16. Bea
16
Bea
It’s time for the secret Santa gifts. We crowd around the living room after getting home from the restaurant. Jasper passes out a tray of sugar cookies and jam prints even though we just had dessert, and my dad pours spiked hot cocoas or coffees for anyone who wants one.
The fireplace is crackling and radiating heat, and Lance turns the Christmas tree lights on. It’s a Norman Rockwell painting, but with more booze and grown-ass adults.
At the cute little gift shop in town, they had mulberry jam, one of my dad’s favorites. The rest of the town was, uh, interesting . It’s charming, for sure. But, while we were in town, I needed to buy some lipstick—I’d forgotten to pack the shade that I wanted—and couldn’t find anything close to the quality I get in the city. I also didn’t bump into nearly as many cute men my age as I was hoping. A quick flip through Tinder showed me it was slim pickings. Were they just not on dating apps? Or on different ones, like that farmer dating app?
Everyone in town was really nice though, and I got several compliments on my outfit.
I’d also stopped at a real estate office to look at the listings in the window. I had swooned over a two-story colonial listed at $150 per square foot until I’d noticed that it was on two acres of property. Could I picture myself on a riding lawn mower? No.
Meanwhile, I saw the look on Charlie’s face when I came down the stairs, and the way he watched me over dinner. Several times I caught him staring at my chest—not at my boobs, which look amazing, by the way, but I know he was staring at the necklace.
Is it wishful thinking that Charlie is more attentive this year? I want so badly for him to be the kind of man I want, but he’s not. He’s still a workaholic, he’s still driven and focused. There’s no way he’d move out of the city. He just got there.
At least, that’s what my brain thinks. The rest of me—my libido, mainly—thinks, Bang it out! The sex will probably be amazing.
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 that this time 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.
My mom returns with a tumbler of amber liquid. “Charlie,” she greets him.
Charlie turns to face her and scoots backward until his back is against the front of my chair. I’ve crossed my legs, one toe pointing off to the Christmas tree, and the other on the floor. I kicked my shoes off long ago, and Charlie’s shoulder brushes my knee.
“How’s your work going?” Mom asks.
I should probably listen and see if he mentions anything about advertising or sensors or what-have-you, but Charlie crosses his arms, shifts slightly toward my mom, and his fingers brush against my ankle right by his hip.
And they stay there.
No one can see that Charlie is touching me, and his warm palm slides over the top of my foot. His thumb strokes the inside of my ankle, right above the bone where the skin is soft and sensitive.
I feel drugged. The low lights, the hum of my family, and my full belly give the room a dreamlike quality. Like I’ve plopped down into a cozy scene of the idyllic family holiday, where the most important thing is not what these people have, but that they have each other.
And I have this man at my feet, and I can so easily see what it would be like to give him a second chance.
By ones and twos, people go off to bed until only Yvette and Lance remain. Charlie and Lance are engaged in a discussion about real estate, since Lance and Yvette are shopping for a house and Charlie just bought his first one—granted, my sister and future brother-in-law are buying a suburban house in Chicago and Charlie’s place is the polar opposite. Lance mostly listens and my sister, sitting on the far side of the couch, follows the conversation with bemusement.
Finally, she nudges Lance, and they wish us good night too, my sister giving me a meaningful eyebrow raise. Charlie hasn’t moved his hand from my ankle the entire time, but the fact that both of us are stalling...
When we’re alone, Charlie lets his head fall back against the cushion of the chair. I allow myself to reach down and run my fingers through his thick dark hair.
He hums, almost a purr, and rolls his head to kiss my thigh where my dress has ridden up. It sends a shiver up my spine, his lips on my skin, and I watch his eyelashes fan across his cheeks. His hand finally leaves my ankle, gliding a few inches up and then stopping to knead the muscle.
He kisses my thigh again.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His eyes open, deep and dark but literally twinkling from the reflection of the Christmas lights in his gaze. He turns, rising on a knee to face me.
“You know exactly what I’m doing.” One of his hands grips under my thigh and guides my legs to uncross. He’s between my knees now, and as far slumped down as I am and as far up my hem has ridden, he might be able to see the dark thong I’m wearing that’s soaked through.
He must see it. His gaze is so focused between my legs and it’s so intense, I shiver again.
Is he going to go down on me right here in the living room, where anyone could walk in and see us?
He blinks and shifts, rising to lean over me and placing a knee on the seat between my legs. He kisses me firmly, and then pulls back, whispering against my lips, “Come to bed with me.”