None of the above happened, of course. Because this wasn’t a fairy tale—or even some Hollywood movie. This was my life—my boring, dreary, miserable life—and there would be no happy ending for Craig and I. Nope. No tearful reunion or even hot, sweaty makeup sex. There would only be the next few days, sitting around and waiting until Christmas Eve when our parents would wed and officially, our doom would be sealed.
I was glad I’d worn my sneakers and grateful for the small, brightly lit bodega around the corner from Craig’s apartment. A few minutes and three dollars later, I emerged with a hot steaming cup of cinnamon flavored coffee, lightly dashed with a shot or two of peppermint spice creamer. Refreshed, I trudged toward campus, ready to take the long way home and burn off the last of Craig Robinson, once and for all.
Twenty-Eight
Craig
I slurped hot chocolate spiced with just a hint of peppermint schnapps and watched the virtual Yule log crackle on my 55-inch TV. Dad had sent me a tiny tabletop tree via Express Mail as an early Christmas present a few days earlier and it winked on the end of the coffee table.
Christmas Eve was only a day away and in preparation, I was packing as much holiday spirit as I could into my last night as an only child. It felt funny to think that way, but it was entirely true. After all, the next day my father would marry Avery’s mother and after that, I’d have a sister—a sister I knew so intimately I could make her come with just my pinky finger if I really wanted to.
The thought made me smile, but I quickly shrugged it off before my mind could take it any further. Not only would I never sleep with Avery again, but I wondered if she’d ever think of me the same way again either. Whatever chances I’d had with her had clearly been ruined the night Wendy stormed out. She’d ran into her in the hall like some bad romantic comedy twist that left us both shouting at each other before I slammed the door on the last shreds of our brief—but amazing—affair.
Forget the fact that I’d been drunk and stupid, or that I barely remembered what I’d done that night—or said. I remembered enough, all right. Mainly the look on Avery’s face as I stood there, woozily making an ass out of myself with each slurred word, her eyes widening, then narrowing, before she too stormed out, never to return.
I’d spent the next few days wallowing in self-pity, then another day or two hating myself for being so pathetic. I’d downed most of a case of beer, then gone the opposite direction and tested out my strengthening leg with sprints and long, loping laps around the Worthington track. Late at night when I couldn’t sleep and no one else would be there to see me stop between laps, I’d bend, stretch and wince in soreness and pain. I’d recover by sleeping in, then wandering around the apartment alternating my time between scratching my ass and taking cat naps on the couch.
I fucked up. Bad.
And now Christmas was nearly upon us. The week without Avery had flown by and the next time I’d see her would be at our parents’ wedding. The thing we’d dreaded the most. The thing we’d tried our darndest to fight back against—first by fucking, then by fighting—was finally happening and unfortunately, I was powerless to stop it. Or for that matter, even accept it.
I peered past the twinkling Christmas tree at the bright screen on my TV, feeling less than cheery and wondering what Avery was doing. Smirking at the image in my head of her doing the exact same thing as me, my eyes fell back on the small gift bag I’d placed next to the small tree.
It was the only gift I’d bought this year for anyone. The ink on the tag still fresh as it spelled out, “To Avery, From Craig… Merry Christmas!” I sighed. I’d wrapped the gift before I’d gone to the stupid Winter Whoopass party and met Wendy. I pictured handing it to Avery when we finally reunited after our self-imposed three-day break from each other. That hadn’t happened, of course and I’d spent the rest of the week staring at it sullenly as the holiday approached.
I stood and hit the pause button on the crackling TV Yule log. I was heading toward the kitchen for a refill on my cocoa—and another nip or two of schnapps—when my shin bumped the long, thin coffee table on the way. The bag spilled over and I rushed to catch it, the tissue paper crinkling in my fingers as I grabbed it just in time.
I peeked inside and saw Avery’s face, smiling and carefree, and knew I wanted to see it one last time. Sure, I knew I’d see it tomorrow at the wedding, and certainly many times after she became my sister, but I wanted to see it one more time before all that happened.
