This is new.
“What’s it about?” I ask curiously. I genuinely want to know, since Mark’s not exactly a guy who has a type. He’s dated blondes, brunettes, redheads. Short, tall, skinny, curvy. Of all the guys I know, he seems to truly be more interested in a girl’s personality than her looks, and yet he’s also a guy. He’s got to have something that turns him on.
Instead of answering my question, he gestures toward the ornaments still in their packaging on the ground. “Shouldn’t you start with those?”
Got it. Conversation over.
“Yeah, probably,” I say with a sigh, rolling into a standing position. Despite the big, carb-heavy meal, I feel more energized than anything. For starters, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” has just started playing, and that’s kinda my jam.
That, and like for most people, the ornaments are my favorite part. The lights are kind of a pain in the ass, if I’m being honest.
I tear into my jumbo assortment of ornaments, as well as the little package of another brand, and begin placing them around the tree, taking breaks to peek at the picture of my dream tree on Pinterest.
“Isn’t that cheating?” Mark says, coming back into the living room.
I look up in surprise, not realizing he’d gone into the kitchen in the first place. “Tell me you didn’t cook and clean.”
He shrugs. “Beats watching you dance around the tree agonizing over the placement of each snowflake.”
“Admit it,” I say, hanging up one of the few remaining glittery aqua balls. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s pretty,” he says dutifully, sitting back on the couch.
Rigby hops up beside him, melting my sappy heart by putting his sweet face on Mark’s knee. Then my heart turns into even more of a puddle, because Mark’s big hand rests on the dog’s head, his fingers rubbing gently.
Lucky dog.
I wince. Stupid girl.
I turn my attention back to the tree, taking great care with the placement of the last few ornaments, not only because I want this tree to look amazing on Instagram but also because the sooner the tree’s done, the sooner Mark will head home, and I’m not quite ready for this Christmas-perfect night to be over.
Finally there are no more ornaments to hang, and with a sigh that’s half contentment, half sadness, I step back and take a picture. As requested, I’ve been snapping and sending pictures as I’ve gone along in the process, and this time I add a little “Done!” with a heart next to it.
The time difference between New York and Alaska means that Mom’s awake, and she replies right away. So gorgeous! Now you just need something for the top.
Surprised, I glance back at the tree. “How’d I forget that?”
“What?” Mark asks, not opening his eyes from where he’d fallen semi-asleep a few minutes ago.
“I forgot a tree topper!”
“A what?”
“Something for the top of the tree. Star. Angel. Bow.”
“What do you usually put up there?”
“The star I made in second grade,” I say, chewing my fingernail.
“Where’s that star?” he asks in a bored tone.
“In a box in my parents’ attic with the rest of the ornaments.”
“And the four-minute drive to their house to retrieve it is . . . too much?”
“No, I want this tree to be different than my family tree. I want this to be our—to be my tree.”
I’m glad my back’s to him, because I don’t even want to see if he heard my little slip-up. Obviously, Mark and I wouldn’t have a tree together. It’s just . . . he helped me cut it down, set it up, and though he didn’t hang a single ornament, he was here, and, well, that means something.
I don’t know why the lack of a tree topper is bugging me so much. Now that I know it’s missing, the absence is all I can notice. But what’s even more annoying is that I don’t want to put just any old thing up there. I mean, yeah, I could get some white ribbon and make a big bow like the one in the Pinterest picture. Or I’m pretty sure Target and Walmart have white stars that would work with the color scheme.
But I don’t want any old thing, I want the perfect thing.
And I don’t know what it is.
“Besides,” I say hurriedly, trying to push the topic, “that star I made a million years ago is gold. This tree is aqua and white.”
“Yeah, I think even me and my testosterone can recognize the color scheme, Kell,” he says, pushing up from the couch and coming to stand beside me. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, looking at the tree instead of me.
“Figure what out?”
There’s a long pause before he replies.
“The perfect tree topper.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
He must sense my change in mood, because he puts an arm around my shoulder—second time that day—and pulls me close for a quick side hug.
“I’m gonna head out,” he says quietly. “Need anything?”
“No, I’m good,” I say, letting my head rest on his shoulder just for a second, still preoccupied with the empty top of my tree. “Thanks for coming over.”
He turns his head, presses his lips to the side of my head. Not quite a kiss, but . . . a linger. “Anytime.”
Mark pulls away, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him give Rigby the silent stay command, telling the dog not to follow him home tonight—to stay with me, because I need the dog more.
It’s a seriously sweet gesture, though Mark would hate that I saw it.
A few moments later, I hear the back door close behind him, and then it hits me.
This entire evening, I haven’t thought about what’s next—or who’s next—on the ex list, not even once.
December 18, Monday Morning
“Wait, sorry. Run that by me one more time. But first, can we spike my coffee with Bailey’s? Because I think it’s the only way this’ll make any sense. CliffsNotes version this time.”
I ignore my friend’s request for Bailey’s, mainly because Ivy Cabrera’s just told me she’s pregnant with baby number three.
But the first request I dutifully obey, and repeat my Christmas vacation plans.
“CliffsNotes version?” I say. “Psychic lady at the train station tells me that I’ve already met my one true love. And because I can actually feel my ovaries shriveling up and don’t want to die an old maid, I decided to track down exactly who she’s talking about.”
Ivy twirls a red curl around her finger. “Track down, meaning . . . stalk your exes?”
“Locating my exes,” I correct.
Although, truth be told, it may come to stalking.
I woke up this morning with a deliberate refocus on my cause. I keep telling myself it’s because Christmas is right around the corner, so the clock is ticking to find The One. It’s a logical explanation, but . . . it’s not the full explanation.
Truth is, I spent half the night tossing and turning, thinking not about my exes but about Mark. And, well . . . we can’t have that, can we? For starters, he’s not an ex. Thus he’s not The One, and . . .
Wait, holy crap. When have I ever even considered that Mark could be anyone, much less The One?