I swallow. “Well, you know how you refuse to get on Facebook, because you think it’s poser nonsense?”
“Not my precise words, but yeah.”
“Well, I’m still on Facebook, and I’m friends with Sheila because, well, I wanted her to like me, and . . . Sheila’s hooking up with her old boyfriend,” I say in a rush. “In Atlanta.”
I blow out a breath and wait to see on a scale of 1 to 10 how crushed he looks and how quickly I need to force him into a hug.
His only response is a slight smile. “Why are all the women in my life hooking up with exes?”
I open my mouth, then shut it. “That’s a remarkably calm response. Did you miss the unspoken part where she’s cheating on you?”
Mark picks up his glasses and puts them back on, attention already going back to his computer. “Sheila and I broke up.”
I gasp. “You did not. When?”
He doesn’t reply, and I reach across the table to shut the laptop. “When?”
“Friday afternoon.”
“But I saw you guys on Friday afternoon . . . I walked in on you guys . . .”
“Saying goodbye.”
“You were not. You were kissing.”
“A goodbye kiss.”
“No, it was not. . . . Was it?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Not as perceptive as you think, huh?”
“I am too perceptive. I know when each and every one of my students is lying to me.”
“Fine, I stand corrected. You’re excellent at reading eight-year-olds. Not so good with anyone over the age of twenty.”
I purse my lips. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why’d you break up?”
He runs a hand through his rumpled hair. “If I tell you it’s because she’s a Capricorn and I’m a Virgo, will you drop it?”
“No. One, because you don’t even believe in that stuff, and second, because Sheila’s a Scorpio.”
There’s a long moment of quiet, interrupted only by the squeak of Rigby’s toy.
“It just wasn’t working out. We don’t have to make a big deal about it.”
“But you broke up during Christmas.” Understanding dawns. “Oh man. That’s why you’ve been so pissy?”
He rolls his eyes. “Will you please leave me to do my work?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
I pick up the piece of toast again. “Can I use your truck this afternoon?”
“No.” He doesn’t even bother to look up.
“Why, are you using it?”
“No, but last time you used it, you scraped half the paint off.”
“An exaggeration. And Mrs. Cleary even said that wasn’t my fault, and she paid for all of it.”
“What do you need it for?”
“I don’t have a Christmas tree yet.”
He groans. “So, you want to not only borrow my truck, but fill it with pine needles.”
“It’s a truck. It’s supposed to have a messy destiny.”
“Uh-huh. And let me guess. You weren’t planning to go to one of the dozen tree stands around town, were you? You were going to go cut your own down.”
“Of course.” I sip my coffee. I’m trying to learn to drink it black to cut calories, and it’s awful.
“And how exactly were you going to chop down the tree and get it into the truck by yourself?”
I grin. “I wasn’t.”
Mark sighs. “I’m going with you, aren’t I?”
“Yup.”
“And that was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
“Definitely.”
He sighs. “Fine. Let me finish my work.”
“No problem,” I say, sitting back and propping my sock-covered feet on one of the other chairs.
When I quietly sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” I sing all the lines rather than just the first line over and over, so as not to drive him nuts . . . and wonder whether or not I should mention that I’d heard through the grapevine that my high school boyfriend works at Holly Tree Farm.
December 17, Sunday Afternoon
“No, not that one.”
“What’s wrong with this one?”
I turn around to where Mark stands stubbornly beside a tree that is so not the one.
I take in the seven-foot, impressively symmetrical evergreen. “It has no character.”
Mark crosses his arms, the tree saw dangling just slightly threateningly from his hand. “How do trees have character?”
“You know, quirks. Flaws. Bald spots. I never trust anyone that’s too perfect.”
“I’m perfect.”
I smile at his matter-of-fact tone. “Yes, honey. Maybe that’s why we’ve never dated, you see? You’re too smart, too good-looking, too confident.”
He narrows his eyes, as though trying to gauge my level of sarcasm, and the thing is . . . it’s sort of true. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before now, but Mark is, well . . . hot. Like, super-hot. As in, when we were seniors in high school, I’d dragged him to the mall so I could get shoes for homecoming, and a modeling scout from Manhattan had practically forced Mark to take her card.
He still gets mad whenever I bring it up, but the truth is he’s even better-looking now than he was back then. The jawline’s even more defined, the little chin dimple even more compelling. Add in the slightly crooked smile, intense eyes, and perfect amount of scruff, and, well . . .
He’s far more beautiful than I.
In lipstick, Spanx, a push-up bra, and high heels, I’m a 6?. In his wool coat, scuffed work boots, and cheap jeans, Mark’s a 10. I’ve seen him in a tux once, for his brother’s wedding, and my head nearly exploded.
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I friend-zoned myself before he had to.
Rigby comes bounding through the trees with a muddy stick in his mouth, and I bend down and wrestle the stick away, hurling it—okay, fine, awkwardly tossing it—so he can go chase it.
“I’m still pissed you put a sweater on my dog,” Mark says, trudging after me through the trees.
“Our dog,” I corrected, “is wearing his holiday outfit.”
I went with a snowman motif this year. Much better than last year’s reindeer sweater, which Mark had rightly argued made the dog look like a turd.
“Speaking of clothing choices, what’s going on with yours?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping to inspect a promising tree. It’s nearly perfect, but a touch too tall for my living room.
“I mean, you’re looking awfully dolled up for trudging through the forest.”
“I’m not dressed up. And it’s only because you’re helping me that I’m not going to make fun of you for using the phrase ‘dolled-up,’” I say, halting in front of a tree.
No, the tree.
“This one.”
Mark stands beside me and gives it a skeptical once-over. “What about that patch of dead branches in the middle?”
“Beauty mark.”
“The way the top curves to the right?”
“She’s curvy.”
“’K. What about the dead bird on the left?”
I gasp and frantically look for the dead bird, then sock his shoulder when I realize he’s joking. “Wait, one more thing . . .”
I dig my key chain out of my coat pocket, giving my travel Magic 8 ball a quick shake.
It is certain.
I show the response to Mark, who rolls his eyes.
“Come on. Let’s get cutting,” I say, shoving the key chain back in my pocket.
“Oh yes, let’s.”
He doesn’t move, and I turn to see what’s up.
Mark’s watching me with a little smile. “I said I’d help. Not that I’d cut it down all by myself while you watch.”