I dressed quickly before I could chicken out, and grabbed the gift bag—and nothing more—on my way out the front door. If the Worthington campus had been sparsely populated a few days ago, on the way home from the Winter Whoopass party, it was all but desolate now, even the most diehard Brainiac’s had left their quiet studying to celebrate at least a day or two with family and friends at home.
Wintry leaves cracked beneath my battered sneakers as I skirted the campus, following a long and quiet walkway that led to Avery’s apartment building. At one time, it had been a daily ritual. A brisk walk to her place with a toothbrush in one pocket and a change of underwear in the other. Now it had been so long since I’d followed it, the once well-worn path seemed strange and new. My stomach tightened with each step, until it was practically in knots by the time I got to her lobby door and reached for it with a cold, trembling hand.
A large plastic Christmas tree stood by the elevator, blinking sadly in the empty space, festooned with cheap plastic ornaments of red, green and gold. I took the stairs instead, wanting to burn off the last of my nervous energy before—or if—I saw Avery one last time before we became brother and sister.
I knocked on her door—three, short raps echoing through the empty hallway like we really were the last two people on earth. I waited impatiently, leaning closer until I heard music playing inside—Christmas music, naturally—before I knocked again. This time the music paused and soft footsteps approached.
My stomach tensed like it often did before a big game and when the door swung open and Avery appeared, dressed only in a fuzzy snowflake covered robe, I nearly puked on her faded red socks.
“Your balls must be as big as Christmas ornaments,” she cracked, swinging the door open for me reluctantly as her face wore a steely expression. “Coming over here after what you did the other night.”
“I don’t want to start trouble,” I said, holding up the gift bag like a peace offering—or perhaps even a shield—as I walked slowly inside. “I just… it’s almost Christmas, you know?”
“Don’t remind me,” she snarked, tugging her baby blue robe tighter as if a sudden chill had swept in behind me. She looked at the gift, softened slightly and then peered around the apartment, as messy and cluttered and devoid of holiday spirit as mine. “I didn’t… I never got you anything, Craig.”
I shrugged, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter, littered with flickering jar candles that smelled like cinnamon and pine cones. Hmmm, I thought, admiring her sleek, tight physique hiding just beneath her Christmas robe. Maybe she’s not as opposed to Christmas—or me—as she seems.
“That’s okay,” I said, leaning against the counter in case she was just going to kick me out before I had the chance to get comfortable. “I just… before tomorrow, I wanted to have one chance to give you this and say… and say…”
“You’re sorry?” she prompted, when I’d failed to finish my sentence for a few seconds.
“Yes,” I said, relieved and sagging even heavier against the counter’s edge. “I’m really sorry for everything, Avery. I never meant for any of this… I just… I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she said, sinking onto the bar stool next to her and nodding toward the one behind me as if I should do the same.
I sat quickly, before she could change her mind. “You’re sorry?” I snorted. “For what I did?”
“For what we did,” she said, her fingertips gently twisting the sash of her snowflake robe. “I mean, I can’t be mad at you for doing what comes naturall
y. And you can’t be mad at me for… for… shutting you off like that.”
“Sure, I can,” I teased. “It sucked. Big time.”
“Big time!” she agreed, surprising me—and perhaps herself as well—with her vehemence.
“Then why did we do it?” I asked, twisting slightly back and forth in my barstool.
“I thought it would make things easier,” she replied in a whiny voice that matched the plaintive look in her eyes when ours finally met. “I thought staying away from you would make it easier for me to forget you, but being without you only made it harder to stay away.”
I literally slapped my forehead. “So, the one night you decide to come over is the one night I got drunk, stupid and caught with my pants down?”
