Thanksgiving #2
“That sounds like a medical condition,” I say, shifting my weight between my feet. Defensively: “And I’m not starving, thank you very much. I have a stocked pantry.”
Marv yells something about proper ventilation from the kitchen; I ignore him.
“You look good,” Jay says, cool demeanor at odds with his whitening knuckles around the box he’s holding.
I lean against the doorframe for support, wrapping my hands around my throat. Another bone-chilling breeze blows by I barely feel.
He takes a step toward me. “Tell me why you’re wearing it.”
There’s a challenging edge to his voice that makes my body purr.
“This—” I pause to clear my throat, and my hands slip from my neck to grip the robe opening across my chest. “I bought this for myself.” While thinking of you.
Nope. “After a glass of wine, putting it on seemed like a good idea.” And so did giving myself a Jaygasm to the tune of Christmas jazz.
Nope. “Now, I wish it was flannel and had more fabric.”
“What do you do when you wear it?” he asks, running his tongue across the edge of his teeth.
My eyes bug out of my head as my grip on the invisible fabric tightens.
“Do?” I choke. “I’m not doing anything. What is there to do?
I’m alone, I can’t do much alone, can I?
I’d have to, I don’t know, really have an active imagination for that to work.
To make me wearing this alone be more than just looking.
” I swallow, nearly pass out. “I tried it on, it fits apparently.” I laugh; it sounds like a strangled chicken.
“And now, I’m going to take it off.” I wince. Where are you, Bruce Willis?
“I see.”
“No,” I say, wrapping my robe as tight as it will go. “There’s nothing to see. You don’t see. What you see,” I say with finality, “is what you get.”
I . . . am a fucking idiot.
His lips twitch, and his eyes flare like he’s read me like a large-print book. Like I fantasized the scent of him on me into fruition and he’s picked up on it like a bloodhound.
Another breeze, and he drinks me in.
“Did you buy it before or after I kissed you?”
I start choking—literally choking—and he laughs, finally having mercy on me by saying, “Brought you these.” He gestures with the box with a foil-covered plate he’s holding before bending down and setting them just inside the door at my feet.
Hands on the box, he stays crouched, lifting his chin to lock eyes with mine. His face—directly in front of the spot I would like to rub against his entire body—fills with pure lust. His mercy is short-lived.
He releases the box.
Pops his jaw.
Wraps.
One.
Big.
Warm.
Hand.
Around.
My.
Calf.
When he stays that way, heat radiates from all five fingertips and slinks right up my legs and my breath stops.
Marv yells from inside about going into the attic; I do not respond because I do not give a rat’s ass what he’s doing.
Jay stands—slowly—dragging his palm up the inside of my leg. To my knee. My thigh. Stopping at the hem of my robe.
My pulse slams at the apex of my thighs.
He pulls his hand away—slowly.
Stands fully.
Leans in.
And whispers, “You’ve thought about the kiss.”
I accidentally whimper.
Our eyes lock.
He.
Smirks.
“Ass,” I say with a gasped choke, pressing the back of my hand to my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He raises his eyebrows, delivering a wordless the hell you don’t look. “Either way, we got you a tree.”
“A tree?” I parrot, forcing even breaths.
“A pear tree,” he corrects, gesturing to the lollipop-shaped potted plant next to him on the porch.
“You said you usually decorate a Christmas tree, and I thought since you weren’t going to this year maybe you could do something else.
Plant it with your kids when you’re done.
” He shrugs. “A no-tradition tradition loophole?”
I stare at the tree, letting its meaning settle into my marrow as my hands drop to my sides, and the chest of my robe splays open. Adoration for him zips through me, swift and strong.
“That—” I clear my throat, willing my body to remain upright. “Might be the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
A soft laugh puffs out of him, almost like he’s relieved, and he smiles. “Good.”
We stand in an awkward silence. I want him to come inside and stay all night. I want him to say, I’ve been thinking of the kiss and you, and I want to do it again. And again.
But it’s not him who breaks the silence, it’s Marv.
“Clean,” he announces as he breezes past me and pockets the flashlight. “Safe to return home. Happy Thanksgiving, Hollis.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Marv,” I call after his retreating back down the sidewalk. “Thank you for the gifts.”
He responds with a lifted hand and without turning around.
I brave a look at Jay; there’s a stupid smile on his face.
“We missed you today,” he says, stroking his mustache. “But this might have been better.” I snort a humiliated laugh. “Leftovers are on the plate—Marv made puffin he ordered from Iceland.” His eyes widen to emphasize that. “And there’s something in the box to go with the tree.”
“Thank you for this,” I say, trying to suppress the emotion that’s currently pressing against bone in my chest. “And the tree.”
He hesitates—kiss me—but simply smiles and strolls down the sidewalk. I stand watching until the box truck barrels out of sight. Disappointed and bursting all at once.
Inside, I open the box. It’s filled with ornaments. Partridge ornaments.
My face splits with a smile. Jay the lawyer-turned-brewery-owner who lives in the woods in a camper might be good. Really, really good.
I run upstairs and grab my phone, and for the first time ever, I dial Jay’s number.
“That didn’t take long,” he answers, and I hear his smile.
“I want to go out with you. To dinner.” The words tumble out of my mouth like falling dominoes. “Then to your place. To one of those chairs sitting outside of your place.”
Silence. My heart pounds.
“Jay?”
“I knew you were thinking about that kiss,” he says, smug.
“Fine,” I admit.
“In today’s clothing of choice?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Somehow: “Yes.”
“My chair will be waiting for you next Saturday.”
I pantomime a scream.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, amused.
I’m still smiling at my phone after he’s ended the call.
Then.
Alone, dressed in lingerie and giddy as a schoolgirl, I hang every single partridge on a pear tree along with a simple strand of white lights.
When my kids come home at the end of the weekend, they declare it the best tree we’ve ever had.
I agree.