seemed a little lost and rebellious against himself?” I ask. “Chris seems more rebellious about being lost.”

  There is that word again. What was it GranGran said about rebellion? How we rebel, or even if we choose not to, shapes us. She also asked what rebellion I would have gone through to find myself.

  Rox nudges me and whispers, “Speaking of Mr. Rebel Without A Clue.” She nods sideways, and I catch a glance of Chris. My heart goes into a sprint, and I reach for a napkin. Why are my hands suddenly clammy with excitement, yet I also feel the urge to flee? “Oh God. What is he doing here? He’s supposed to be in Alabama.”

  Naturally, after I blurt that out, all heads snap in his direction.

  “Oh, wow,” Bailey says, sounding breathless. If she wants his drama, she can have it.

  I start kicking the girls under the table so they will stop staring. They all jerk and make poor attempts at acting naturally. Jacqueline grabs her glass and looks to an empty booth. Bailey reaches into her purse for a mirror to check her eyeliner. Rox dips her head to take a sip from her straw, and then raises her eyes to me. Bailey and Jacqueline’s eyes also snap in my direction. Nothing about any of this is covert. “I’m fine,” I tell them. “I think.”

  Chris heads my way—at least, the guy looks like Chris, but he doesn’t feel like the same person I attempted to have a conversation with. This man walks with hesitation, and his eyes have yet to make contact. The swagger of seduction is nowhere in sight. Neither is the air of smugness. In fact, everything about him says that he is a different person—a real person—not a poster child for arrogant misfits.

  A few feet away, he brings his hand out from behind his back. Even though I can’t make out the details through the paper wrapping, my pulse accelerates at the sight of a bouquet.

  Is he here to try a different seduction tactic on someone else, or is he attempting to play a new game with me? Maybe, just maybe, this is the real him. GranGran would never ask me to give a second chance to someone who could truly cause me strife. Regardless, I hate that my heart is trying to sprint out of my chest at the sight of that jerk.

  My grip on the napkin tightens as he closes the distance between us. Just like he did when we first met, he directs his hello to me before greeting the rest of the table. He is barely able to look at me when he asks, “Can I talk to you for moment?”

  Part of me is still annoyed from his antics on Saturday night and wants to tell him I’m busy. However, the person I trust more than I will ever trust anyone, told me to give him another chance, and he does seem to know he blew it. I just hope this is not an act.

  We take seats at the next table in such a way that he can sit without catching sight of the looky-loos known as my friends. Try as they might not to, they won’t be able to keep from staring. I don’t blame them. I would not either. It’s just how we are.

  “I owe you an apology,” he says. “I was so wrapped up in being what I thought a woman wanted that I didn’t respect the one in front of me. Here.” As if he had not already thrown me for enough of a loop, my breath now shudders when I get a good look at the flowers. The bouquet of daisies has been dyed in a glorious rainbow of colors. “You are far from being a typical, rose girl. You are daisies. The vivid colors of your hair suit you not because they look good, but because you are a rainbow of beauty who isn’t afraid to let the world see her shine. You are your own garden, much like how a bush of daisies is plentiful with life.” He stops to twiddle his thumbs. “Look, I know that I was far from being the perfect date. I heard the frustration in your voice, and I don’t blame you. Is there any way I can persuade you into a do-over?”

  “A do-over?” The words barely come out of me. Daisies—how did he know? Is this GranGran’s doing, or are these really coming from him? Maybe the flowers were his idea and she whispered the word daisies in his ear.

  “Yeah,” he says more to the table than to me, “I don’t feel you’re too keen on a second date. Maybe you would be willing to show a little mercy and grant me a do-over.”

  He’s so sweet. So genuine. So the type of man I could appreciate. But is this the real him? Given his words, his mannerisms, the daisies, and what GranGran said, I can’t help but feel hopeful. I also can’t wipe the grin off of my face.

  I play with a petal—a beautiful, hot pink petal that reminds me of my favorite lipstick—because as much as I try to fight the emotions that have blindsided me, my face feels flushed, and I don’t know what else to do with my hands. “I think I can manage that. But why are you here? I thought
you weren’t coming back for a few days?”

  He seems to put up a fight with himself to look at me. Seriously, what changed? I love this side of him.

