Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 82(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 82(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
“Actually, I did come by for something. I need to know what you want for Christmas this year.”
It’s only a few weeks away and I made her a promise the Christmas we met. I promised I’d give her a special gift every year.
Like me, Peyton is a former foster child. She bounced around the system for a long time. But unlike me, she never landed with people who took her in and loved her.
Christmas gifts were few and far between for her as a kid and teenager. Of course, my parents will dote on her, and she’ll have more than a few things under the tree from them. But I like to spoil her. I like to find the one thing that will thrill her and get it for her.
Normally, this is the part where Peyton’s eyes light up and she enthusiastically begins asking me for something. She’ll make big gestures with her hands and animatedly tell me why this is the thing she simply must have.
Last year, it was the bread maker. It took her a few months to perfect her recipe, but she makes a mean sourdough now.
Her tongue darts out and she runs it across her bottom lip. The nervous gesture lets me catch a flash of the silver ball that’s sitting on her tongue. I love that piercing. It’s something else about her that’s always in my spank bank.
Yeah, maybe some people think I’m an asshole for constantly fantasizing about my best friend. But it’s not like there’s anyone else. There never has been. Never will be. Peyton is it. She’s my soulmate...and she doesn’t feel the same way about me.
“Come on, you can tell me,” I insist as the knot in my stomach grows. The truth is I’m not here for free cookies or even to figure out what she wants for Christmas. I’m here because she’s been acting strange.
Last night was Courage’s annual Christmas dance and we went together same as always. But she seemed different, and I can’t put my finger on why she’d be upset.
We did the same things we always do there. We ate the stale cheese puffs and danced together during the fast songs and made a bet on which teenager would be the first to spike the punch. Just normal every year stuff.
“I don’t want anything,” she finally mumbles. She’s staring at the kitchen counter, not looking me in the eye.
Fuck, we don’t lie to each other. OK, if you don’t count the fact that I’m in love with her. Or that she’s the only woman I want. Or my obsession with knowing where she is at all times and putting a tracker on her phone. A guy has to watch out for his best friend.
The timer dings, and she reaches to pull the cookies from the oven. Her long shirt sleeve rides up, revealing the colorful ink that decorates her skin.
No one knows the tattoos are mine. They’re my drawings. Every year for Christmas, she puts a different piece of my art on her body. It’s her gift to me.
It started years ago when she asked me what I wanted, and I told her I’d like to see my art somewhere. To know that it meant something to somebody. She tried to submit it to contests and magazines and stuff. But she quickly figured out what I already knew. My art wasn’t good.
So, she did the one thing I couldn’t believe. She got one of my designs as a tattoo. Visual proof to a teenage artist that his work mattered.
Now my art is featured in galleries, and I’ve won awards. I substitute for the art class at the high school, encouraging teenagers not to give up on their dreams. But none of it means as much to me as knowing that my drawings adorn her curvy body.
“Then I’ll use my brilliant powers of deduction to learn what you want,” I answer, giving her a teasing smile. It’s not just that she’s been acting strange. She seems sad lately and I don’t ever want my Peyton to be sad. I’ll do anything to make this woman smile. “Is it something you can use to make food?”
“Maybe we’re a little old for the gift exchange,” she says.
“Answer the question, Peyton.” I don’t normally tell her what to do. After all, I do have some sense of self-preservation. But I live for this time of year. It’s not just the festivities or the decorations.
It’s getting to be her hero. For one minute, she looks at me with such delight and joy. I want to earn that look from her every day for the rest of our lives. That would tip my hand though, so I settle for this. Delighting her at Christmas.
She transfers the cookies to a cooling rack and blows out a frustrated breath. “No.”