She flared her nostrils gently, then nodded before shaking her head. “I’m the one who kicked you out, Craig,” she said. Then, when I nodded, wide-eyed at her casual response, she wagged a playful finger. “Don’t think I felt that way a few days ago, playboy! It took me lots and lots of long, thoughtful walks to come to that conclusion.”
“And now?” I asked.
Our eyes remained fixed on one another’s, until the emotions grew too strong. She looked away, eyes flitting around the apartment before she stood and approached the fridge. “Now,” she said, reaching inside for a jug of apple cider. “Now the only person I want to spend the last night of our un-related lives with is you.”
I nodded, watching her pull a sauce pan down from a cupboard and putting it on the stove. Turning it on low, she filled the pan with several healthy glugs of cider before setting the jug inside.
“So,” I said, watching her slide over a bottle of apple flavored vodka carefully. “Why don’t we?”
“Because I know sleeping with you tonight will only make things worse tomorrow.”
I shook my head, gripping the edge of the countertop with white knuckles. “We don’t have to sleep together,” I said bravely, although it was the firs—and only—thing I wanted to do at that moment.
She looked as surprised as I most certainly sounded. “We don’t?” she asked, before adding a healthy dollop of the flavored vodka to the bubbling cider.
“Not if you don’t want to,” I backpedaled. “I just… I just want to be with you tonight, Avery. Period. If that means roasting marshmallows in the toaster oven and playing Scrabble while fully dressed, who cares?”
She chuckled dryly to herself. Silently she pulled two Christmas-themed mugs down from mostly bare cupboards and filled them with the steaming mixture from the saucepan. Switching off the burner, she turned to me with a curious smile. “Well,” she purred, setting one of the mugs down in front of me. “I mean, you did leave some boxers and a T-shirt over here before you left, so… we don’t have to play Scrabble fully dressed.”
I paused with the mug halfway to my lips. “You mean I can stay? You’re not mad?”
She didn’t answer right away. She brought the mug to her lips, blew on it softly—and dare I say, sensually—and then sipped it slowly, even luxuriously. Smacking her lips, she set the mug back down on the counter and said, “Sure, why not? I mean, we’ve got everything we need for a Christmas Eve sleepover, right?”
I finally took a sip of the sweet cider, just warm enough to excite my tongue as much as it did my stomach, quieting all the raw nerves that had jangled inside me on the cold, quiet walk over to her apartment. “You mean, cider and vodka?” I asked.
“No, silly,” she said, inching closer as her sweet apple breath caressed my face. “You, me and twenty-four hours before we’re officially related.”
“I guess we better hurry then, huh?” I teased, sliding a hand across her knee. The robe fell away with the motion, my skin touching hers so we both flinched, but I didn’t take my hand away.
“I don’t know,” she purred, pressing her knee against my palm resting on it. “We started by teasing each other until we couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t end it the same way.”
As if to prove it, Avery slid her knee gently out of reach, grabbing her mug and taking another long, sensual sip as if to prove—as always—she was the one in control.
And loving every minute of it.
Twenty-Nine
Avery
“Open your present first,” Craig insisted, sliding the merrily-colored gift bag closer as I set my mug back on the counter. The spiked cider was rich, warm and savory sweet, to match the spicy sensation of Craig’s lingering touch on my knee.
“I can’t,” I begged off, pushing it back so our fingers could brush up against one another in the exchange. “I didn’t get you anything, remember? I’d feel bad taking something when I have nothing to offer in return.”
“Who says?” he winked. “You can give me something later.”
The way he said it—the look in his eye, the lilt of his tongue, the arching of one brow, the shift in his chair so he inched slightly forward—made it clear exactly what I could give him. And sitting this close, I wasn’t exactly unwilling. Still, part of our mutual attraction had always been the delay, the chase, the tease before the please. So naturally I wanted to hear the words as well. “Like what?” I sorted.
“Like,” he said, reaching out gently to tug on the sash of my robe so that it loosened a little. “A peek beneath that robe, perhaps?”
“Not much of a gift,” I said, my drink already half gone and wishing I hadn’t made it quite so strong.
