“Oh no, don’t do it!” I yelled at the TV when the hosts decided to make Christmas tree “art” out of old metal hangers and spray paint. “Boo! Terrible idea.” I grabbed a handful of french fries.
“Are you quarterbacking a Christmas TV show?” Matt looked up at me. He looked so fucking adorable with his blue eyes and his hair falling slightly messy over his forehead. I had a sudden urge to kiss him.
I stole the fork back from him and ate a bite of crab cake instead.
“It’s just because they have no idea what they’re doing. I mean, come on, that living room looks horrific.”
33
Matt
We had sat through three episodes of the Christmas decorating show. Halfway through the fourth, Merrie finished off a second quarter of the chocolate cake.
I didn’t know why I was even wasting my time sitting in there with her. But something about it—her ridiculous pajamas with the fuzzy reindeer slippers, the big dog, the Christmas shows, sharing the wine and food—was what I had always wanted.
You drank too much, I scolded myself, setting down the mug on the table.You don’t want any of this.
I stood up. “I think I’m all Christmased out.”
Merrie didn’t answer. She was lying on her side, fast asleep, the large St. Bernard snoozing on her. I grabbed a blanket and gently draped it over her. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.
I turned off the TV and the lights in the living room. With the candles flickering and the snow falling outside, it was the cozy Christmas scene I had always wanted. My heart hurt. I closed my eyes.
But instead of imagining my cheating ex-fiancée, all I could see was Merrie.
Stop being an idiot, I ordered myself and blew out the candles.You don’t not want a Merrie Christmas.
Merrie wasin the kitchen cooking breakfast when I returned from working out in the building’s gym.
Eggs and bacon sizzled in a frying pan, and she was cooking thin golden pancakes on the griddle. I sniffed appreciatively. I usually just ate a piece of fruit and hard-boiled eggs for breakfast.
“Good morning, my Christmas-hating baking partner.”
“Why are you in such a good mood?” I asked.
“Because.” She was smug. “I knew you secretly liked Christmas. The presents. The late-night run to look at Christmas lights. The dog named Kringle.” She jabbed a spoon at me. “I’m going to slowly twist all that Christmas cheer goodness out of you.”
“I don’t like Christmas,” I argued.
Merrie stepped over Kringle to stir a small pot.
I walked up behind her to look over her shoulder at what she was doing. I could smell the scent of Christmas from her hair—cinnamon and sugar.
“Don’t judge. It’s the best I could do. Your kitchen is a wasteland.”
She turned and stuck her tongue out at me. I wanted to grab her and kiss her.
It’s all those Christmas shows you watched last night.
“You don’t even have any syrup. I have to make my own,” she continued. She expertly flipped the pancakes and scooped them and the eggs onto two plates.
I slid onto a stool at the island next to her.
She poured her homemade syrup all over her stack of pancakes.
I took a bite of the bacon and eggs. They were amazing.
Yeah, I could quickly get used to this.
