Page 84 of The Last Kind of Kiss
LILA
Christmas in Riverside is nothing less than a gift-wrapped spectacle. The streets run amuck with frazzled mothers doing last-minute shopping, tourists who want to get away from snowed-in driveways and freezing households, and extended families who create a fire ordinance violation in every store they step in.
I’ve always spent Christmas with my mom, but Bristol invited me to spend Christmas with his family this year instead. I’ve never spent the holidays with a significant other. To be fair, I’ve never been in a relationship long enough to evenhavea significant other.
Is there a part of me that’s afraid I won’t be a good girlfriend? Absolutely. I mean, sometimes it feels like I haven’t even been that great of afriend. Taking things to the next level with Bristol is exactly what I wanted, but that means more than just a fancy title—it means that maintaining a healthy relationship is going to be a priority, and failure to do so could result in me losing the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Again.
Even though we’ve only just started dating, I was determined to find the perfect gift for Bristol, which meant that my tirelesssearch consisted of my prescription glasses, someGossip Girlreruns, and a bag of frozen, chocolate-covered strawberries. I scoured the internet for hours, looked at all those premade, man-themed boxes DIY-ers sold at unreasonably high prices, considered making him something with my bare hands and zero art skill, then reconsidered buying him something expensive that he’d probablypretendto like. He’s impossible to shop for. All this man likes is beer and hockey. And me.
But then, when my aimless search was coming to an end, I found it. The Holy Grail. The gift to end all gifts. The gift that says, “Hey, I’m expensive, but I’m also full of sentimental value!”
They’re called bond touch bracelets. Both partners wear one, and you tap on it whenever you’re thinking about the other person. It sends a signal to your partner’s bracelet as long as they’re wearing it and it’s turned on. A cute signal too! A little blue heart. Bristol and I won’t always be physically close to each other. He’ll have away games, I’ll have photoshoots—maybe even my first star-studded catwalk if I’m lucky—but this is a way to let him know that I’m always thinking about him.
And now here I am with the heater on blast and the radio screeching in and out of the nearest station, sitting next to the man of my dreams. We’re about thirty minutes out from his parents’ log cabin, and we’ve already entered the miniature tundra that surrounds the heart of Big Bear Lake. Glittering blankets of snow pile high on tree boughs that line the denuded mountain’s edge, and the last minutes of sun bleed across the greying sky, disappearing beneath a horizon of ominous storm clouds. The road’s also getting significantly slippery, with the monotonous tick of wipers chipping away at the frost-kissed windshield. The bitter wind outside hails against my door, bringing with it a torrent of slow-falling snowflakes.
As my car chugs up the tire-beaten path, the anxiety that comes with meeting his parents only worsens. Even though I’msurrounded by clean air, it feels like each breath I take is slicing my lungs into ribbons. My heart won’t slow down, my thoughts continue to eddy, and nausea fizzles like Pop Rocks in my belly.
It doesn’t take long for Bristol to notice my uncharacteristic silence, and he turns down the third Mariah Carey song on the radio in the last thirty minutes. “You okay? You’re awfully quiet over there.”
My thumb scratches against the sleeve of my puffer jacket. “Yeah. I’m just nervous about meeting your parents,” I admit, watching as snow bounces off the hood of Bristol’s well-loved Bugatti.
“You shouldn’t be. They’re going to love you, Lils.”
Yeah, but the last girl that you brought home was going to be your future wife.
“I’ve never spent the holidays with a significant other before. What if I ruin?—”
I don’t know how Bristol’s managing to navigate this mountainandmy miniature freakout, but he does so with ease, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and offering me the other. “You won’t. You couldn’t even if you tried,” he insists.
I glance at his upturned palm like it’s some kind of biohazard. “But?—”
He doesn’t wait for me to interlock our fingers—no, he grabs my hand and does all the heavy lifting himself, and his touch momentarily halts the fear that’s snapping at my heels.
“I don’t care if everything isn’t perfect, okay? I’m with you, and that’s all that matters. If anyone needs to be on their best behavior, it’s my parents. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that they’re going to ask you some very invasive questions as soon as we sit down.”
Surprisingly, my throat opens enough to allow a chuckle. “Helicopter parents?”
“More likewe-want-to-make-sure-you-two-are-practicing-safe-sex?—”
“Oh, God!” I take our intertwined hands and bring them to my forehead, unable to muffle a laugh.
“See? You’re practically a part of the family already.”
I don’t know what kind of sorcery Bristol is casting, but he’s the only person on this planet who’s able to silence my worries. It just comes so naturally to him. He emulates serenity, and it doesn’t matter if it’s through physical touch or words of affirmation. He neutralizes the nervousness pulsing through my veins like some living, breathing, fearmongering creature.
“How are you always so calm?” I ask him, rubbing my thumb over the heel of his palm.
He stares out at the ice-spun crystals clinging to the gnarled, swaying branches of pine, and the harsh fluorescents from the headlights blare off gluts of snow, veiling our windshield in a screen of white. “I wasn’t always. When I was little, I used to get really bad panic attacks before high-stress situations. And it took me a while to get my anxiety under control.”
My eyes crawl to his line of sight. “Like tests?”
“Sort of. It was mostly before hockey games. I was scared of letting my teammates down.”
He never told me he had such bad anxiety. I mean, I can’t imagine it’s a memory he wants to revisit. And I can’t be mad at him for keeping it a secret seeing as I pretty much did the exact same thing. The Bristol I know has always been the poster boy of calm. Like, marijuana-levels of calm. And now he’s the captain of an NHL team—where the stakes are a lot higher than minor league hockey—and he’s still so secure and levelheaded, even after everything he’s been through.
“I’m so sorry, Bristol,” I whisper sympathetically.
He squeezes my hand, siphoning all the worry out of my body. “It’s alright. I was lucky enough to not deal with themalone. My mom and dad were very understanding. They were always there when I needed them. When I got older, I realized that I wanted to provide that kind of security for other people, and the only way that I could do that was if I conquered my anxiety.”