He shook his head, his eyes finding mine. “Avery,” he said earnestly, placing his hand back on my knee as I squirmed beneath the heat of his big, calloused palm. “Right now, seeing more of you would mean the world to me.”
“Well,” I sighed, shifting to the side so the sash he’d already loosened gave way, the front of my robe opening to reveal the tight tank top beneath. I didn’t need to follow his eyes to know my nipples were hard and I had to only shift my legs to feel the moisture already dotting my light blue panties. “When you put it that way…”
Feeling my willpower wane, I reached for the gift bag, using the motion to slink gently back from Craig’s magical, wondrous and much-missed touch. The bag was light blue and covered in adorable, chubby little snowmen. The tissue was a darker blue and inside, something flat and glass. I pulled it out, looking for—but not finding—a card. It didn’t matter though. The gift was so breathtaking, it said more than a thousand words could have.
It was a picture. In a frame. The frame was simple, unvarnished, rustic wood, like someone had torn a chunk from the side of a log cabin and carefully whittled it down to a 5 x 7 size. Inside was a picture of Craig and me, arms wrapped around each other, heads slightly touching as we smiled at the camera. It was taken at Papa Cacciatore’s, our favorite Italian restaurant, tucked away far south of campus in a little residential area where we were sure no one would find us.
We were so happy in the photo, and not just smiling—beaming! It had been taken weeks earlier by a waitress in a rush, but despite her limited camera skills she’d managed to capture Craig and I at our best. Happy, content, comfortable. We were in love. There was no denying the couple nestled in the quaint, rustic frame were head-over-heels in love with each other. And I couldn’t deny that I was still in love with him.
“What…” I managed to croak, not trusting my voice. “What a thoughtful gift, Craig.”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal even though I knew, for a guy like him, Christmas shopping—taking his camera to the drug store to get the photo printed, picking out the perfect frame, matching the crinkly tissue to the right bag—was a very big deal indeed!
“It’s more like a souvenir,” he said, thoughtfully, distancing himself as he slid back deeper into his barstool.
I cocked my head, slightly confused. “Of what, Craig?”
He shrugged once more, avoiding my eyes as he said, “You know, Avery, a souvenir of our brief affair. I mean, now that it’s over and all.”
The words chilled me to the bone, as my wo
rds to him—“maybe we need a break for a few days, Craig”—must have chilled him when I’d uttered them earlier that week.
“But…” I sputtered, truly taken aback. Not just by his words, but the finality of them and how I felt about it truly being over between us. “But…”
“But what, babe?” he pressed, inching closer to the edge of his barstool as if he was watching the end of a particularly suspenseful movie. “But what?” he pressed when I didn’t—when I couldn’t—answer him right away.
Thirty
Craig
“But…” she continued to hem, looking radiant in her fuzzy robe. “Why does it have to be?”
My heart skittered to a stop, then pounded furiously again to make up for it. I shook my head, hardly believing my ears. “Because you said it has to be,” I insisted, leaning back in my chair as the back and forth, the up and down, the starts and stops, were leaving me wrecked, useless and wiped out. “Remember?”
“Of course I do,” she nodded. “We both agreed we had to stop before things got too hard to stop, but…”
Her voice trailed off. “But what?” I pressed again, my heart hammering as I felt her wavering and sensed whatever we had wasn’t quite over after all.
“But being away from you,” she paused and thought for a second. “You know, seeing you with that girl really pissed me off and now, you’re here, and this picture…” She picked it up, eyes teary and turned back to me. “I don’t want it to be over.”
“No shit!” I said, slapping my forehead. “That’s what I tried to tell you last week when you kicked me out.”
She stood, offering me a glimpse of her bare breast before she tugged her robe closed again and paced a tiny path in front of us. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, almost desperately, waving her hands in the air as she rambled on, talking to herself. “I’ve never been in this situation before.”
Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance Page 15