  Finally his voice wins the battle of his nerves. “Can I just say that it became pretty obvious that even if I had a way to reach you, you would not have answered when I called? I didn’t make the best impression, but obviously you made a hefty one on me. Jacqueline said you always wind up here on Fridays. The longer I waited to do this, the more awkward it would be. Besides, if I’m to be totally honest, I had to do this quickly, else I’d let myself come up with excuses not to. I need to fix me.” He rattles his head. “Sorry, that’s a long story. I’ll let you get back to your friends. I don’t want to push, but can that do-over be tomorrow?”

  He actually remembered what my friend said that first night, let alone her name? This is the man I was expecting that first date to be with. My heart feels so warm that I think it may be melting on to the floor. I have plans with Bailey for Saturday, but—

  Bailey kicks behind her, catching the leg of my stool. My ears ring with her silent lecture that I would be insane to say no. “Yeah, I can make tomorrow work.”

  His smile does in the last bit of my heart that has not already turned to goo. “Can I have your number so I can call you in the morning and work out the details?”

  Chris starts running his finger under the band of his watch like it has suddenly become tight. How he also sucks in his lower lip makes him seem concerned that I might say no or give him false information just to make him go away. It is so sweet that by the time I’ve finished writing my number, I’m genuinely okay with our situation. When he walks away, I even let myself feel hopeful.

  Bailey steps up and puts her chin on my shoulder. Together we watch him go out the door. “You good?” she asks. The words may be hers, but I sense all of my friends asking as well.

  “Yeah, I’m great.”

  We take our seats back with the girls. Bailey’s gaze is locked on the flowers. She can’t hide the mist forming in her eyes nor the crackle in her voice. “I heard what he said about the daisies. Sounds like something someone we love would have told you.”

  It does, and it is especially weird in light of what that special someone told me a few nights ago, but I don’t tell Bailey that. It’s not that she wouldn’t believe me. I know she would. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she talks to GranGran as well. But GranGran gave me that board in private, so in private the resulting conversations will stay. It just seems right.

  Rox reaches across the table and touches my arm at almost the exact time Jacqueline does. Their eyes are also locked on the flowers. “They are not just brightly colored because you are a rainbow,” Rox says. “They are a neon sign trying to grab the attention of your soul.”

  Yes, and they worked. I hear you GranGran—loud and clear. But I won’t give him the second chance you asked for. Chris has earned that do-over.

  It's A Marshmallow World

  My eyes scan down my body for yet another check. Something must be missing, because I feel off balance.

  Okay, sweater? Check. Bra under said sweater? Check. Nice jeans? Check. Panties that there is no way he is seeing but are nice enough so that I won’t be embarrassed if he rufies my drink? Check. Killer, over the knee boots with heels that can take out a man’s junk, if necessary? Check. Coat to cover this awesome outfit? Check. Gloves to cover my jittering fingers because for some bizarre reason I can’t freaking wait to see this guy again? Check. Sweating bullets because this coat is too heavy for California and my heart is racing? Double check.

  From inside the living room, a woman on the TV asks, “What am I getting myself into?”

  I yell to her, “I’m asking myself the same question.”

  Someone raps on the front door, and my eyes dart back to the mirror in panic.

  This is lame! Being worked up over a guy who can be an ass one minute, and then be sweet as punch the next, is stupid beyond words.

  I don’t let myself think of anything more than turning off the TV, grabbing my purse, and answering the door.

  I catch Chris scratching at his neck and undoing the top button of his pressed, grey, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. He’s got on his signature, black leather jacket again, but this time his jeans are tear-free. He is also standing like a normal person—that is to say, he looks comfortable with himself—even though the situation seems to have him a tad on edge. I breathe relief in knowing I am not the only one.

  Just like last night, not a speck of arrogance is in sight. However, what I do see now are two motorcycle helmets.

  His smile has just the right touch of shyness. It’s so comforting that it nearly causes the rufie-approved panties to fall. He hands me a helmet, only to then retract it. “Sorry, I didn’t ask if you are okay with bikes. I mean, it seemed like you were the other day, but if you would rather drive—”

  I laugh. “Wow. Do you really think I have never been on a bike before?”

  His lips part, and he lets out a sigh that implies more relief than seems necessary. “I try to never take anything with a lady for granted. I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing that bike I mentioned.”

