Twenty Four Weeks
“This is fucked up.”
“Oh come on, it’s festive!”
Abby and I stand side by side in her bathroom, my face in the mirror reflecting a miserable grimace while hers radiates the joy of the Christmas season. The reason for our antithetical expressions is found twelve inches below eye-level in the form of matching reindeer sweaters. Complete with light up noses.
Bah humbug.
“Abby, you cannot expect me to wear this,” I plead, finding her emerald eyes in the reflection only to see her pressing her lips tightly together in an effort not to laugh.
“What’s worse, these or the Minion suits?” she chokes out, slowly losing the fight against her giggles.
“You know what, I’ll wear the minion costumes again next year if you let me take this off right now.”
“Absolutely not,” she sings, turning on her heel and flouncing out of the bathroom.
“Abby, they’re going to eat me alive,” I call out desperately, trailing behind her while she gathers a tray of cookies and a giftwrapped with the utmost precision. “They still send me random Minion memes. I’ll never live this down.”
“Lucky you have nearly two decades worth of dirt on them,” she says, completely unbothered by my plight. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
“And if I say no?”
She huffs before turning to face me. To my horror, her lower lip begins trembling and her eyes well with tears.
Shit.
“Hey, don’t cry, pretty girl,” I cry in alarm. “If it means that much to you, of course I’ll wear it.”
In an instant, her face shifts into a look of satisfaction, and she casually wipes the tears from her eyes.
“You faker,” I say accusingly.
“I love when that works,” she sighs. “Now grab your gift, and the eggnog if you would, please.”
Muttering under my breath, I go to the fridge to retrieve both the traditional eggnogandthe eggnog vodka before grabbing my gift off of the coffee table. Unlike hers, mine is shoved in a bag from the Dollar General, which is stuffed with rainbow tissue paper (they were out of Christmas wrapping).
When I begrudgingly join her in the entryway, she reaches for the doorknob, then pauses.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
“No, but,” she says, her fingers drumming nervously on the edge of the cookie plate. “You keep calling me that, and I don’t know if you mean it, or if you’re just trying to be nice.”
“Calling you what?”
“‘Pretty girl.’”
I freeze, paralyzed from the shock of the question. It’s the last thing I expected her to bring up. Honestly, it’s the last thing I expected her to notice. But more overwhelming than the shock is the indignation at the thought that she thinks I don’t mean it.
“Of course I mean it,” I say emphatically. “How many times do I have to tell you that? I mean, come on, look at you. You’re the only person I know that looks equally pretty in a Minions costume and a fancy dress and a reindeer sweater. You’re a vision, Abs. All day, every day, ever since I’ve known you.”
Her cheeks flush, her expression unreadable.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I can stop,” I say quickly. “It honestly just slips out, I don’t even know when it started.”
“The night you came home from the bar,” she says softly, picking at the plastic wrap covering the frosted sugar cookies. “When you woke me up from the couch.”
My stomach lurches in a mixture of dread and thrill.
