Bobby doesn’t go in for sarcasm or name-calling—not on his part, anyway.But he did pull my hair when he passed me on his way to the kitchen.Just a little.To let me know I was being a brat.
Before long, Bobby came back.He had the peppermint patties.He had the sugar cookies we’d decorated (I noticed a lot of his snowflakes, and a scarcity of my misshapen reindeer).He brought a bowl of Chex Mix, and a bowl of mixed nuts, and a bowl of potato chips.(No, none of those is holiday food—well, maybe Chex Mix—but I was wounded, and I needed to recover my strength.) He brought me a glass of water.And a Coke.And, because he was literally the perfect man (and still sublimating his guilt), he brought me hot chocolate.
“Boozy hot chocolate,” I said after my first sip.
Bobby threw me a lopsided smile as he draped a blanket over me.Then he built a fire.
After, with the warmth and the light flickering over us, he sat with me.He held an ice pack on my ankle.He rubbed my tailbone where I’d taken the brunt of the fall.He sipped his own boozy hot chocolate.The crackle of the flames filled the silence between us.Before long, my ankle wasn’t bothering me anymore.I was warm.I was comfortable.I was definitely tipsy—bartender Bobby apparently had a heavy pour.
It took some cajoling, but I got Bobby to lie down with me, arms wrapped around me, my back pressed to his chest.His breath tickled my neck.He ran his fingers along the inside of my arm—up to my elbow, back down again, and then his fingers would trace mine, like they might, at any moment, slot into place, before he trailed them up that line of sensitive skin again.
Look, I was relaxed.I was cuddling with a prime slab of beef.I was literally full of chocolate.I was having some adult feelings, and Bobby must have known it, because he kissed the back of my neck.
I made a sound that nobody, ever, has tried to transcribe onto a Christmas card.
“I love you,” Bobby whispered.“I’m so glad I get to be here with you.”
My voice was a bit slurred, but I tried for teasing.“Better than going home for the holidays?”
He kissed my neck again.“Iamhome.”
Good Cop Bad Cop
This story takes place beforeWham Line.
1
“What do you mean you need money for lunch?”My outrage was slightly hampered by my struggle to sit up—I’d fallen asleep on a particularly squishy part of the chesterfield.It was also hampered by the fact that I was squinting and shielding my eyes,a laa creature of the night.Mornings, I was discovering, were bright.“Again?”
But by then, Keme was already searching through my wallet, which—I now realized—I had left unattended.
“But I made you lunch,” I said.“It’s a special lunch.It’s full of love.”
“It’s tuna on white bread,” he said.“And I need money in case someone steals it out of my locker again.”
“You love tuna on white bread!Plus it’s my world-famous Dash’s special tuna on white bread.And I put some of Indira’s cookies in there.AndI put those fruit snacks we’re not supposed to have because Indira said we eat too many hoof-based products.”Then the rest of his explanation caught up with me.“And why does someone keep stealing your lunch?”
He flashed a twenty at me, tucked the bill into his pocket, and headed for the door.
“Wait, isn’t twenty bucks a lot for—”
The front door shut.
“—lunch?”
I collapsed back onto the chesterfield.I tried to return to my eternal slumber.I closed my eyes andwilledit.
Nothing.
It’s like the sun is on all.day.
Here’s the thing: we had agreed—we hadallagreed—that we would work together to make sure Keme graduated.And I was on board with that plan.I fully supported that plan.Iendorsedthat plan.I just didn’t love the bit about taking turns making sure he actually got to school on time.Especially when it was my turn to get up at the crack of dawn.
Voices and the clatter of dishes floated in from the kitchen, followed by the whir of the coffee grinder and the smell of freshly ground beans.I also thought I detected a whiff of cinnamon, and honestly, you never know what Indira might be baking.
I groaned.
I flopped.
