I squeeze my eyes shut as the realization rips through me. Mark is what I want for Christmas.
And not just for Christmas, not just right now. The thought of not being with him feels wrong, even though every sign has pointed to us not belonging together.
Our signs are all wrong. I’m a Gemini, he’s a Virgo. Nightmare.
He’s not a former love come to find me before Christmas, he’s a new love.
There have been no signs, no signals, and my grandma always said that when something is right, the universe will let you know it. It’ll point you right to it, no questions, no hesitations.
None of that’s been even remotely true with Mark, and yet . . .
What if I’m in love with him anyway? What if I’m wonderfully, uncontrollably, irreversibly in love with my best friend?
I let out a choked little giggle and he gives me an alarmed look.
Mariah keeps singing. “I just want you for my own . . . more than you could ever know. . . .”
Wrong, Mariah. He could know. I could tell him. I should tell him. He’s my best friend, I tell him everything, how can I not tell him . . .
Mark lifts his hand to wave at someone out his window, slowing the car as we approach the parking lot allotted for parade parking.
Even with the windows rolled up, I can hear the enthusiasm outside. A live band plays “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
And someone must be handing out bells, because all the kids have them, waving them around in messy, joyous cacophony.
Mark’s truck has all but rolled to a stop as we wait for the crowds of people to move so we can pull into a spot, and someone thumps cheerfully on the hood and waves.
It’s Jack Chance, the first ex-boyfriend I sought out in my whole weird ex list thing. He’s got his arm around a pretty blonde I don’t recognize, and looks happy and relaxed.
“Every year, I forget how popular this damn thing is,” Mark says as a volunteer ushers him into an available parking spot behind the arts and crafts store.
I nod, unable to bring myself to speak. I need to. I need to tell him, but with every second, it feels like the moment is slipping away.
He turns off the ignition and gives me a curious look. “What’s up with you?”
Oh, nothing. Just crazy over-the-moon in love with you, and not at all sure you feel anything more than passing horniness for me.
I have to tell him.
But I can’t. Because all I can think is that if this is one-sided, I’ll lose him.
Mariah’s “All I Want for Christmas” ends.
A commercial plays.
Moment over.
“Nothing!” I say, forcing a smile. I reach for the door handle. “Shall we? Santa and the elves are the last float, but I’m still supposed to get there a bit early. I’ll find you after, ’k?”
“Kelly, wait—”
I hop out of the truck before he can finish his sentence, turning and giving him a manic wave as I head toward Main Street.
A few people shout my name, and though I smile and wave at everyone, I don’t stop, not even when I hear a couple of whistles and “Hey, sexy elf!”
The night air is so full of Christmas cheer, I wouldn’t be surprised if Rudolph shot across the sky. It’s everything I look forward to every year, and yet as I walk blindly through the crowd, all I can think is that I wish it would start snowing again.
And that the snowflakes would disguise my tears.
December 23, Saturday Evening
The rest of the squad for the North Pole float is already there when I finally make it to the end of the line.
Even in my weird mood, I can’t help but give a little gasp of pleasure when I see it. The theme changes just slightly every year, with Santa and the elves being the only constant. Usually it’s a sleigh, a gingerbread house, or some sort of ice castle, but this year they’ve made the whole thing look like a snow globe, complete with what looks like an enormous plastic umbrella over top and an honest-to-God snow machine.
“If you’re wondering, yes, it was about half the entire parade’s budget,” says a smiling Josie Brag, who reaches down with both hands in a silent offer to haul me atop the float.
I hesitate for a second, because the woman’s dressed as Mrs. Claus, and I’m not exactly a feather . . .
She wiggles her fingers at me. “Try me. I started CrossFit.”
Okay, then. Sure enough, she hauls me up relatively easily, although I do bump awkwardly into a trio of high school students who are also dressed as elves.
One of the girls steadies me with a quick smile before turning back to her girlfriends and talking in a hushed tone. “Anyway, so, like, I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but Dylan and I are, like, just friends. Only nobody seems to believe us.”
“Wonder why that could be?” a low voice says in my ear.
I spin around and come face-to-face with Erika. She too is dressed as a sexy elf, only she opted for the costume with knee-highs instead of thigh highs, and she went with the whole red lipstick look that had been my original plan. She rocks it, by the way.
Erika gives me a smile that’s friendlier than I expect, then nods at the teens and lowers her voice to a whisper. “They’ve been discussing the just-friends thing for thirty minutes now. How long till she and Dylan hook up?”
I find myself smiling back, because if I’m reading the situation right, Erika’s smile has truce written all over it. She solidifies this by glancing around and then quickly pulling a flask out of her striped stocking. “Nip of whiskey sour?”
“Oh, that is badass,” I say reverently, taking her up on the offer for, well . . . lots of reasons.
“That’s what they get for making a bartender dress up as an elf.” She takes a sip from the flask when I hand it back, and then replaces it in her stocking.
When she straightens, she runs a nervous hand over her hair. “Look, Kelly, I really owe you an apology for the other day. I was jealous and I overstepped—”
“Ten years,” I interrupt.
She blinks. “Huh?”
I nod toward the still-gossiping teens. “Ten years. That’s how long it’ll take her and best friend to hook up.”
“No way,” Erika says, shaking her head. “I say two months. It only took you and Mark ten years because . . .”
“Because why?” I ask when she doesn’t continue, because I’m a little desperate for the answer.
She gives a puzzled smile and tilts her head. “You okay?”
If you’d have asked who’d be the first person I’d tell about my newly discovered feelings for Mark, I’d never ever had said Erika Simmons.
And yet I feel if I don’t tell someone it’ll burst out of me, and . . .
“I think I’m in love with Mark,” I say.
Her eyes go wide for a second, then she reaches down for her flask. “Merry freaking Christmas to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, already regretting my outburst. “I know you care about him and were hoping—”
She waves a hand as she takes a sip. “It’s okay. It’s better, really. For a while there I hoped maybe he would forgive me, but it wasn’t going to work out anyway. For starters, the new restaurant will keep him plenty busy in the city, and—”