Page 40 of Home to Christmas Island
I laugh, nodding. I always had a crush on Jonathan Taylor Thomas and later learned Alba always had a crush on Jessica Biel. I can understand the type of feeling she’s describing, but I’m certain this time it isn’t Jonathan Taylor Thomas making me feel lightheaded.
I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
Alistair was standing by the little grove of birch trees. You didn’t get your coat, he whispered, despite our being the only ones outside. That worried look passed over his face, his mouth twisting to the side, before he wrapped his arms around me.
I don’t need one, was all I said before I kissed him.
There was only a split second of shock before he melted into me. It felt like the moment when you hit the water after jumping into the lake: exhilarating, wild, free. There was such a softness about the way he kissed me back—and it was making me feral.
He pulled away, but only for a second, just to say, I thought I was going to kiss you.
Well, you snooze, you lose, Alistair. I shrugged, unable to admit to him, or even to myself, that I was terrified he wouldn’t. I’d spent so long running, dissociating, avoiding, that it felt so good to lean into the wanting. It was going to burn me alive if I didn’t.
But he did kiss me then, this time with enough heat that I felt it constrict something in my lower abdomen. He nipped at my bottom lip. Somewhere I registered that it was snowing heavily now, but everything between us felt molten. His tongue grazed over mine, again with that gentleness at first. An unspoken request. I kissed him back harder and—
Flora! I snap back to the present moment. Hello? Is anyone home in there? Alba is half-laughing, half-chastising me for zoning out during our favourite Christmas movie.
Whatcha daydreaming about? Or who? Rose pipes up beside her. They’re both grinning at me, looking like devil twins in their matching pajamas.
God, now there’s two of you, I say, quickly changing the subject. In the movie, Jonathan Taylor Thomas is promised a red Porsche if he comes home in time for Christmas.
I would look great driving a red Porsche, I tell them, as I shove more popcorn into my mouth and say between mouthfuls, would go great with my hair, too.
Alistair would pull you over in a second, Alba says laughing. She and Rose grin at each other and I can only sigh in surrender. Back in the movie, a man at a gas station is making a comment about how the main character—who is currently wearing a red suit, with a white beard and red hat glued to his head—has a mean disposition for a Santa.
You know who doesn’t have a mean disposition for a Santa? Alba says, raising her eyebrow at me. Rose starts giggling immediately.
I snort, then remember how sweet Alistair was with the kids when he was dressed up as Santa Claus. As much as Alba’s jabs are annoying the hell out of me, I’m grateful that we’re all ignoring the other connection I have to this movie now: that Jonathan Taylor Thomas has not been home since his mother died.
We watch the rest of the film, Alba and I loudly quoting our favourite lines to each other, and as soon as it ends Rose takes herself up to bed, hugging us both on the way.
Alba turns to me, and I know what’s coming.
Okay, spill it, she says. I roll my eyes.
Spill what?
She shoves me. Come on Flora! Something happened between you guys last night! You think I didn’t see you slip outside? Then you were gone for ages! So tell meeeee.
I smirk. We made out in your birch grove.
Alba stands up so fast I burst into laughter. WHAT? Her smile is infectious. She sits back down again, clearly trying to calm down and asks, How was it?
It was… I pause, biting my lip to try not to smile quite so big. Delicious? Electric? Tantalizing? I swear I can still feel an imprint of where the tree bark dug into my back. Excellent, I say, my smirk deepening.
Ugh, you’re always holding out on me. I’m translating that Flora-speak as: utterly amazing. She stands up again and starts jumping on the couch. Soul-altering. Earth-shattering. Hot as fuck.’
We’re both laughing. Alba presses on. Okay, so what now?
Her question stops me cold. What do you mean?
She sits back down beside me. I mean are you going on a date or hanging out soon or what?
I frown, biting the outer corner of my bottom lip, my mind going a mile a minute. Well, it’s not, like, serious or anything.
Why not? She asks, looking at me like I’m an idiot. He’s been obsessed with you since the second you got here.
Well, I mean, I’m leaving eventually. The words tumble out and my tone is more defensive than I’d intended.
