Page 49 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“Beckett?” she says.

“Do you need a jacket?” is my brilliant answer.

She gives me a little smile, more real than the fake ones she’s been handing out. It sends an odd, bittersweet warmth through me.

“No,” she says. “I’m not cold.”

I nod, my mind going back to her request. “In that case…I’m not sure you need to practice saying no,” I say, thinking. “You might do better practicingnotsaying yes. Come on; let’s keep moving.” I give her arm a little tug, and we begin walking again.

“If I’m not saying no and I’m not saying yes, what am I saying?” Molly says, giving me a confused look. “I think I need examples.”

“Well, I’m obviously not a therapist,” I say uncomfortably. “But when I don’t want to say yes, I put off answering. Like if someone invites me someplace and I really don’t want to go, but they’re putting pressure on me, I make an excuse about needing to check my schedule. That way I can answer them later when they’re no longer standing in front of me, waiting for an answer. It removes the immediate pressure from the situation, which lets me think more clearly about what I really want to do or what I can realistically commit to.”

Her expression clears. “Oh, that makes sense,” she says, turning mischievous eyes on me. “That’s how you get away with being antisocial, huh?”

I smile, relief pooling inside at her easy manner. At least things aren’t awkward between us after…whatever that was earlier. “Yeah,” I say. “But also…I don’t know. Just remember that what you want matters, too.” I clear my throat. “Your wants and needs aren’t less important than anyone else’s. I know you like to be nice or considerate or whatever, and that’s great, but don’t completely sacrifice yourself.”

It’s weird to be giving advice like this, and it’s even weirder to see how seriously Molly seems to be taking it. Her brows are furrowed slightly as she bites her bottom lip, looking deep in thought. Then she nods slowly. Like she finds value in what I’m telling her.

And it feels…I don’t know. Kind of cool, I guess. It feels cool to have someone listening, to have someone value my opinion. I don’t have a ton of close friends or confidantes; there aren’t many relationships in my life that consist of giving and receiving advice.

“I know what you’re saying is true,” Molly says, the words halting as she speaks. Her eyes dart to mine, and I watch as the most perfect flush rises in her cheeks. “So I’m not sure why it’s so hard to think of myself that way.”

I have my own opinions about that, personally; I don’t love the way her family brushes her off sometimes. It’s not my place to say anything against them, though, especially because I’m far from perfect myself.

“I don’t know,” I say instead. I nudge her with my elbow. “Don’t stress about it too much. Let’s finish our Christmas stuff.”

“Yeah,” she says, and some of her excitement returns; I can see it dawning in her eyes like the sun just peeking above the horizon. “And you know what we should do? We should buy each other a Christmas present too.”

“If you want to,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t need anything. But if you want to—”

“I do,” she says, smiling at me. “And we can put them under our tree.”

She’s still hanging on to the Christmas tree dream, I see. I’m not sure how that one is going to pan out, but I guess we can look.

She glances around for a second and then points to the path that leads out of the square. “I think I saw a bigger shopping center that way when we were in the taxi. We might have better luck there than in a souvenir shop. They might sell plants at least, right?”

She turns out to be correct. We give the second souvenir shop a try, but it lasts all of ten minutes before we both decide we’d be better off elsewhere. We don’t need Hawaiian shirts or water bottles shaped like coconuts.

It’s at the shopping center that we finally find something of use. “Look!” Molly says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward one of the side aisles. My eyes catch a brief glimpse of green and terra-cotta before I emerge into a small row of decorative items, including one shelf of plants. I’ve barely gotten a look at them when Molly hurries over and stops in front of one.

“It’s perfect,” she says, her eyes shining when she looks over her shoulder at me. I move to stand next to her so I can see the tree she’s picked. Except…

“This?” I say, shooting her a look. “This is what you want to use as a Christmas tree?”

It’s a cactus. A three-armed cactus—fake, judging by the plastic sheen—maybe eighteen inches tall and resting snugly in a yellow pot.

“Yes,” she says, once again smiling dreamily down at the cactus. “He’s so cute! Look at his little arms! And these seem pretty sturdy,” she says, pinching one of the spines and giving it a tug and a wiggle. “We can hang ornaments from these.”

“I—it’s—okay,” I finally sigh. Who am I to say a cactus can’t be a stand-in Christmas tree, especially when Molly is looking so fondly at it?

We look for packs of Christmas ornaments, but there’s nothing Molly likes. Instead she chooses a packet of colorful pom-poms and a needle and thread. Not sure what she’s going to do with those, but I don’t ask. I just do as I’m told when she tells me I have ten minutes to find her a gift. I watch as she hurries off in the opposite direction, her steps lively and excited, and then I begin my hunt.

Finding a present for Molly is significantly more fun than finding Christmas decorations. It needs to be something small, but I want her to really like it, too. I scour the aisles for something that speaks to me, finally stopping when I reach the aisle that sells island-themed gifts and decor, much of it labeled with our Virgin Islands location. I slow down, my eyes scanning the shelves until they snag on the perfect gift.

I hesitate for just a moment. I think she’ll love it, but will it send the wrong message?

Those worries vanish, though, when I think of everything Molly has been through in the past thirty-six hours. I pull the little box off the shelf and then carry it to the front of the store, where I meet a flushed-looking Molly holding something behind her back.

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