Page 33 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
At least, that’s what my brain thinks. The rest of me—my libido, mainly—thinks,Bang it out! The sex will probably beamazing.
I settle into an armchair by the tree, my cocoa with Frangelico in hand, a cinnamon stick poking out of the frothy surface. Once again, Mom pulls out her die and we take turns opening presents.
Some are predictable—Susan gets a geode she oohs and ahhs over, which will undoubtedly go somewhere in her front yard—and some are cheesy and make us all laugh, like the socks Mom gets that say “Bring Me My Wine” on the bottom.
It comes down to me and Kayla, and Mom rolls the die. Even number. My turn.
Lance hands me my gift from under the tree. It’s flat, and while the gift is a rectangular shape, the item inside is irregular, the corners of the wrapping paper giving way beneath my fingers.
I flip it over and undo the tape on the bottom, sliding the present out. It’s black on one side—a magnet—but when I flip it over, there’s a paw print on the other side. My eyebrows draw together. I don’t have a dog, have never had a dog...
I read the text. Smaller letters at the top spell out “I Love,” and beneath it the larger letters spell out “Doodles.”
My eyes fly to Charlie’s across the room. His hand covers his mouth, his eyes dancing with laughter.
I cover my eyes with my hands, shoulders shaking.
“What? What is it?” Yvette takes the magnet out of my hand. “‘I love doodles’?” she reads.
I’m fifteen years old again. Charlie and I are at his house, and his mother has set us up in his room with her colored pencils. This is before they moved away, before Gary lost his job, when they were still our next-door neighbors.
Charlie and I had been working on an assignment for art class to make sketches of everyday objects. We’d done that for a while, drawing still lifes of fruit Susan had arranged or random stuff we’d found in his room.
Until one moment, when I had been leaning over Charlie’s paper and had looked up at him. He was right there, our faces so close I could feel his breath on mine.
It smelled like mint gum.
Later he’d told me he was chewing it every time we were going to hang out, hoping thatthistime would be the one that he got the nerve to kiss me.
And, leaning over our artwork, he finally did.
It was my first kiss. I’d had crushes on plenty of boys, but never on Charlie. He was, well...Charlie.
That kiss changed everything though. Charlie was safe and my best friend, and one kiss led to more and when we finally broke apart, I was swooning hard.
We didn’t talk about it, just blushed and went back to our work. But when we came down the stairs, Susan had asked us if we had done “any good doodles,” and Charlie and I had giggled. Yes, yes we had.
Doodles came to mean anything but doodling. I’m sure for a while our parents thought we were really getting into art, until they caught on that we were sneaking off to make out.
Now Charlie and I can’t stop laughing, and the rest of the room roll their eyes at us.
“You aren’t supposed to know who your secret Santa is,” Yvette complains.
I ignore her. There’s a rule that you aren’t allowed to tell, but there have been a few times over the years for each of us that we could guess who our secret Santa was.
Kayla finally gets to open her present—chocolates made locally—and immediately heads to bed. She’s been begging off early almost every night that we’ve been here, and I wonder if she’s feeling okay.
The rest of us pass a bag around for the trash and chat, but every time I look at Charlie, he’s watching me. The fire is no longer roaring but glows with hot coals instead, and they add to the warmth in his eyes.
I’m drawn into a conversation with Mom, but Charlie’s stare lingers. I can almost read his mind.If I go upstairs, will you come to my room this time?
When my mom gets up to refill her wine, Charlie stands too. I think, for a moment, that he’s going to go upstairs and I have to make my decision, but instead he makes his way to the tree and sits on the floor, picking up a present.
We do the secret Santa, yes, but also married couples exchange gifts and parents still give their kids (and sons-in-law) presents.
Charlie reads the label. “To Kayla, from Mom and Dad.” He carefully shakes it. Nothing. “A book,” he guesses.
“My sister has a reputation,” I agree. Kayla reads a lot of historical fiction, like Philippa Gregory.
