On the model online, the costume had striped tights with a cute green dress and a jaunty little hat.
On me? The dress barely covers my butt. Bending over is completely out of the question, as is breathing.
“Size medium my ass,” I say, pulling futilely on the snug belt.
It wasn’t this tight when I tried it on a couple of weeks ago. My five holiday pounds have officially arrived.
Upside? The ensemble makes my waist look tiny, boobs look perky. At least I’m pretty sure it does.
I glance over at my dog, who’s rolled onto his back, happily chewing his toy upside down.
Maybe I need a second opinion.
I finish up my makeup, taking a bit of extra care with my eye shadow. I’d thought I wanted to go with a bright red Christmassy lip, but at the last minute, I’d opted for a smoky eye and nude lip. And instead of the red manicure I’ve been visualizing for weeks, I paint my nails a bright snow white, with silver sparkles on top.
The shoes are different, too. Instead of the sexy platform heels, I’m going with my red rain boots.
I know it’s weird, but it feels important to change up my expectations for the evening. When I first envisioned this whole silly elf thing, I’d had a very different vision of my situation.
We’ve discussed this, right? My way too vivid daydreams of being up on that float, looking adorable and irresistible while one of my ex-boyfriends looks on and thinks, Damn, I was so dumb to let that one get away.
And of course I’d look down at him, thinking, That’s him. That’s The One.
At this point sometimes my fantasy would go off the rails: for example, that the fortune-telling lady from the train station would come out of the shadows, turn into, like, a beautiful enchantress, and beam happily as The One and I kiss.
There’d probably be music.
Maybe a proposal . . .
Rigby’s toy squeaks, jolting me back to the present—to the real world. Yeah, so that’s not happening. And to remind myself, I’ve adjusted my outfit accordingly to match my change in mindset.
The whole second-chance-at-love story is a good one, I’ll grant you that, but it didn’t work out for me. And I tried, I really did. With everyone except for Colin, but if I can’t find him, I can’t find him, right?
Rigby rolls back onto his belly and gives me a judgy look. Did you even try?
“Yes, Rigby. I tried. Now come on, let’s go see your dad, see if we can talk him into a ride to the parade so we don’t have to park two cars.”
I grab my coat and purse and head across the lawn to Mark’s house.
It’s snowing, just a little, which is kind of lovely. Even better, the forecast promises flurries but no accumulation. Enough to add a bit of Christmas charm to the evening for the kids (and, okay, the grown-up kids) without turning into a wet mess.
I knock once on Mark’s back door and let myself in. He’s at his kitchen table, looking at his laptop, and eating a sandwich. He gives me a quick glance, then a second, more lingering, as he sets the sandwich on the plate.
“Well?” I say, holding out my arms and spinning.
I expect him to laugh, and he does, but it’s not a mean laugh. “You look . . .”
“Choose those words carefully,” I say, walking to the table and helping myself to a bite of sandwich. “There’s mustard on this.”
“Because I enjoy mustard.”
I make a face and put it back. “I forgot that about you. You’re lucky you’re good in bed, because mustard’s the worst. Anyway, you were going to say I look . . .?”
“Elffy?”
“Ooh, I’m sorry,” I say. “The correct answer was hot and irresistible.”
“Not sure I’m allowed to have those thoughts about my best friend. Not out loud, anyway.”
“For tonight, you’re allowed to think of me as the girl you’re sleeping with first and foremost.”
“All right, then,” he says, pushing back his chair and coming around the table to wrap his arms around my waist. “The girl I’m sleeping with looks hot.”
“And?” I say, holding up a finger.
He smiles. “And irresistible.”
Then he proves it by lowering his head to mine and kissing me with a slow, deliberate enthusiasm that ruins my carefully applied lip gloss, but . . . ask me if I care.
I return the kiss, pressing up against him as his hands stroke up and down over the curve of my waist, down over my hips, sliding up again, hands slipping beneath the short skirt so the only thing separating his hands from my skin is the thin tights.
“I’m liking this ensemble more and more,” he says, nudging my head back to kiss my neck.
“Did I mention my thong is red? And tiny?”
Mark groans against my throat. “Do we have to go to the parade?”
Right! The parade.
I push at his shoulders and step back, glancing at the clock. “We should go!”
“Should we?” he asks sardonically, his eyes skimming greedily over my body.
I bite my lips. “Don’t. Don’t do that, or Santa and the kids will be very disappointed by the lack of adorable elf.”
“Better them disappointed than me,” he says on a sigh.
But he goes to the closet and grabs his coat.
“Your parents going to be there?” I ask as I follow him into the garage, and climb into the truck.
Mark’s parents live a bit outside of town and are friendly enough but sort of reclusive. They come in for some town events, but not all.
“Nope. They were thinking about it, but Mom said she had too much cooking to do for tomorrow night.” He glances over at me as he backs the truck out of the garage. “You’re still coming, right?”
“Of course! Am I still invited?” I say it teasingly, a little confused by his serious expression. Then doubt trickles in. “Unless it’s weird. I mean, it’s one thing to invite your temporarily orphaned best friend over for Christmas Eve dinner with the fam. Another thing entirely to bring the girl you’re sleeping with to dinner with the fam.”
He doesn’t say anything, and the doubt intensifies.
“Did you . . . tell them?”
“Yeah, of course. I always tell my parents the details of my sex life. Don’t you?”
I laugh and punch his shoulder, the doubt receding slightly at his teasing.
He glances over. “You tell yours?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, turning on the radio. Only a couple more days of Christmas music left—gotta get my fill. “My parents already harbor the secret dream that you and I will fall in love and make babies. I don’t want to fuel the fire.”
The words slip out jokingly (although it’s true, my parents really do wish that), but the second they’re out there, they echo between us awkwardly, and I’d give anything to take them back.
Adding insult to injury, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” comes on the radio, and though I’ve never thought about it, the song’s actually pretty romantic.
So now I’ve mentioned the words “love” and “babies” against the soundtrack of “I just want you for my own.” The song has never felt more poignant . . . or more true.