  Now I’m a little unsure about all this again. “You mean the one you think Rox would like?” I still can’t see why he thinks my mod, Go-Go dress-wearing friend would dig a motorcycle. That is, until I walk outside and chuckle at his Vespa. A decked out, vintage, freaking Vespa in cherry condition! How many mirrors are on this thing?

  He’s right. Rox would love it. To her, the only thing that could surpass this as a white horse would be a classic muscle car that looks like it just rolled off the line. “Well, you did say bike and not motorcycle. This thing is awesome!”

  “Really? You’re not embarrassed? We could go get the Harley, but this seemed like it would amuse you more.”

  “Does it ever! My uncle taught me how to ride on a Harley. I’ve ridden so many that they mean zip to me, but I have never been on one of these.”

  “Wait, you know how to operate—”

  “Are you kidding?” I stick my hand out. The bewildered man actually gives me the keys, and off we go.

  “Ouch! Crap!” I say.

  Chris laughs—again. My face reddens. I should have asked where we were going, but no. I let him direct me, turn after turn, until we were here—an outdoor ice rink whose perimeter is surrounded in fake snow and plastic pine trees that have been flocked with white goo. He can’t believe that I haven’t been ice-skating other than once when I was six, but I’m Los Angeles born and raised. In the winter, we would wear parkas as soon as the thermometer dropped below sixty, if they were not so unfashionable. No one here would know how to survive in actual snow, so all this synthetic stuff is fitting.

  Chris kneels down and helps me up. He then tucks his arm around mine. I have to admit that it’s pretty nice—safe-feeling even—which is still confusing. “You want to take a break?” he asks.

  And leave this coziness? No way. “I’m fine, thanks. I refuse to surrender to the enemy.”

  “You see frozen water as an enemy?”

  “Ice belongs in a cocktail shaker. By the way my feet are wobbling, they would be great at shaking Martinis.”

  “Note to self, Darla likes her drinks shaken, not stirred.” He then turns to me. “If you are really James Bond in disguise, what does that say about me?”

  “You own a vintage Vespa. Some would already say that you are comfortable with exploring your feminine side.” My eyes are locked on the ice in fear of my next glide, yet the flow of banter shows my mind could not be more relaxed.

  He shrugs. “At least you look more like a Bond girl than you do Sean Connery.”

  Hey, I’ve made it a few feet this time. Maybe I can manage this after all. I stop, straighten my back, and steady myself. I get one, two glides in and …

  Bam! My butt becomes one with the ice.

  Chris laughs. I try not to glare at him. “Sorry,” he says whil
e offering me a hand. “I have to admit though, I’m grateful for the um, icebreaker.”

  “Oh, cute, Chris. Real cute!”

  Now he is really chuckling. So am I. “Sorry,” he says.

  I wait for it.

  He laughs again.

  Yeah, I thought so.

  “No,” he says while helping me to my feet, “I’m not sorry about that remark at all.” All he gets out of me is an eye roll like I am annoyed, which he sees right through and laughs at. Then he turns serious. “You know how your feet are capable of getting you places, but inside those skates they need to find a new way to function? That’s what is going on with me. I have had a heck of a time trying to figure out how to talk to you about it. It goes along with the explanation you are owed.”

  I must be looking like I think he is crazy. That comment is so much like my puppy dog remark about him that it is uncanny. He nudges his head toward some benches, wraps my arm in his, and glides me out of the rink. The seat is a welcome sanctuary.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” he says. “Actually, scratch that. I’ve no idea what you think, but whatever it is, I probably need to change it.”

  “You mean you are not some James Dean wannabe who is trying to convince people he is all that but knows he isn’t?”

  He blinks and his eyes go wide. “Wow. You are one amazing judge of character.”

  “Next you are going to tell me you are still a virgin.”

  He sucks in his lips.

  No way!

  Those big, blue eyes dart back to me and a smile cracks. “Okay, no, but truth be told, there has only been one woman. I wanted to marry her, but she kept putting it off. When I caught her in bed with some guy, I found out why. While my number of conquests remained at one, hers was nearing the triple digits.”

  Is he serious? Now I am beginning to wonder what is real again. From his expression and hint of a snicker, I’m pretty sure he is reading my mind about that right now.