“Yeah, Kelly. I hand washed a dog sweater. Sounds just like me.”
He rips open a package of chicken breasts and jerks his chin toward the wine. “Pour me a glass of that, would you?”
I lift the cocktail glass. “You don’t want a peppermint martini?”
“I do not.”
“You didn’t even try it.”
“I tried it last year. I’m still recovering.”
“I improved the recipe,” I lie. The “recipe” is simply peppermint schnapps, vanilla vodka, and the tiniest dash of cream, garnished with a candy cane. Pretty much my foodie best friend’s nightmare.
He sighs and nods me over with his chin.
Since his hands are messy with raw chicken goop, I lift the glass, and he takes a sip. And winces.
“Yeah, okay,” I relent. “I’ll open the wine.”
I pull out a corkscrew and wineglass as he helps himself to my cutting boards and cooking utensils, most of which are castoffs of his. I’m more of a microwave-dinner kind of gal.
“How are the parents?”
“Good. Happy,” I say.
“Missing their precious daughter?”
“Obviously,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes as I hand him the wineglass. “What are we making here?”
“Not quite sure,” he says, surveying his ingredients before turning to the sink to wash his hands. “I’m thinking of something with a little Cajun spice, a little richness, but some fresh flavors to keep it light.”
“If you say so,” I say, poking around at the parsley, carrots, and package of pasta, looking for something to snack on while he waits for inspiration.
Drying his hands, he sees me rummaging and reaches into the bag, coming out with a box of fancy crackers and the spreadable cheese he knows I have a serious weakness for.
I make grabby hands for them, and though I want nothing more than to dive in, being best friends with a restaurateur has taught me that presentation is at least half the job of cooking.
I get out one of my serving plates and arrange the whole thing to look mostly pretty, borrowing a sprig of Mark’s rosemary to give it a more festive, fancy feel. I take a sip of Mark’s wine. Deciding that goes better with the cheese and crackers than the peppermint martini, I take another sip.
“Don’t you have a tree to decorate?” he asks, pouring me a glass of my own.
“Yes, but I’m fueling first.” I spread a generous glob of cheese on a cracker.
“You’re not going to ruin all of my hard work today by decorating it pink, are you?”
“Teal. And it was our hard work. I cut down at least half that tree. And crossed another guy off the list.”
My voice is a little glum, and he glances at me. “Sulking?”
I take a bite of cracker. “Nah. It was more embarrassing than anything. Did I tell you he didn’t even recognize me? I know it was a high school relationship, but come on. He touched my boobs.”
Mark gives a slight smile. “Your boobs are memorable?”
“I thought so,” I say with a touch of grumpiness.
I’m about to put another cracker in my mouth when I catch Mark’s gaze lingering on said boobs.
I blink a little in surprise, and I almost joke about it, except I don’t, because . . . I don’t know why.
The thought of him looking at my female parts makes me . . . tingly. And not at all platonically.
Danger.
A second later his attention’s back on breasts of the chicken variety, and I wonder if maybe I imagined the heat in his gaze.
“Don’t get full,” he says without looking at me.
“Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing the cheese away.
I pick up my wine and nod toward the living room, where Rigby’s going to town on the squeaker of his new toy. “You need any help in here, or can I go fuss with my tree?”
He waves me away, picking up a bushel of something bright green and sniffing it.
Knowing from experience that he’s in the zone, I wander back into the living room, turning up the music as I do so we can both hear it.
I go back to the neglected strand of twinkle lights and finish wrapping it around the tree. Then I add another, and another.
I’m about halfway done with the lights when I realize that I’m smiling, and, well . . . happy.
I’m still decorating the tree by myself, true, but I’m no longer lonely. Rigby’s squeaky toy mingles with the sounds of Mark’s kitchen noises (and the occasional curse), all blending wonderfully with Sammy Davis Jr.’s festive voice.
That album runs its course, and I change it to another, one of those Christmas compilations that have a bunch of modern vocalists putting fun twists on old favorites.
I’m just climbing to the top of the ladder, putting on the last string of lights, when Mark comes in with two bowls and the wine bottle.
“You know, right, that those are going to be a bitch to remove. You’ve got all the cords tangled.”
“He who does not deck the halls does not get a say,” I reply, purposely twining some of the cords excessively.
“Ah, I see. So does it also go that she who does not cook does not eat?”
“Nope, does not go that way,” I say, climbing rapidly back down the ladder. I free the wine bottle from his arm and top off my glass before going back into the kitchen to fetch his, along with napkins, since he never remembers those.
When I come back, both bowls are on the coffee table, and Mark’s sitting on the couch, Rigby by his side, looking at the tree. “There are more lights than pine needles on that thing,” he says.
“Exactly as it should be,” I say, plopping down beside him and picking up the bowl. “This smells amazing.”
“Tastes amazing, too,” he says with zero modesty. “I’m thinking of putting it on the specials menu next week. Calling it Christmas by the Bayou, since it’s got kind of a Creole thing going on.”
“Ohmygah,” I say around a huge mouthful. “So good.”
“Told you.”
He picks up his own bowl and winds some of the pasta around his fork, taking a bite nearly as big as mine.
Rigby huffs in frustration at the lack of sharing, but neither of us pays him any attention as we stuff mouthfuls of pasta in our months. In the way of people who have been friends for a long-ass time (and who skipped lunch), we don’t talk until the bowls are empty.
I rub my stomach as I slump back on the couch, wineglass in hand. “And I wonder why I’m pudgy. Being friends with you is not exactly a recipe for a size four.”
He glances over at me, his expression moody. “How many times do I have to tell you—”
“No body talk, I know,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
He looks back at the tree, sips his own wine. “It’s not about being a size four. It’s not about being a size anything.”
I look over, surprised. For as long as I’ve known him, Mark’s always refused to indulge any body image woes on my part. Sometimes I’ll get the “You’re not fat, and we’re not talking about it” line, but mostly he just glowers.