Oh, and Santa in a lobster boat and a Christmas tree made out of lobster traps—you know, just usual, every town Christmas stuff.
Leaning against the window, Cole’s breath creates a misty fog on the glass as he gazes intently at the scenery of my small town. A massive evergreen stands proudly in the town square, towering over shops and restaurants that bustle with festive cheer: carols, cookies, gingerbread house contests—you name it, we have it.
I lightly tap his shoulder, drawing his attention to the Christmas tree bobbing gently in a rowboat, anchored in the port on our right.
A small smile curls his lips as his head swivels trying not to miss anything. “Is the lobster trap Christmas tree nearby too?”
I raise a brow. “Did you read up on my town?”
He shrugs, leaning closer, and his lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. After last night, I fear my bodily reactions to Cole are out of my control. He kissed and touched me like a man famished and I was his feast.
“Of course I read up on it. I was dying to know what kind of environment forged someone like you,” he says, pulling back just enough to catch my gaze, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Let’s play,it seems to say. But it feels different—lighter. Not the heavy, bitter back and forth we usually wrap our interactions with.
Although, I’m starting to get the sense that for Cole, we’ve always been playing. I was the one that took it too far, too bitter. I owe him an apology. And a million thanks for braving that motel room last night, because I think we honestly might both need new skin now.
“I do think growing up with a Santa in a lobster boat really shaped me,” I whisper back. “You know, having a nautical Santa instead of a naughty one.”
He shakes his head, that teasing grin spreading. “Pity. I’m pretty sure Isleighso hard because I had a traditional flying Santa.”
“Deerme, that was terrible.”
His laugh crinkles the corners of his eyes, and I feel that flutter in my chest—swooning like I’m a blondie in Gaston’s tavern.
Warmth encompasses my left hand, a welcome relief since it’s nearly frozen with how low my dad has kept the heat. His sinuses have been acting up so he’s refused to touch the heater. Which, while sharing a car with two people with endometriosis, is frankly a dick move. Extra estrogen messes with temperature regulation, so my mother and I run cold most of the time.
Most of the time, I’m okay shivering (especially when a hot guy shares a tiny bed with me and offers to keep me warm) but my mom hates being cold (and never shares a bed with anyone because I refuse to acknowledge that she’s a human with needs). Based on the way she is bundled, fast asleep up front while classic carols float through the speakers like an ambientsoundtrack, she’s on her way to wishing for a sweet merciful death. But she’s an example of that old school New England wife I can’t get behind, the one that always defers to what the husband wants, even if it makes them miserable or almost kills them. Sacrificing for everyone else until there is nothing left of themselves.
“Natalie, you’re freezing,” Cole scolds gently.
“Just trying to get into the holiday spirit. You know, human icicles are really in this year,” I chatter. Being cold is the least of my concern, after two days of terrible sleep and all the stress, sharp pains are stabbing me under my ribs and lower in my abdomen. I need to take some NSAIDs at the very least, maybe something heavier, but with Cole sharing the backseat with me, my purse and backpack which both have a good store of it, are in the trunk.
I haven’t made mention of this to anyone. My mom would make a big deal about it and I’m not comfortable enough with Cole to show him a very vulnerable part of me. So I’ve been suffering in silence, cosplaying as a healthy person as best I can.
Thorns wrap themselves around my ovary, embedding it into my sidewall. I don’t move.
Cole’s mouth tightens into a harsh, thin cut. “Give me.” He signals for my other hand and holds it in his, warming them both. Before he brings them to his lips and blows hot air on them.
He scowls. “You should have said something if you were this cold.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re never a bother.”
Cole motions for me to lean in closer. I hesitate.
Concern is etched into his brows. Severe and sincere. Like it’s his duty to take care of me, it’s consuming him, and I’m standingin the way of his job. He reaches into the pocket of his puffer jacket, produces a small bottle of ibuprofen, and hands it me.
“Here,” he says, reaching for my bottle of water in the cup holder. He opens both and gives me two pills.
I fight to keep my jaw from dropping to my lap because I thought I was doing a damn good job at hiding my pain.
“How—” I whisper after swallowing. “I haven’t even flinched.”
Cole shrugs. “I always keep a bottle in this jacket for after games, and I have inatuition.”
“That sounds like the worst possible thing that anyone could be afflicted with.”
